Cruel Winter

by Anthony Izzo

“Let’s go.”

  Ronnie bounded ahead, taking the lead and forcing Chris and Paul to play catch-up. They took the back stairs off the kitchen, the spiral stairs shaking under the weight of three boys in rapid transit. They headed down the hallway, the one with the blue and gold wallpaper that reminded Paul of a Holiday Inn. Every few seconds he looked behind him, expecting to see the Wraith sneaking up, or worse, feel the icy hand on his neck before it jerked him away. But so far they were alone in the mansion.

  Ronnie opened the door to his room, hurried to the nightstand, and took out a yellow flashlight.

  “This place has everything,” Chris said.

  Ronnie flicked the flashlight on and off to make sure it worked, then streaked past them yelling, “Death from above!” Paul got the impression this was becoming a huge game for him. He wasn’t sure if that was Ronnie’s way of dealing with the horrors taking place, or if his boat had finally slipped away from the dock. Either way, it frightened him.

  “Wait a second, Ronnie,” Chris said.

  But Ronnie was juiced up, ready to hit those tunnels again with or without the other two.

  “What did you want him to do?” Paul said.

  “That thing might be waiting at the bottom of the steps for us. You or me should go first with the gun just in case.”

  Ronnie hit the steps humming the Green Berets theme song and Paul had the sudden urge to take off one of his socks and stuff it in the kid’s mouth. He was going to get them killed if he didn’t shut up.

  The three of them reached the great room and Chris got a hand on Ronnie’s T-shirt and yanked hard, pulling him to the floor. He looked as if he had run into a clothesline.

  “Christ, too-tall. Did you leave his head attached?”

  Ronnie stood up and brushed off his pants. “What are you doing?”

  “We don’t know where that guy went. You’re gonna give us away if you don’t shut up. Try and move more quiet. Okay?”

  “Sorry, I just got excited.” His face turned as red as his hair.

  They crept across the great room, passing the bar, now littered with empty root beer cans. Once in the butler’s pantry, Paul reached out an arm and stopped Chris. He handed the gun to Chris.

  “What’s this for?”

  “You’re bigger than me and you can fire the gun better. It won’t knock you on your butt.”

  “If you say so, Fussel,” Chris said. He lowered the revolver and held it flat against his outer thigh.

  “Where do they keep the silverware?” Paul said.

  “There, I think.” Ronnie pointed to the farthest drawer to the right, near the wounded refrigerator.

  Paul opened it and found two butcher knives with black handles.

  “What are those for?” Ronnie asked.

  “I’m not going down there without a weapon.” He started to hand one to Ronnie and then drew it back. “We can trust you with this, right?”

  “I’m not gonna stab you or nothing.”

  Ronnie took the knife and with Chris in the lead, they hunched down and entered the bowels of the mansion.

  They descended the steps, Ronnie shining the beam into the dim corridor. Paul held the knife like Norman Bates in the shower scene, ready to plunge it into anything that moved. Ronnie held his out in front of him, like a gang member in a switchblade fight.

  A thin coat of slime covered the walls, and it smelled like mold and dust.

  They had moved ahead another fifty feet when Chris lurched forward into the darkness and hit the concrete with a smack.

  “Are you all right?” Ronnie said.

  “I tripped over a log or a rock or something,” he said.

  “That doesn’t make any sense, bucko. Give me the flashlight.” Paul took it from Ronnie and pointed it at the ground. It wasn’t a log or a rock. A man dressed in blue lay facedown across the tunnel. A black shotgun had fallen to the ground at his side, and the stock was slicked with blood.

  “Oh God,” Paul said in a barely audible whisper.

  “This is more dead bodies than I ever wanted to see in person,” Chris said.

  “Who is he?” Ronnie asked.

  Paul said, “Roll him over, Chris.”

  “You fucking roll him over, Fussel.”

  “Why don’t we all roll him over?” Ronnie said.

  Ah, the voice of reason. And it came from Ronnie. Scary.

  The three of them hunkered down, Chris pulling and the other two pushing, until they got him on his back. Paul wished they hadn’t rolled him over at all. The face was gone, a mess of red tissue, muscle and skull underneath. It looked like a piece of meat carved by an angry butcher, wet and red and rank. Paul gagged back his breakfast.

  “A cop, oh, man, someone killed a cop!” Ronnie said.

  “Let’s go before I get sick or chicken out,” Chris said.

  They all stood up and backed away from the body. They were no more than three feet away from it when Paul sensed someone behind him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he whispered to the others, “It’s behind us.”

  CHAPTER 43

  They found Harris, or what was left of him. There were two dime-sized puncture holes just below his hairline and two thin streams of blood ran down the center of his face. His cheeks had gouges in them, as did his chest, long strips torn into the shirt and the flesh underneath.

  Kempf guessed his abductor took its time ripping the gashes in Harris before delivering the deadly bite to the skull. The sheer brutality of the attack stunned and sickened him. On days like this he wished he’d never put on a badge.

  “Kempf, what’s going on?” Stavros said. He swept the Colt back and forth in a slow arc, as if it were a talisman to ward off evil spirits.

  “There’s something else down here and it’s not our killer.”

  If those kids weren’t down here, he would beat it the hell out of here and call for backup. Maybe MacKenzie made it out.

  “Why don’t you yell for the kids?” Stavros said.

  “It’ll find us if I do.”

  Jack heard the screams coming down the tunnel and he and Emma hurried away from the junction. He had never heard anything like that before, and the person sounded as if he was in unimaginable agony.

  “What do you think happened?” he said.

  “Someone’s dead. Cassie killed whoever it was.”

  That didn’t surprise him. She had come into the great room with blood on her mouth and a look reserved for savages in old Tarzan movies. She had killed someone and wanted to get away from someone else. Maybe it was the cops that had come to the door and she took one of them out in a geyser of blood.

  He thought he glimpsed a softball-sized dot of light pass by, the kind a flashlight might make. Their best bet might be to turn the corner and follow the tunnel and whoever possessed the flashlight. But that horrible scream had forced him back into the tunnel.

  “Do you think she’ll kill us?” Emma asked.

  “How am I supposed to know?”

  “You’ve met her more times than me,” she said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t lie, Jack.”

  “When she comes back I think she will.”

  “Then we should go. Run for it. We’ve got the light.”

  It hit him: leave them the light and she could track them if they ran. It was like being third man on a match. Light up and the sniper pops you.

  The alternative was to wait for Cassie to return and finish them off.

  “Let’s get going before she comes back.”

  Paul whirled around to find the Wraith standing silently on the other side of the police officer’s body. For a moment he stared at it, a silent killer. Then it lunged at him, quicker than he would have thought it was able to. He raised the butcher knife and slammed it into the thing’s shoulder. It gripped his arm and his flesh seemed to go numb under its touch.

  “Shoot it!” Paul said.

  Visions of being dragged away and torn apart danced through his mi
nd.

  It jerked him forward. He looked around at Chris, who aimed the gun at the Wraith.

  “Chris, shoot it!”

  Chris waved the gun around, trying to get a shot at it without hitting Paul. “I’ll hit you.”

  He’s right. If he fires now, I’m toast, Paul thought.

  Paul pulled out the tip of the knife and stabbed again. It was like trying to stab a frozen roast and only the tip penetrated. It had no effect. The Wraith yanked him forward. He dug his feet in, but still it dragged him.

  Ronnie charged ahead, wielding his knife like a samurai warrior, jabbing the Wraith in the belly. He only succeeded in putting holes in the blue coveralls. It pulled Paul ahead, almost off his feet.

  “Do something!”

  Ronnie dropped his knife and wedged himself between Paul and the Wraith. Chris came up from behind and wrapped his arms around Paul’s waist, tugging on him.

  “Let him go, asshole!” Ronnie said. He pounded on the hand that held Paul.

  It let go, and at first Paul didn’t know why. Then it grabbed Ronnie by the shirt and pulled him within kissing distance. The putrid bandages were inches from Ronnie’s nose, and he said, “Stinks.” It cocked its head to one side and raised its hand as if to strike him. It swung at his face. The hand stopped before Ronnie’s kisser and it extended a finger and scratched his cheek, leaving it bloody. Then it shoved Paul aside and darted past them.

  Ronnie’s hand crept up to his cheek. He dabbed the blood with his finger and held it up. “What is that thing?”

  “I don’t know,” Paul said. He realized why the Wraith had let go of him. Ronnie got in the way, and some small part of the Wraith recognized its son. Perhaps the urge to kill had come and then it stopped itself, only scratching Ronnie instead of tearing his throat out. Ronnie Winter had saved them.

  “We still have to find Jack and Emma,” Chris said.

  “Shine the light on the ground,” Paul said. He hunkered down and picked up the butcher knife. It made him feel like a questing knight, recovering the blade like that.

  “George, we have to find them,” Stavros said.

  “Damn it.” The lives of a few kids were more important than his own, and he had a shotgun to defend himself. They had nothing.

  “Jack! Paul!” he yelled, and Stavros did the same.

  No answer came.

  “Wait,” Kempf said, and put his hand on Stavros’s chest.

  A low clicking came from down the tunnel, growing faster and louder, coming closer. He raised the shotgun and Stavros readied the Colt. It appeared before them, and Kempf fired, the shotgun illuminating the tunnel and tattooing their shadows on the walls. The thing screeched, sliced past him, and pinned Stavros to the wall. He was vaguely aware of warmth running down his leg and he turned to fire at it, but it was too late.

  A crunching sound came from the dark. Like tearing gristle from steak. That’s what it sounded like. Sucking and ripping sounds came from the darkness and he was afraid to put his light on the scene.

  When he did, Stavros was slumped against the wall, head cocked to one side, his eyes glassy and open. The same fate that John had suffered had also befallen Michael Stavros. The thing that did this was gone, also, but he saw a trail of fluid leading down the tunnel and knew he had hit it.

  He became aware of his own pant leg growing wet and looked down to see a four-inch gash cut into his leg, just above the knee. A jagged hole remained in his pants and he ripped his pant leg off from the knee down, starting the tear where he had been wounded. He tore it into two strips and wrapped them around the wound. Then he followed the trail down the tunnel, hell-bent on ending this, once and for all.

  Jack was about to turn left and bolt down the tunnel when Chris, Ronnie, and Paul ran through like diesel trains. Chris held the revolver, while Paul and Ronnie carried kitchen knives. They looked like a group of wannabe pirates.

  “What happened to you guys?” Jack said.

  “It chased us outside,” Paul said. “It’s down here with us.”

  “How did you get away from it?” Jack asked.

  Emma said, “Let’s find out later.”

  “I’ll lead the way to victory!” Ronnie said, pumping his fist in the air.

  “What’s with him?” Emma asked.

  “He thinks he’s Rambo,” Chris said. “Follow me, I’ve got the gun. Jack, I want you next to me.”

  Jack stepped up next to Chris.

  Something slid into the darkness at the junction, something hissing and leathery. It approached them until it was in his flashlight beam.

  The smooth features of her face were still recognizable, and the eyes clear and blue. Her skin was pale gray and two bony lumps had grown above her pointed ears. She grinned at them, revealing a set of fangs a werewolf would envy. It was like someone had crossed a woman with a bat and a large feline. What was she? Jack thought.

  She slinked forward, the claws on her feet snicking on the concrete. Malformed, veiny breasts hung from her chest. Things like this were only supposed to exist in horror flicks and fairy tales, not in real life.

  All five of the kids backed up, and Jack glanced at Ronnie, wondering if he recognized his mother.

  “What is it?” Paul said.

  “I’m older than the stars,” she hissed. “I’ve lived for centuries with no one finding out about me. I’m the last of a dead race.” She looked at Jack, and the ice-blue eyes seemed to penetrate his guts. “I asked you to watch over Ronnie and you failed me. Now it all comes to an end.”

  “You’re fucking crazy,” Jack said.

  “Come here, Ronnie,” she said in her serpentine voice.

  Ronnie backed up. “You’re not my mom.”

  “Come here, sweetheart.”

  “Ronnie, don’t,” Jack said.

  “Quiet, Jack. You’ll die last,” the Cassie-thing said.

  Ronnie started forward. His eyes were glazed, his mouth slack. Perhaps she was clouding his mind. Jack had an idea.

  He ripped the revolver from Chris’s hand, threw an arm bar around Ronnie’s throat, and put the gun to his head.

  “What are you doing?” Chris said.

  “Jack!” Emma said.

  “Jack?” Ronnie said.

  Jack whispered something in his ear. When he grabbed the gun, he had dropped his flashlight, but Paul still had his. “Paul, keep your light on her.”

  Paul lit up her face. She looked as if she wanted to eat Jack’s guts out and have his bones for a second helping.

  “Everybody back up,” Jack said, and dragged Ronnie with him.

  They followed Jack’s lead, backing up to the wall, where the rotted timbers held up the ceiling. Chris bumped one of them and pebbles crumbled from the ceiling.

  “Let my son go and I’ll spare you,” she hissed.

  “I’ll blow his fucking head off.”

  “Have you lost your mind?” Paul said.

  “I know what I’m doing. Start kicking those timbers and get ready to run.”

  “That will bring the roof in,” Emma said.

  “Trust me,” Jack said. “Come and get him, you bitch! I never liked him anyway.”

  Chris kicked the beam on the right and dust floated from the ceiling. Emma and Paul booted the support to the left and it groaned and squeaked.

  “We’re all going to die anyway, right? Let’s bring the roof in. Ronnie dies first.”

  “Let him go,” she said.

  Jack pressed the barrel into Ronnie’s temple. Ronnie said, “Be careful, Jack.”

  Now marble-sized stones fell from the ceiling and a cloud of dust floated through the chamber. A dry, dusty smell filled the air.

  “Come on,” Jack said.

  “You have no idea how much you’re about to suffer,” she said.

  She charged forward and Jack aimed the revolver at her and squeezed the trigger. His wrist jerked back and he dropped the gun.

  Think it might have broken my wrist.

  She stumbled, bleedin
g, but kept coming. Chris kicked his beam one last time, followed by Paul’s and Emma’s a moment later. He shoved Ronnie ahead and said, “Run!” He fell forward behind Ronnie.

  Cassie lunged at him, but Chris came from behind and grabbed her, throwing her off balance and into the chamber. A rock the size of a bowling ball hit her in the head. Paul and Emma ran from the chamber as if it were on fire. Chris and Jack followed as the roof came in, pouring tons of stone on Cassie. Stone grated, the wood split with a crack, and a cloud rivaling ash from Vesuvius blew down the tunnel.

  They all hacked and spat out dust. Jack felt as if he had swallowed half the Sahara and chased it with a dirt cocktail. He looked up at the ceiling, relieved that the rest of it held. Only the small end of the tunnel, the chamber portion, had been held up by the timbers.

  Jack picked up his flashlight. He shone it in the chamber. A pile of splintered wood and rock stood seven feet high. Cassie’s arm stuck out and the clawed hand twitched once and was still. He felt pity for the strange creature, so driven by the love of her son, yet so horrible underneath and capable of tremendous brutality. She had loved Ronnie, Jack was sure of that. But what was she and were did she come from?

  He supposed the answer would stay buried under the rock.

  Ronnie came up beside him and in a small voice said, “Was that really my mom?”

  Jack didn’t want to answer that one. Instead he put his arm around Ronnie and gave him a squeeze. “Let’s get out of here.”

  CHAPTER 44

  Kempf tripped over something solid. “Son of a bitch.”

  For a moment he thought it was one of the kids, but when he looked down, he almost jumped. He thought it might be faking, trying to ambush him when he bent down to see if it was alive. He nudged it with the barrel of the shotgun, and decided it was better to be safe than sorry (or dead, in this case).

  Kempf backed up a step, tucked his flashlight under his arm, and fired a blast square into its chest. It remained lifeless as a puppet with no master.

  Down the tunnel, he heard murmuring and someone said, “What was that?”