Nightscape

by Stephen R. George

  She turned to Evan. He was looking at her, but his expression was unreadable. She decided right then. No thought. Just do it.

  She moved to the bed and kneeled beside it. She took his hands in hers and squeezed. He was nearly naked, wearing only pajama bottoms. His feet were bare, filthy. But it wouldn’t matter. Not for long.

  “Can you walk?”

  He just kept looking at her.

  “Evan, can you walk? Are you strong enough?”

  This time he nodded, and she nearly tugged him off the bed.

  “Then let’s get out of here. Now. Come on.”

  The girl in Shep’s arms was trembling. She was shaking like a baby, and judging by the smell she might even have pissed herself. He nearly giggled at the wonder of it. He was a bringer of fear, of terror, of death, and she knew it. With one arm he kept a knife pressed into her side, and with the other he kept a gun trained on the farmhouse. Warm wetness flowed over the knife hand.

  “Shut up. Shut up. Just shut the fuck up,” he whispered to the girl.

  She moaned a little.

  “Thomas!”

  Sheriff Risely’s head poked up over the hood of his car.

  “Give it up, Thomas! Drop your weapons and come out! You won’t be hurt!”

  Shep, who had shouted similar lines himself in past years, chuckled.

  “Right.”

  He aimed the Beretta and fired. At this distance the handgun’s accuracy was negligible, but he grunted with satisfaction as one of the car’s windows shattered. The fat man, who had been standing moronically upright behind the car, fell to the ground.

  “Gotcha,” Shep muttered.

  The girl was whimpering again. He threw her to the ground and dropped on top of her. The remaining two grenades attached to his belt dug into his side. He shifted his weight to get more comfortable.

  The girl’s eyes were so wide he thought they might pop. Her skin, he saw, was pink and shiny.

  “You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

  “Let her go, Thomas!”

  Risely again.

  “Please, Mr. Thomas, she’s just a child!”

  That voice. Still pressing the knife into the side of the girl, Shep lifted his head. Constance Morgan was standing by Risely’s car now. The bitch.

  He looked down at the girl. Child, hell. At least sixteen. Old enough to be Dawn.

  He pressed the barrel of the gun into her throat.

  “You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

  She squeezed her eyes shut and nodded. Blood was pumping freely now from the slash in her side. He kept the knife pressed into it.

  “Well.”

  Garagee hadn’t lied. Here they were. At the farm. But only three or four of them, and he still hadn’t seen Bonnie or Evan. Behind the farmhouse, rising up a shallow hill, was forest. He could see nothing in the darkness of the trees.

  You’re in there. Somewhere in there.

  Shep pulled the knife free and wiped the blood on his pants. He shoved it back in its sheath. The girl started to scramble away. He holstered the Beretta, then swung the assault rifle off his shoulder.

  “No, wait.” She held up a bloody hand as if to ward him off.

  He squeezed off a burst of fire and her legs below the knees blew apart in a spray of blood. Her scream rose to a high hiss then ended as, unconscious, her head dropped to the ground.

  Risely moved from behind the cruiser, edging out into tall grass, coming for him. Shep unhooked another grenade, pulled the pin, and tossed it in Risely’s direction.

  Three seconds later the explosion sent a plume of smoke into the air. The blast flattened the grass in the immediate vicinity but not much else. More light and noise than anything else, he had been told about these things. A single piece of shrapnel whizzed over his head.

  In the smoke and confusion, Shep bolted for the trees. Bent low, rifle hugged to his body. He was tingling all over. It had begun. The payoff, for Jeff.

  This is it little brother.

  He was nearly at the edge of the forest when he saw two figures dart away from the farmhouse. One bent over, tugging the other. Bonnie. Evan.

  Holding back a grim smile, Shep angled toward them through the trees.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Evan felt his mother’s fear.

  As the trees closed around them, blocking out much of the afternoon’s light, he had the sudden premonition that they were going to die. Die with lots of blood and crying and pain.

  No. It was going to be okay. Mom said it was going to be okay.

  Mom stooped as she ran, hands held out in front of her to ward off low branches. He cried out as branches slashed at his own face. He could not move very quickly. The rough forest floor sent stabs of pain up through his bare feet.

  Behind them, at the farmhouse, the shooting had stopped. Glancing over his shoulder, Evan glimpsed the house, and a thin column of smoke. Dad was back there. And Constance. And Henry.

  And Shep.

  He knew it was Shep. The farmhouse walls were thin, and he’d heard Dad and Constance talking about Shep. Shep was nearly all they had talked about. Shep was the focus of all they feared. And the more they had talked, the more he had begun to feel their fear.

  Mom stopped running, and Evan ran into the back of her. She turned to him, and her face was crosshatched with thin red welts.

  “There must be a road close by. I’ve lost my direction. Which way is it? Do you remember?”

  “No.”

  “You’d think there’d be foot trails, wouldn’t you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t want you to be frightened. All we’ve got to do is get to a road. Or even another farm. If I can make one call, we’ll be okay. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  They ran for what must have been five minutes, but which felt to Evan like an hour. His feet throbbed, he could not catch his breath.

  Mom stopped again, apparently realizing his discomfort, this time in a small clearing full of ankle-high grass and a few fallen trees.

  She looked back over his shoulder. “We’re getting lost. Nobody following us yet. That won’t last forever.”

  The wall of trees surrounded them. Dark and impenetrable.

  “Maybe if we move over that way,” Mom said.

  Evan didn’t see which way she was indicating. He doubted it would matter very much. He had realized something, and he was not sure he should say it.

  They were not alone. The feeling had rushed through him, and then gone. But for an instant, just a fraction of a second, he was looking at his mother and himself from outside the clearing. Looking from a viewpoint of something moving very quickly through the trees.

  There were others, following, matching their pace and their path, keeping distant. Others that moved silently, barely touching the ground, with eyes that saw everything.

  Were these the ones he had heard Constance and Dad talking about in hushed tones?

  Protectors?

  “Let’s move,” Mom said. “Let’s go.”

  She tugged him along, and he followed obediently. They left the clearing and entered the trees again. The others, the protectors, followed. Knowing they were there, he could see them now. Pale shapes, flitting along, visible only momentarily between the trees, perhaps nothing more than a patch of sunlight if you didn’t know what to look for.

  A few minutes later, Mom stopped again.

  “I know we’re lost,” she said hoarsely.

  A thought popped into Evan’s head, and he clamped down on it hard. We’re not lost, this is the way.

  “Damn it, we are lost.”

  Crunching undergrowth cut her short. A shape moved through the trees close by. Evan’s senses were suddenly so sharp he imagined he could hear insects scuttling a mile away.

  Mom gripped his arm so tightly it throbbed painfully.

  “Going somewhere?”

  Evan spun. Shep was leaning against the tree, a rifle hanging across his arm. He stared a
t them with a smile that was not at all pleasant.

  “Shep!”

  “You found him, I see,” he said.

  “Shep, they’re out there! They might be following! You were right. They’re not even human, Shep. Thank God you found us!”

  “Thank God,” Shep said softly.

  And suddenly it clicked for Evan. The fear he had thought belonged to Dad and Constance settled firmly on his shoulders and dug in.

  Shep.

  Shep, who had invaded the forest ready for war. Shep, on whose hands and arms glistened fresh blood. Shep, in whose eyes Evan glimpsed a hatred that was nearly infectious. The monster, the killer, the fiend. Death.

  Shep.

  “Hi, Evan,” the monster said, baring his teeth in a grin. “Feeling a little less human today?”

  “Oh, God, Shep, it’s so good to see you!”

  “I bet it is,” Shep said.

  Bonnie put her arms around Evan and pulled the boy closer. His skin felt cold against her arms. Despite the summer warmth, she would have to get him to some clothes and protection very quickly. He already seemed to be suffering some measure of exposure.

  “You were right, Shep. They’re not human. They’re something else. I don’t know what. But they’ve done something to Evan.”

  “Fancy that.”

  The big black rifle was still leveled in their direction. She only now noticed that both his hands and the sleeves of his shirt were soaked with what must have been blood. This was not the Shep she had come to know over the past few days. He’d passed across some great divide. His eyes had the look of fever. And the way he was looking at her, and at Evan, was frightening. He was an image out of a nightmare, a flashback to twenty years ago and the Life magazine photographs of the boys in Vietnam. He had that same sort of look on his face, that expression of confusion and hatred and fear and silly bravery, all conveying the idea that anything, absolutely anything could happen here. And looking at him, facing him with Evan in her arms, she suddenly experienced a wave of dizziness, and the fact that she was standing in a forest in Minnesota slipped quietly away, without a sound, and for a moment the forest pressed in, looming darkly on all sides, shifting shadows hiding furtive movement, amplifying inhuman sounds.

  “Let him go,” Shep said.

  “What?”

  “Let him go.”

  He waved the rifle at Evan. He took a step closer and narrowed his eyes as he studied the boy. Bonnie continued to hug him tightly.

  “Shep, what are you doing?”

  “He is one of them, isn’t he?”

  “He’s sick.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Shep, put the gun away. You promised me you’d help me find him, you promised you’d help get him back.”

  For a fraction of a second the old Shep was back, and she saw that there was more fear in his eyes than anything else, fear and sadness and anger mingling in a hybrid emotion that swamped him completely. The lid slammed down again.

  He kneeled down by Evan and poked the rifle into his stomach.

  “Hey, boy, what’s in these woods?”

  “He doesn’t know,” Bonnie said.

  “Is that right? You don’t know?”

  Evan shook his head.

  “You’re frightening him!”

  “I think he knows. I can feel it myself. They’re in here somewhere.”

  From behind Shep came the sound of snapping branches. Voices.

  “They’re coming! Let’s go! Help us!”

  Shep turned slowly around, and suddenly the forest was filled with sharp explosions and branches were snapping and falling. He turned himself slowly, squeezing the trigger of the rifle steadily. Bonnie hugged Evan tightly and pressed her face to his head, ears ringing from the gunfire. Finally, when it ended, Shep pulled the magazine free, pushed it into one of his pockets, and jammed another one into the rifle.

  He turned to Evan. “You lead.”

  Evan sighed. “Where?”

  “Lead, or I’ll shoot you and your mom right here and now.”

  Evan turned away from him. Bonnie stared at him in horror. What had happened to him? Why had he turned on them like this?

  Evan gripped her hand and pulled her along. She followed him. Shep came behind, rifle at their backs.

  They walked for a while, and the trees seemed to become denser, the possibility of any trail at all even more remote. The sounds of pursuit had desisted since Shep had emptied his rifle into the trees, and Bonnie wondered if anybody had been hit. She flashed on Harris, curled on the ground, a bullet hole through his chest, but shook the image away quickly.

  Evan kept tugging her along, and she could almost believe that he knew where he was going. He stared straight ahead, and he kept moving. After a while she noticed that he was glancing from side to side, as if seeing things, and soon, as she instinctively followed his glances, she saw something. Something white, flitting between the dark branches to their left. She almost stopped dead in her tracks, but Evan tugged her on, not allowing her time to react.

  Within minutes she was seeing the movements everywhere. Ahead of them, to their left, to their right. Presumably behind them, too. They were surrounded!

  But Shep hadn’t noticed at all. Once, when she glanced back at him, she was shocked to see tears streaming from his eyes, his mouth twisted in grief. He waved the rifle at her and she turned quickly away.

  What was going on?

  When they finally hit a trail it came as such a surprise that Evan nearly crossed it and kept going.

  “Wait,” Shep said.

  They stood at the edge of the path, about the width of two people, looking in both directions. To the left it seemed to curve back toward the fields and the farmhouse. To the right, it curved away into deeper forest.

  Shep shuddered. He leaned against a tree, and let the gun rest against his leg. He looked weary, and frightened.

  “Can you feel it?” he asked softly.

  “Feel what?”

  “It’s like the trees are trying to make us scared. Can’t you feel it?”

  “No.”

  Bonnie held tightly to Evan. The boy was looking along the path, his face an open mask of curiosity.

  Shep raised the rifle again. “Move.”

  Without pause, Evan turned to the right.

  It was not long before the trail widened even more, and suddenly opened into a clearing. Evan stopped. Shep came up behind him. Bonnie continued to hold onto Evan’s hand. She had the impression he was eager to go on, that he wanted desperately to discover where the trail led.

  Shep edged them on a little, and within a few yards, over the crest of a low ridge, they saw the water. A stream, gurgling across rocks and pebbles and branches. To their left it had been dammed with stones and larger branches, and had widened into a dark pond. Somebody was swimming.

  Shep motioned for them to crouch down, and Bonnie nearly had to trip Evan to get him to obey. He was staring at the pond with wide eyes and open mouth.

  The swimmer was a girl. A young girl, perhaps seven years old. She was naked, and she stroked through the water oblivious to the presence of those watching her.

  When she left the water, Bonnie pressed a hand to her mouth to suppress a small cry. Her skin, pale and translucent, was hanging from her belly in a sheet. She stood on the bank of the pond and picked at the hanging flap. A sheet of it lifted and came off in her fingers. She dropped it to the ground.

  A low moan came from Shep. His face was nearly purple with rage, teeth clenched so tightly his eyes bulged.

  “Look,” Evan said in wonder. “Look at her.”

  “Oh, God,” Shep said hoarsely. “That’s enough. That is ENOUGH!”

  He lunged to his feet, but the girl was already standing, surprised by his cry. She glistened as if she had been oiled. Her eyes passed from Shep, to Bonnie, to Evan, where they lingered a moment, and then returned to Shep. She looked at his gun.

  Very briefly, she seemed to smile. But it was
a puzzled smile, and was gone very quickly. Fear moved in to take its place.

  Shep pulled back the bolt on the rifle and slammed it home.

  “Shep,” Bonnie said. “She’s only a little girl.”

  “She’s a freak.”

  “Don’t.”

  But he was already stepping past her, leveling the gun. The first shots surprised Bonnie so much that she simply froze. She had not believed that he was going to fire. Not at the child.

  “No!”

  She swatted at him as he continued to fire, and her fist connected with the gun. She had put all her weight into that swing, and the rifle fell from his hands and hung from its strap at his side. He fumbled for it, a horrible growl coming from his mouth.

  When he retrieved the weapon and brought it to bear, the girl was gone. A splash of blood marked the spot where she had been.

  He nearly spat at Bonnie. “You!”

  But she was not looking at him. She was looking for Evan. The boy was gone.

  “Evan?”

  Shep realized what had happened. The growl in his throat erupted and swept through the forest like a storm. He sent a hail of bullets into the trees.

  Bonnie backed away. She stepped off the trail.

  Shep turned to her and for a moment he was looking right at her.

  Bonnie ran, thoughts of Evan lost in her own instinct to survive, to escape. The explosions of the gun behind her made her shoulders hunch, but she did not slow down. Bullets whizzed through the trees on either side of her, sending leaves, branches, and pieces of shattered bark flying. She ran and ran, and then fell to the ground, panting for breath.

  The gunfire stopped. Behind her, Shep’s voice rose, an angry bark. “Evan!”

  And then her son’s answering reply, full of fear and pain, faint as a distant bird’s cry. “Mom!”

  Shep had found him.

  “Oh, Jesus, please help me,” Bonnie whispered.

  She scrambled to a crouching position and edged forward. She had taken only two steps when the hand clamped around her mouth, blocking off her scream, and dragged her back to the ground.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The fingers around her mouth were long and cool, but their grip was like steel. Bonnie tried to cry out but only a hiss of air came from between her lips. Then there was a face peering down at her, upside down, and red hair tickling her forehead.