The Lance Brody Series: Books 3 and 4

by Robertson Jr, Michael

  The sun felt good on his face.

  He thought about the fight on the beach, the way the Reverend and Surfer had fallen into the blackness. And what surprised Lance the most as he considered this was the lack of liberation he felt. Those two had been the entire reason his life had been uprooted. The reason his mother was dead and Lance sent on this strange journey to nowhere in particular. And now they were gone and Lance felt … the same?

  Okay, not exactly the same. There was a large part of him that was relieved, that felt as though he were allowed to breathe for the first time in months. But there was another part of him, a part lurking in the back of his mind in the shadows, that did not believe that the Reverend and the Surfer were truly gone. They’d only been temporarily displaced.

  A battle won in a greater war.

  But, with them or without them, Lance also understood that his mission was to continue. There would always be another Sugar Beach, another Ripton’s Grove, another Westhaven. And many, many places in between.

  There was just too much darkness in the world. And Lance Brody carried a torch, helping to relight the way.

  Another mile down the highway, he came across a small gas station with old-style pumps and a handwritten sign out front advertising softshell crab sandwiches. The slanting wooden building was the color of dust and looked as though two men should have been sitting out front playing checkers on the porch, reminiscing about the old days and shaking their heads at the way the world had changed.

  A plain-white box truck was idling on the edge of the parking area, its motor sounding in need of coffee. Lance walked around the truck and then leaned against the side of the building, pulling his cell phone from his pocket and making an important call.

  “Still alive?” Marcus Johnston asked when he answered the phone on the second ring.

  “Still alive,” Lance said and then told him everything he could about Diana and the girls selling sodas and their terrible circumstance.

  Marcus listened silently the entire time, and when Lance had finished, the man simply said, “I’ll make some calls, see what I can do. And I’ll make sure this girl—Diana—I’ll make sure she’s safe. At least as long as she’s here.”

  And that was all Lance had hoped for. Just to give Diana and the rest of the girls a chance.

  “Coming home yet?” Marcus asked.

  Lance shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “Stay safe, friend.”

  And the call was over and Lance went inside to buy some bottles of water and some protein bars. And then, because he told himself he’d do so before he officially left Sugar Beach for good, he ordered a softshell crab sandwich, which the lady behind the counter delivered to him wrapped in wax paper. He scarfed it down in four bites as she watched apathetically, and then he smiled and told her it was very good.

  He used the restroom, and when he came back outside, there was a man standing by the driver’s door of the box truck who asked, “Need a ride, son?”

  He looked to be in his early fifties with a receding hairline and big, kind eyes. He was wearing golf shorts and a baggy t-shirt and looked completely at ease with anything and everything—as if “agenda” was a foreign word.

  “I saw you walking,” the man said. “When you were coming down the road, I mean.” He shrugged. “Thought maybe you’d like a lift. I’m going another two hours north. You’re welcome to join me. Always nice to have company.”

  Lance was about to answer, but his cell phone buzzed in his pocket and he stopped to pull it out. Looked at the screen and saw her name.

  “Hello?”

  “Where are you?” Leah asked. “Still in Sugar Beach?”

  “No.”

  “Well, where are you going? Because … because I’ve left Westhaven.”

  And there was silence, filled with lots of unspoken words between the two of them as the truth of their relationship took hold. Lance looked at the man by the box truck, who was waiting with eyebrows raised and a smile on his face. He heard the words the spirit of the girl with the red hair had spoken to him on the beach as they’d sat around the fire, about not having to do it all alone.

  “I don’t know yet,” Lance said, giving a thumbs-up to the man by the box truck and starting to walk toward him. “But I’ll let you know when I get there.”

  Dark Vacancy

  (Lance Brody Series, Book 4)

  Prologue

  The boy knew his end would come.

  He’d known for the past year, and he knew this truth the same way he knew certain other things—inexplicably. A message from the stars, he liked to say to himself and his family. No reason or logic or rationale. Just an understanding that he’d been given information in a way nobody else could comprehend. Well, not nobody.

  There were others.

  Few, indeed. But they were out there, all the same. Some had already fallen victim, some were perhaps past their prime, too old and too tired to be of much value to either side, but they all lived with their gifts. He wondered if they knew about each other, or if he was alone in the knowledge that others existed. If he’d been bestowed these facts to serve some further purpose, be part of a grander plan.

  He wondered if the others had felt the moment the one had joined them. Because for the boy, in the moment he could only infer marked the birth of this new force among them, it was as if time had temporarily stopped. All hatred and evil and disgust had been erased and replaced with a great tidal wave of happiness that crashed to the ground and washed away all that was not pure.

  It had felt like salvation. So that was what the boy decided to call the one—Salvation.

  But the boy was not naïve enough to believe it was going to be over soon—this ongoing war between the light and the darkness. There would still be much suffering, much struggle and pain and confusion and anger and everything else that drained the human soul. There would be these things for Salvation, too. Maybe most of all. But if anybody was going to have the strength and determination to survive it all, it was that one.

  The boy was only disappointed in the fact that he would not be around to see it.

  Because the boy’s end was here, and he knew, in the manner in which only he could know things, that Salvation’s work would not come for several years. Long after the boy’s body would be laid to rest in the earth.

  He tried to focus on the memory of that moment when time had stopped and the wave of happiness had crashed, but he was failing.

  The pain of the present was too much.

  The other side knew that Salvation now walked among them. They wanted to find it before it was too late, wanted to use it for their own, help them accomplish their ultimate goal. The goal that the boy—and presumably the others like him—worked to stop. Whether directly or indirectly, consciously or subconsciously, they worked to keep the light shining into the darkness.

  The darkness was here now. It’d found the boy and it wanted to know what he knew. It wanted to know what he didn’t, as well. And that was the bigger problem.

  * * *

  The Reverend sat on the edge of one of the double beds in the small motel room and watched as the Surfer stood back from the boy tied to the chair and waited for further instructions. They’d been at this for nearly an hour, and the boy had proven to be much more resilient to both of their certain methods of persuasion than the Reverend had anticipated.

  The boy was seventeen years old—nearly a man by legal standards—yet he possessed a mental fortitude and psychological strength well beyond his years. He’d built up several walls, layers of defense to keep them out. And that was what the Surfer, with the Reverend’s help, had been working on for the past hour—tearing the walls down, brick by brick.

  They were essentially destroying the boy’s mind. Ripping apart his memories and shredding his intelligence until all that remained was fragmented and scattered tatters of who the boy had once been.

  The Reverend didn’t care about any of this. All he wanted was the golden egg hidden
behind those walls. Information about this new and powerful presence he’d felt. And it wasn’t just he who’d taken notice. Those he served had felt it as well, and they’d made his mission very clear.

  Find it. Make it one for us. If it won’t turn, kill it.

  The task was proving much more difficult than the Reverend had imagined. The other side was doing well to protect this new force, shielding it from the prying eyes of the darkness until it was strong enough to fend for itself.

  But they would find it. Not today, and maybe not for years to come, but they would succeed. And first, this boy would tell them what he knew.

  The Reverend nodded once and the Surfer stepped forward, placing one large and tanned hand on the boy’s slumped head. The boy’s body jolted, jerking in one massive spasm as the Surfer tore free another couple bricks from the walls the boy had built in his mind. The boy’s face was electric with pain, lips pressed tight and eyes squeezed shut. Tears leaking down his cheeks.

  But he did not cry out.

  In fact, he’d said nothing.

  Not a word for the last hour.

  From the rubble of the boy’s mind, they’d managed to scrape out only a single word of the information he’d been protecting. For the moment, it was useless. Down the road, it might be enough. But there was more, and the Reverend wanted it.

  The Surfer bore down, digging in deeper with his own gifts, and the boy’s body went rigid against the chair. His eyes fluttered open, revealing only the whites. Drool slid from the boy’s mouth, and just as the Reverend was about to intervene, stop the Surfer before he completely wiped the boy away without getting what they’d come for, the door to the motel room swung open hard and fast, slamming into the wall.

  Which was odd, because the Reverend had made certain to lock the door before they’d started. After the lock, he had put up a barrier that drew its energy from the darkness, to further thwart any external forces that might try to interfere.

  The Reverend jumped from the bed and the Surfer spun around, facing the doorway, letting the boy’s body collapse onto itself in the chair.

  The doorway was empty. Snow blew in on the howling wind, swirling its way down to salt the carpet.

  The Reverend called out an angry, “Who’s there?” and got no reply. He took a step forward, ready to look outside, but the Surfer stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, gently pulling him back.

  The Reverend looked to him and asked, “What? What is it?”

  The Surfer did not reply, but the Reverend watched as his partner’s eyes squinted, seemingly locking onto something unseen to anyone else. Then his head slowly turned and followed it, as if something was moving across the motel room, sliding in among the shadows.

  From behind them, suddenly the boy started to laugh. A slow, weak chuckle that gradually grew louder before it abruptly cut off.

  When the Reverend turned around to face the boy, the boy’s eyes were wide and alert once more, as if he’d used all his remaining strength for this one moment.

  “He’s … here,” the boy said, his voice barely above a whisper.

  The Reverend looked to the Surfer, whose eyes were still locked onto something in the room with them, as if two predators were waiting to pounce on each other. Then he stepped closer to the boy and asked, “Who?”

  The boy smiled. “Salvation.”

  And then the room exploded.

  1

  It had not been the best idea.

  Lance Brody could admit that easily enough. When the man driving the box truck—his name was Neil, and he’d been traveling north to Scranton, Pennsylvania, to help his daughter move into a new apartment—had slowed the vehicle down and pulled to the side of the road a few yards shy of the interstate on-ramp, he’d given Lance a choice.

  “Straight shot from here for me,” Neil had said. He tapped the dirty plastic of the truck’s dashboard. “Got just about enough gas to get to Scranton, so I won’t be stopping anywhere else. You wanna ride, or do you want to call it quits here?” He nodded through the large windshield toward the small cluster of dirty and faded road signs by the on-ramp. “There’s a town a few miles up the road. Been there once, years ago. Not much to look at, but it’s there all the same. I’m sure you’ll be able to…” He stopped himself, thought for a moment. “Well, I’m sure you’ll be able to figure something out. Whatever it is you’re after.”

  Lance looked through the windshield and down the lonely-looking road that stretched beyond. The sky was gray, and the grass and trees and asphalt looked cold and unkind. A gust of wind rushed from behind them and rattled the truck. And with it came the prickling at the back of Lance’s skull.

  He glanced to the beginning of the on-ramp. The gateway to another couple hours and over a hundred miles distance between him and Sugar Beach—between him and the Reverend and the Surfer. Despite what had happened there, what he’d seen and experienced on that night on the shore, Lance would not—could not—bring himself to accept that they were truly finished.

  Going with Neil would be the better option. The choice that most people would have made.

  But Lance Brody was not most people. And he was never truly alone.

  The prickling at the base of his skull was one of the constant reminders of his omnipresent traveling companion, and also his obligation. His duty. His burden. His gifts.

  He was supposed to get out here. And to the outside world, it was not the best idea. But to Lance, it was the one he would have to accept.

  Acceptance. That was a theme he was all too familiar with, if not completely at ease with. Arguing for understanding did Lance little good. In fact, it often complicated things. Better to just roll with the punches and see where he ended up. Because for better or worse, he always landed exactly where he was supposed to. Even if he sometimes had to fight for it.

  “I appreciate the ride and the offer, sir. But I’ll get out here. You’ve been very kind to take me this far.” Lance stuck out his hand and smiled at the man.

  Neil sighed, shook his head. “Good luck, kid.” Then, with the compassionate voice of the father in him coming to the surface, he shook Lance’s hand and said, “Be careful out there, alright? I hate to say it, but it seems this day and age, there’s more bad ones than good ones, you know?”

  Lance didn’t know if he believed this. He liked to think the world was still full of good, but the bad was just much better at making itself known.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be careful. And thanks for being one of the good ones. I hope your daughter likes her new place. Drive safe.”

  And when Lance shouldered his backpack and made to grab the door handle, Neil quickly blurted, “I can pay you.”

  Lance stopped. Turned back toward the man. “I’m sorry?”

  Neil rubbed at the back of his neck, looked out through the windshield and down the desolate road. “I mean … it’s just, I could use some help with moving her, you know? My daughter. I’m not as young as I used to be, and well, furniture is heavy. Even that cheap stuff from IKEA. Between you and me, her boyfriend’s a wimp and probably couldn’t carry his laptop down the stairs without breaking a sweat, forget about a sofa. I could pay you to help.”

  Lance smiled and wished he could explain more to the man. Help to set his mind at ease. This stranger cared about his well-being. One of the good ones, for sure, Lance thought.

  “I’m sorry, sir. But I have to go. Thank you, again.”

  Without waiting for a response, Lance Brody opened the truck’s door and stepped down onto the shoulder of the road. He stepped back and heard Neil shift into drive, and then the engine rumbled and the truck pulled slowly away, flashing its brake lights in a farewell salute before it climbed the on-ramp and left Lance standing alone on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere.

  * * *

  And then the snow had arrived.

  Lance had started walking down the rural road, past the faded road signs and the interstate on-ramp and toward the town that Neil—and presumably
one of the road signs, had they been more legible—had promised him would be a few miles away. He’d made it maybe a quarter mile before the already-gray sky had dimmed several shades darker, the air carrying crisp bites on the intensifying wind.

  The storm arrived swiftly and without much preamble, the snow falling heavy and fast. In a matter of minutes, Lance’s sneakers were trudging through an inch of the stuff. The hood of his sweatshirt was cinched as tightly around his face as he could get it, and he’d pulled his hands inside his sleeves and then buried them in the front pouch. The bare parts of his legs sticking out from his cargo shorts became speckled white. Melting snow began to trickle down his ankles and into his socks. The wind whipped around him in a frenzy, swirling snow and throwing it into his face. Lance squinted his eyes and said bad words under his breath, trying not to think about how warm the box truck’s heater would be right about now, as Neil cruised along the interstate.

  Lance kept walking.

  What choice did he have? He’d seen no cars coming or going in either direction, and on both sides of the road there was nothing but fields and the distant tree line of heavy woods. No farms or houses. No shops or diners. Nothing. This was no-man’s-land. A cut-through route from one side of civilization to another.

  A great place to dump a body, he thought, surprising himself at his own morbid joke. But if anybody fully understood the evil that human beings were capable of, it was him.

  He shivered at his own thoughts, and then another assault of wind whipped at the fabric of his hoodie. Tried to sneak underneath and grab his flesh with icy fangs. Lance pressed on, growing increasingly irritated as the wind continued to roar and the temperature continued to drop and the snow continued to pile up.