Nightscape

by Stephen R. George

“Thank you,” she said softly.

  She ran back upstream to a point where the stream was narrower. Now, she could hear pursuit. Voices. Branches cracking.

  “Bonnie!”

  She stepped into the cool water, across smooth stone, then onto the opposite bank. Without looking back, she darted toward the opening of the trail.

  Whatever was happening to Evan, she would not let him be alone. Whatever happened, she was going to be there. At the very least, after all the promises she had made him, she owed him that.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Things were going wrong.

  Shep knew it.

  He could sense it in the forest, which seemed to become more alien with every step he took; he could sense it in Evan, who seemed to have changed dramatically right in front of his eyes, who now seemed to lope through the trees, head low, as if this was his own, private world; and he could sense it in himself, a feeling of deja vu, of having walked this trail before, of somehow being connected to this forest and the things that lived within it.

  With great concentration, he kept his focus on the job at hand. After six years, Jeff’s death was going to be avenged. He had worked toward this. Planned for this. Lived for this. And nothing was going to stop it.

  “Hey, kid, slow down.”

  Evan, a yard ahead, came to a stop. He turned slowly. He smiled at Shep, and Shep froze. He instinctively brought the rifle to bear on the boy.

  “Jesus Christ, what’s happening to you?”

  Evan’s cheek bones now seemed more pronounced, as if the flesh on his face had flowed back, away from his features, to pool behind his ears. His head seemed slightly misshapen. Off balance, somehow.

  The boy stood with a pronounced stoop, as if he had injured his back. His arms hung loosely at his sides. His bare feet were swollen, perhaps even elongated. When he breathed, his entire torso rose and fell above the pivot of his hips, as if he were bouncing, ready, waiting.

  “Are you okay?”

  Evan nodded.

  “Listen, I’m sorry I blew up back there. I didn’t mean to shoot at your mom. I was freaked, that’s all. You understand?”

  Evan nodded.

  “Jesus, kid, you’re one of them, aren’t you?”

  Even before he asked the question, he knew the answer. He’d seen it coming.

  His head throbbed. He pressed a hand to his swollen neck, and it seemed to shift as if alive beneath his fingers. He groaned softly.

  “Me, too,” he said. “They got us both.”

  Evan looked at him strangely, almost with pity.

  “But that’s not going to stop me. They killed my brother. They ruined my life.”

  Evan only breathed, never taking his eyes off Shep, or off the gun.

  “You know where we’re going, don’t you? You know the way. There’s a place in here. The creche. Just like Jeff said.”

  Evan grunted.

  “Move.”

  He waved the gun. Evan smiled in a way that struck Shep as entirely obscene, and started moving again. Shep forced his heavy legs to follow, fighting back the dizziness and fatigue that threatened to consume him.

  They continued along the trail for another five minutes, the trees thickening around them, the land rising and falling. Shep slowly became aware that they were not alone. He realized it when he saw Evan’s head darting from side to side, seeing things that Shep apparently could not. Once, though, he glimpsed something moving in the trees, ahead and to the left of them. Pale, low to the ground, darting.

  He squeezed off a couple of shots, and the forest reverberated with the sounds. Evan spun on him. Shep pointed the rifle at him.

  “Keep going. Or I’ll kill you.”

  Moments later, he saw the shape again, still to the front and left, keeping pace. Then again, another, to the right. Probably to the rear, too, he guessed, but did not turn to look.

  They had just climbed over a massive tree, fallen over the trail, when Evan stopped. He turned and looked at Shep, then scanned the surrounding forest.

  “What is it?” Shep asked.

  Evan continued to scan, then froze, looking behind Shep.

  A trap, Shep realized.

  He wants me to turn. Wants me to look.

  “That’s it, kid. You’re too dangerous to me. I can find my own way from here.”

  He bared his teeth and steadied the rifle.

  And a branch snapped behind him.

  Evan’s eyes widened.

  Shep spun.

  Standing on the trail, five yards away, staring at him with wary eyes, was Bonnie.

  “Mom!”

  Before Shep could react, Evan had darted past him, reaching for his mother. Shep saw in her face, in the sudden shock, in the moment of revulsion, that she saw the changes, too. But she did not hesitate. She took the boy into her arms and hugged him fiercely. She pressed her face to his hair, and her eyes glistened with tears.

  But she did not take her eyes off Shep.

  He turned his rifle away from them. He wanted to say something, but he could not find the words.

  Instead, he turned and took a step away.

  “Shep.”

  It was Bonnie. He turned to her.

  “What?”

  “Don’t run. There’s something you have to know.”

  She wondered, the second after the words were out of her mouth, why she had bothered to speak at all. She had intended to warn him about what he was heading into but now, looking into his face, the hatred, the madness, it hit her that this man had been about to kill her son. Shoot him down in cold blood.

  “What is it?”

  His voice was weary, his eyes wide and frightened. Bonnie hugged Evan tightly.

  “Shep, you don’t know what you’re getting into.”

  “And you do?”

  “Yes.”

  “So tell me.”

  “Put down the gun.”

  He grinned, and all hint of weakness left him.

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “If you go any farther, they’ll kill you.”

  “They’ll try.”

  “No, Shep. They’ll succeed. They’re called protectors. They’re what killed Jeff. You won’t get past them.”

  “You underestimate me.”

  “Shep, listen to me. Listen to what I have to say.”

  He sighed as if she’d asked him a tremendous favor.

  “I’m listening.”

  “These people…”

  “Animals.”

  “People. They don’t want to hurt you, or me, or Evan. They didn’t want to hurt Jeff, either.”

  At the mention of his brother’s name, Shep tensed.

  “You didn’t see what they did to him.”

  “He came here with weapons to hurt them,” Bonnie said. “Just like you’re doing. They had no choice. They were protecting themselves.”

  Shep’s eyes were wet. “He was just a kid. Just a stupid kid.”

  “With a gun.”

  “HE KNEW THEY WERE ANIMALS!”

  “They saved Evan’s life. He was dying. They did what they had to do to let him live.”

  “Look at him. Look at him. You want that as a son? Let me do you a favor and kill him right now.”

  “You bastard.”

  “They’re not human. They’re monsters. Yesterday, you understood that. Something happened to you.”

  “I learned the truth.”

  “No. You’re hiding from it.”

  “Shep, please.”

  His shoulders slumped.

  “I did what I promised. You’ve got your boy back. Now I’m going to finish what I promised my brother. I’m going to kill the monsters.”

  He turned, rifle held at the ready, and moved along the path.

  “Shep! Damn it! They’re not monsters! You’re the monster, Shep! You’re the monster!”

  But he was gone, the trail empty.

  “Are you okay?” Evan nodded. “How do you feel?”

  “Good.”<
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  “Let me look at you.”

  She held him at arm’s length, and the brief glimpse she’d had of him as he ran toward her was confirmed, and she swallowed hard.

  In the small room in the farmhouse, she had known he was different. She had seen the changes.

  But that had only been the beginning.

  Like Constance had said, Evan had been holding back.

  Now, the transformation was complete. It required a great effort of imagination to convince herself that the creature before her was, in reality, her son.

  It made her want to weep.

  It seemed like only yesterday that she had held Evan in her arms. A fragile, damaged boy. She remembered the feel of him. The smell of him.

  And the creature in her arms at this moment was not that boy. Not anything like him. It took all her will to keep holding him. Yet she could not let him go.

  This was her son.

  “You’ve changed.”

  He nodded, and his eyes held hers, and whatever doubts she had harbored vanished in that instant. Evan’s eyes. No doubting it.

  “Thanks Mom,” he said.

  “For what?”

  He seemed to have difficulty in finding the words, or in articulating his mouth.

  “For letting me.”

  His voice had thickened, along with his neck. His face had readjusted to the contours of a skull that under other circumstances she would have known was terribly diseased. He seemed to have difficulty moving his mouth for speech.

  “I’m sorry this had to happen.”

  “I was going to die,” he said, the words coming as near grunts.

  “But this …”

  “It’s good.”

  Bonnie closed her eyes. When he touched her face she started. His hand was far too large.

  “Don’t be sad.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  That made it worse. She shook her head. She reached for him, arms encircling his bony, rigid shoulders, pulling him close. She held him fiercely.

  When Evan finally pulled away, she could sense that he was agitated. He was peering along the trail that Shep had taken.

  “You know where he’s gone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will he be stopped?”

  Evan’s forehead furrowed. After a few seconds, he shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  “He’s like us.”

  “But he’s not.”

  Evan touched her lips with his fingers. He nodded slowly.

  Bonnie realized something then, and it nearly made her cry. Evan had allowed himself to finish changing, but he had not let go. Not completely.

  He was still hanging on to her. He did not want to leave her. But he had to. As much as she hated the idea, he had to.

  Fighting every motherly instinct she had, she pushed him away and looked into his eyes.

  “Evan, he’s going to kill people.”

  Evan nodded.

  “Can you stop him?”

  Evan looked along the path, then nodded.

  “Then do it. Go, and stop him. Stop him from killing.”

  For a handful of seconds, he just stared at her. Then he turned and looked along the trail, then back to her. He trembled.

  “Go!”

  She watched, astonished, amazed, horrified, grief-stricken, as muscles rippled beneath the skin of his back. His hands were hanging at his sides, nearly touching the ground. As in the house, black blades seemed to slide out of the flesh, dripping a glistening fluid. Unlike before, they did not retract. They stayed in place, gleaming, deadly.

  “Evan?”

  He did not turn to look at her. His breathing had turned hoarse. The forest seemed to vibrate at the sound that emerged from his throat.

  With a crackle of leaves and branches, he slid into the trees. She glimpsed his form, hugged low to the ground, darting between the dark trunks, and she felt a stab of despair, of loss, so deep it made her groan.

  Then he was gone, and she was alone.

  Evan ate up the forest.

  Trees bowed out of his way. Trails opened up before him. Birds stopped their chirping to watch him pass, then fluttered their little wings, unsure if they had seen what their tiny avian brains told them they had seen.

  A squirrel perched on a rotting log froze in the act of juggling an acorn, became stiff as he approached and knew that it was dead, that there was no escape from this predator that had closed in on it so silently.

  Evan grinned at it in passing. The squirrel dropped its nut and ran.

  A doe and a fawn, ambling along the trail, nibbling at the fresh shoots low on the trunks of the trees, started as he approached, but did not move. It was too late for that. The doe lowered her head in front of the fawn, a futile act of sacrifice and protection. Evan passed by, sensing their terror.

  He was king here.

  He had never before known such physical prowess; the very act of moving filled him with a happiness that originated from so far inside himself that he could not trace it. It was the kind of happiness a wheel might feel at rolling, or a jet might feel at flying, or a bullet might feel at killing. The happiness attained from doing exactly what one was created to do. And that happiness was coming from outside of him, as well.

  He was aware of the forest around him in almost three-dimensional clarity, as if he were looking down upon a perfectly proportioned model. In that model, he knew that he was approaching a fork in the trail, and that he would take the right turn. He knew that one hundred yards ahead of him a tree had fallen, and that he would either have to leap over it, or skirt it. He knew that nearly half a mile away, Shep Thomas was slowing down, preparing himself to enter the creche.

  He also knew that this vision, this perfect sense of where he was in relation to everything else in the forest, came from many different sources. It was as if he had become plugged into a gigantic network of sensors, spread throughout the trees.

  He was a protector. He knew that. Had known it the moment he had allowed the change to complete itself.

  He was a protector, at one with all other protectors.

  Many parts, united in one purpose. To protect the creche. He would sacrifice himself in an instant to achieve that end.

  He was aware of himself, moving swiftly through the trees; of the other protectors, circling toward the creche; of his mother somewhere behind him, following, no threat; of his father and Constance and Risely, close behind Mom, a group about which he felt vaguely uneasy because of their weapons and their proximity to the creche; of two men with guns on the western edge of the forest, known as local hunters, watched carefully but not targeted; of the creche, ahead of him, a place he had never seen, yet a place that filled him with longing. And approaching that, the focus of all his attention, Shep Thomas, who was nearly Silliarah.

  He knew that Shep, although followed, was not yet considered a threat by the other protectors. Shep had changed enough. They sensed him as one of their own, or close enough to remain ambiguous. Only Evan, who knew Shep’s purpose here, read the threat.

  Shep was the destroyer. Shep was death. Shep was vengeance. Shep was the monster.

  And although Evan was a protector, although the entire purpose of his new existence was to keep harm from the creche, he knew that he was going to fail. Because he was still at least five minutes away. And in the detailed map that was his sense of the forest, he knew that Shep, whose near-complete transformation had allowed him to navigate the maze of trails ahead, was even now entering the creche.

  He wanted to scream. Wanted to howl his anguish into the trees.

  But instinct would not let him. Failure or not, he had only one purpose. Protection.

  With his venom dripping talons now fully extended, muscles twitching beneath flesh that he hardly knew, head lowered nearly to the ground, he moved on, squeezing every particle of fleetness from his body, determined to protect the creche if he could, or failing that, to avenge what was left.
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  Chapter Thirty

  Journey’s end. Payback time.

  Six years ago Jeff had come this way, and he had-died for it.

  There were structures to the sides of the trail. Long, low buildings made of logs, no taller than himself. They seemed to have sprouted from the forest itself, as if they were part of it. In fact, their roofs were covered in branches that still held foliage. From the air, this place would be invisible, Shep thought.

  Perfectly camouflaged.

  There were propane tanks outside some of the buildings, like litter dropped by a passing plane. Windows in the buildings were broken, doors were leaning against frames. Grass, bushes, and trees, once pruned by the look of it, now flourished unchecked. The whole area looked unused, abandoned, overgrown. The only sign of organization, of life, was a line of laundry behind one of the buildings. Jeans, shirts, underwear, swinging gently in the breeze.

  Was this the creche? Had he searched so long and hard only to find this scattering of hovels? The sight of the place seemed to sap his energy and his anger.

  All this way, for this?

  He stood still and looked around himself. The buildings were to his left, to his right, and ahead of him. There seemed to be five or six of them. Hardly noticeable unless you were looking for them. Otherwise, the forest seemed no different than it had moments ago. He had literally stumbled into the place.

  He walked slowly on, looking for signs of life. He could still hear voices, coming from up ahead, beyond a ridge of trees. He could smell smoke from a fire, but he could not see it.

  As he advanced, the voices became clearer. To the sides of the trail he saw an empty Pepsi can, a candy wrapper, a rusted barbecue. His heart pounded.

  A shape came over the crest, laughing. A young boy, wearing a bathing suit. Six years old, maybe. He came to a skidding stop when he saw Shep.

  His eyes widened. His mouth opened.

  Shep leveled the gun at him, but the boy turned and darted back across the ridge, screaming something that Shep could not understand.

  Shep’s legs felt like stone.

  The sound of voices had struck a chord within him. For a moment his anger and hatred had disappeared, and he had felt as if he were coming home.

  “Jesus.”

  He pressed his forehead into the rough bark of an oak tree. He pressed hard. He felt skin tear. Blood trickled down his cheeks.