by Rob Horner
I turned to run, but voices screaming my name halted me before I could take a single step. From the right-hand passage came Crystal's voice, and as I turned and looked, she formed out of air and nothing, no more than a dozen yards away, backlit by the red glow. Her blond hair stirred, blowing toward me, as though the light behind her was part of something more, the leading edge of a hellish tide rushing toward her.
From the left came Tanya's voice, calling for me. Whipping around, I saw her a dozen yards away, kneeling like she was injured, hands held out imploringly in my direction.
"Johnny, aren't you going to save me?" Crystal called from the other direction, making me spin. The red was almost upon her.
"No, it's me, Johnny. It's me you need to save!" came from Tanya.
Neither choice was a good one, for there was no time to reach either of them ahead of the red light. As one, in perfect stereo, the two girls began screaming, swallowed by the red wave, their forms shimmering, then gone.
Shouting my denial, I turned back the way I'd come, the only way I could go. There was a wind blowing before the redness, foul, carrying on it the odor of some beast. The flame of my torch blew out in front of me, like a banner of fire heralding my coming.
Vision blurred by tears, I stumbled down the tunnel, the skulls now grinning in mockery. I was a fool, to think I was strong enough to battle this evil. I was foolish to believe I had any chance even of surviving it. And so, I ran.
Though the corridor walls were solid before, they now featured alcoves, little breaks in the marching line of skulls, nothing substantial enough to be called side passages, just little hollowed out niches in the otherwise smooth walls.
But they weren't empty.
Running away from the light, I looked over my shoulder, even though every instinct screamed that it would only slow me down. The red light followed, flowing fast, faster than I could hope to run, another mockery of my attempt to escape. My eyes swept over an alcove, and I nearly froze at the sight of another person held within.
In that split second, I knew it was no one I recognized, but the face etched itself in my memory: billowing mass of red hair over youthful features, freckled face, bright green eyes wide with shock, clouded by death, short frame held upright by the metal hook exploding out the front of her shirt.
Whipping my eyes across to the other side, I saw into a second alcove, a second body, this of a young black man, hair trimmed close, something carved into the fade running up the sides of his head. His eyes were closed, and he might have been taller than me. It was hard to tell with the meat hook holding him suspended off the floor.
Further on, I passed another set of alcoves, one on each side of the passage, another set of bodies, a young Hispanic man, dark-haired, in his twenties, and across from him a brunette, with the fine bone structure which gives an impression of frailty. Both had suffered like the first pair, their lives ended in pain as their bodies dangled from hooks protruding out of their chests. Their arms seemed to be reaching for one another across the space between the walls, as though death was just a temporary separation.
From behind came a duet of screams, one man and one woman, which seemed to be, impossibly, the voices of the two impaled bodies in the first set of alcoves.
I reached the point where the nightmare began and could see the torch on the wall ahead. If I’d gone the other way in the beginning, would things have been different?
Another set of voices screamed as the red light swept over the second set of alcoves.
Still moving, racing for the light, I could tell the corridor hit a T-intersection just past it, and in both directions, an ominous red glow was brightening, coming closer. I passed a third set of alcoves, a third pair of corpses, and couldn't stop myself from looking, memorizing the faces and features of more victims of this carnage. A tall woman, maybe six feet, with caramel skin and fine, chiseled features, and another young woman, blond, alike in size to Crystal but with features that appeared Asian: tilted eyes, small mouth. The contrast between hair and features was arresting, but I couldn't stop to mourn the loss of her beauty.
And then it didn't matter. The wall ahead, where the path split to left and right, came alight with red death, roiling and flowing toward me. Two more steps, and the final pair screamed their agony, which somehow transcended mortality.
One last step, and the light engulfed me. I inhaled to scream, and it poured into me, changing me.
And I awoke, still on the couch, chest aching from the pounding of my heart, throat raw from rapid breathing. I realized I was holding my breath and let it out.
Beyond the curtained windows, no light entered the home. It was still night.
Someone had covered me with a light blanket, which now lay puddled on the hardwood floor.
Many of the details of the dream were becoming hazy and indistinct, but the fear remained, keeping company with an almost-crushing sense of defeat.
I couldn't save them, not Tanya or Crystal, or any of the nameless others. Even if I chose between the two young women, which the dream seemed to indicate was something I would have to do, it wouldn't matter. We were all doomed.
I refused to believe that I was destined to be consumed by the red light. Better to die than be converted into something so hateful and evil.
Better to die, I reaffirmed, laying my head back on the couch cushion, drawing the thin blanket back up to my chin.
With that conviction, I fell back to sleep.
Part II
Expanding Awareness
Chapter 22
Forget Mondays, Wednesdays can't be trusted, either
There was a split-second warning, the sound of drapes being drawn across a rod, before bright light, sunlight, poured through the windows, shocking me awake and blinding me all in the same moment. I yanked the cover over my head as Tanya laughed.
"Time to get up, lazy bones," she said, reaching for the blanket. I felt her grab a handful right about the level of my chest, and quickly grabbed a hold of the blanket near her hands. The blanket came off my face, and I looked up to see that smiling challenge back in her eyes. She pulled, and I resisted. She had the better leverage, but I outweighed her by about forty pounds. (And if I let her overpower me, I'd never hear the end of it.)
Our tug-of-war lasted only a couple of seconds before she decided on a new tactic, suddenly moving toward me, falling on top of me. A dozen gibbering words ran through my mind, feeble protestations---what's she doing? What if Crystal sees this? Isn't this what we wanted? God, she's so beautiful! No, I'm here with Crystal---and then our faces were mere inches apart, her brown eyes like deep pools a man could happily drown in. By the way they crinkled, she was still smiling, though I couldn't see her mouth.
Then her eyes were closing, her face getting closer. None of my internal protestations mattered, my belief in my own integrity was shattered. My mouth twitched at the corners, caught somewhere between smiling in joy and rushing hungrily to meet hers. My eyes closed as her hair fell over me. My hands gave up their hold on the feeble protection of the blanket and instead sought to hold her, to touch her, running across her back, up to her neck, finally stopping on either side of her face, caressing the impossibly soft skin of her cheeks.
The ferocity faded. The kiss morphed into something gentler, less demanding. Her lips were silken fire now, sliding across mine. Then the pressure changed, as she caught my lower lip in her mouth, giving it a gentle nip. She pushed away, raising her face a few inches, and I opened my eyes, unable to speak for the flood of conflicting emotions rushing through me.
Before I could ask anything, or say something stupid, she smiled again, and said, "We had a long talk about you last night."
Watching her lips form words was mesmerizing. I wanted to kiss her again and felt a surge of guilt at myself. Wait. What had she just said?
"And we agreed. You're mine."
She pressed herself back onto me, attacked my mouth with hers, just for a second or two, then she pushed herself ba
ck to her feet, still wearing the cocky smile that challenged me to meet her on her terms. "Don't you forget it again, mister," she said. Then, amazingly, she blushed, and hurried away, long legs flashing under a modest sleeping gown as she ran back up the stairs.
For one moment, I thought about chasing after her. I started to, only to realize I was in no fit state to stand up just then.
What the hell just happened?
It took me a moment, just sitting there, to realize that my lingering fears and doubts were gone. So was my guilt, which, strangely, felt like something that had been hanging around my neck a lot longer than just a few minutes.
By the time the bedrooms doors upstairs opened again, the girls coming down to find something for breakfast, I'd figured out the source of that lingering guilt. I'd felt guilty ever since deciding to bring Crystal with me to Tanya's house, because a part of me knew what I was running to. That secret part had been waiting, hoping for a chance to try again with Tanya. Four years as friends had built to this point, and a single stumble hadn't derailed it.
I didn't feel guilty for taking Crystal with me when we left the school, or for bringing her out of Virginia Beach. Had I not saved her, she'd have been converted at the school. Had I not brought her with me when we fled my house, maybe taking her home instead, no doubt her mother would have been waiting with one of those statues.
I hoped this change of circumstances wouldn't hurt her. My intentions may have been colored by self-deception, but it was still right to save her.
Considering how late we'd stayed out, and that it was past nine in the morning when Tanya woke me, no one thought it strange when the brunette didn't go to school.
"I just don't know if I could do it," she said. "You know, pretend everything is normal after what we saw last night."
Though my initial response was to remind her that we'd warned her, and nothing had changed except her awareness, I understood her hesitancy. With no way to tell friend from foe, how could you go through a whole day, suspicious of everyone? What would that do to a person, surrounded by supposed friends, but unable to trust them, feeling utterly alone?
At least I'd been lucky in this respect, so far. I'd had Crystal by my side almost from the very beginning, and her power, though not physical in nature, provided more comfort and security than just about anything else could.
"Mom should have been home by now," Tanya said at lunch time. "She usually comes home and goes upstairs to clean up, so she's ready for church tonight."
"She gets sloshed on Tuesday and goes to church on Wednesday?" Crystal asked.
Tanya smiled at her. "She has to have something to ask forgiveness for, right?"
We laughed at the comment, but it felt forced. Tanya was obviously worried about her mom, yet there wasn't much we could do. Mrs. Fields hadn't told her who was hosting this week's Bridge party, and there were over a dozen ladies in the group. Not everyone played every week, but none of them wanted to miss the opportunity for some "girl time."
For my part, I was torn between worry for the woman who was almost a second mother to me, and uncertainty how I was supposed to act to both Crystal and Tanya. Was I supposed to pretend that I hadn't come with Crystal? Or was I supposed to ignore the kiss Tanya laid on me? Who should I sit next to? Who would I offend?
Or was it a foregone conclusion that no matter what I did, someone was going to be offended?
So, we sat, and we waited. The clock ticked from noon to one, and still no Mrs. Fields. Every time we heard a car engine outside, Tanya ran to part the curtains, sneaking a peek, but it was always a neighbor coming or going, or just a car passing by on the street.
We hashed out our plans for the next night, when the carnival would open to the public, but other than hold hands, stay together, try to get to the trailers, we really didn't have much to offer.
When Tanya jumped up for the dozenth time, I got up with her, and as she turned away from the curtains, frustrated and disappointed, I was there. She stepped into my embrace willingly, laid her head on my shoulder, and just let me hold her.
"Does she have an address book?" Crystal asked, and Tanya pushed back from me, sudden hope warring with embarrassment on her face.
"In her room, I think. Let me look," she said, rushing up the stairs.
"Go help her, John," Crystal said, trying on a smile.
Even a dumb kid like me could see the smile was fake, her eyes sad. "Crystal, I—"
"Don't," she said, holding up a hand. "This thing...whatever it was, whatever happened...it's not your fault, and I accept that."
"But I shouldn't have—"
"What? Brought me here? Maybe not, but you did, and we're safe. I'm grateful for that." Her voice softened. "Look, I know you didn't do anything with her. But I can see it when you look at her, and especially when she looks at you. You guys are—" she cleared her throat,” --there's a history between you, a story that isn't over yet. I think maybe the worst thing I could do would be to get in the way."
I didn't say anything for a moment, which she took for agreement.
"Now, go on up there and help her, have a moment with her, without worrying about what I'm thinking."
"Thanks," I whispered, and turned for the stairs.
Over the past four years, I'd spent many hours in this house, listening to music with Mrs. Fields--her Elvis collection was quite extensive--as well as just being with Tanya. Despite being in different schools in different cities, we both lived in Virginia, which meant there wasn't much variation from one school system to another in terms of what subjects were available when. What differed most was the method of teaching, the ways in which teachers explained things. On several occasions we discovered that one way of describing a mathematical concept, for example, made much more sense than another. The hurdle Tanya helped me over was finding a different method for factoring out a completed quadratic equation. My greatest contribution to her grades was helping her understand the change in tone of Samuel Coleridge's The Rime of the Ancient Mariner as a literary technique for building suspense within the poem.
I knew the inside of Tanya's bedroom as well as I knew my own, having spent hours sitting cross-legged on her beige carpet pouring through books, or watching a Sunday afternoon football game on her small Zenith. There were pillow fights and tickle torments, young kids responding to a physical drive they didn't know how to put into words. I knew she'd still have the picture of us, taken at the inter-studio competition the year after we'd met, sweat-soaked hair plastered to our heads as we both waved first place trophies (she won for the girls for her school, and I took the prize for the boys in my weight class in mine). We held hands, engaged in small talk, but despite being attracted to each other, despite being left alone together, neither of us ever initiated, or tried to initiate, anything further. Looking back, it's like we knew, somehow, that the time wasn't right. Maybe we weren't ready yet.
That's not to say the desire wasn't there. We were twelve when we met, just two kids who became friends, our easy camaraderie masking an undeniable attraction until we got a little older. By the time fourteen came around, well, while I can't speak to the female physiology, but I can be your witness and give you an Amen, Brother on how it feels to be a guy with all those hormones running through you. I give a lot of credit to our upbringing, having parents of strong moral character, having a solid peer group fellowship within the church, that prepared us to deal with certain temptations in such a way we never asked ourselves if we should do something, or if something was wrong. If you're brought up right, you don't need to be told some things. You just understand what is and what is not appropriate at certain ages.
Despite how often I'd visited, I’d never been inside Mrs. Fields' room, and the feeling of being a trespasser crept over me as I approached the door at the end of the hall. The beige carpet which covered the floor in Tanya's room and the guest room, as well as the hall, ended at the bedroom door. The room beyond was darker, despite the sunlight coming through the open curta
ins. Stepping through the doorway was like stepping backward in time, moving from the modern era to something from a previous generation. Dark gray shag carpeting covered the floor, and a matched set of furniture crafted out of some dark wood lined the walls. There was a four-poster bed with the high headboard and the fringed canopy following the edges of the upper frame, a highboy that must have been almost as tall as the woman who owned it, two nightstands, and an armoire. Sitting to the side, between the Jack and Jill closets, was a plain chest of drawers with several items prominent on the top: a framed picture of Mr. Fields from his days as a Marine Lieutenant, a shadowbox containing all of his medals and ribbons from his time in the service, and what looked like a very expensive shaving kit, all the items arrayed around the case like a display, or a shrine.
Tanya was at the highboy, rummaging in one of the smaller drawers on the upper portion of the bottom half. Removing a small vinyl notebook held closed by an attached rubber band, she turned and found me standing in the doorway, looking at the chest of drawers.
"That shaving kit was her wedding present to him," she said softly, padding silently across the thick carpet. She twined the fingers of her right hand through those on my left and led me to the chest. "She had the handle on the razor engraved, see?"
The straight razor was open about halfway, the blade gleaming dully on the dark wooden surface. The handle was of mahogany, glowing in the sunlight. On the side of the handle, turned so that it could be read from our position, were the words Anthony & Barbara Fields, Inc. est. 1968.
When I turned to look at her, she said, "Dad always said a marriage is only as good as the partnership between the parties, that once you stopped thinking like a partner, bad things would happen." Idly she reached out and stroked the fine hairs of the shaving brush. "Mom would laugh and make some quip about giving him 'the business' if he ever messed up."