by Stephen Cox
Snow floated down.
‘Don’t shoot,’ Pfeiffer said, but there was a hungry edge to his face Molly hated.
Cory raised his hands.
Molly felt his fear gust out of him, biting worse than the most bitter winter wind, as he reached deep inside himself and the nightmare poured forth. Here came the sea-monster, all burning blue tentacles and snapping claws. Cory brought the smell of salt water and the thick rotting stench of the sea-beast’s breath . . . Her heart and her throat knew it to be a real terror, a real threat, even though she knew it was a dream. To Cory it felt bigger than an elephant . . . and it liked to hunt people.
The light in the alley dimmed, Molly’s skin crawled and her stomach revolted.
‘No, Cory,’ she cried, ‘no!’ but he stood there, stretching out his empty hands as if they were shaping the nightmare.
‘Bad Men run away! Monster coming!’ he cried, in his high fluting voice. The soldier at the other end of the alley dropped the rifle. Pfeiffer clasped a respirator to his face and Dr Tyler had a coughing fit, but they all had their eyes fixed on the dream.
Cory launched the sea-monster forward at the Jeep and the driver shrieked, a strangely high sound; the gears clashed and suddenly the vehicle was backing out of the alley at speed.
‘Get in the car!’ Gene snapped.
Cory was still standing rigid, focusing his power. Her heart hammering, Molly picked him up and dragged him to the door, trying to ignore the dream crawling over her skin and into her mind—
—came a tropical storm, bringing down tall trees . . . preserved claws in a wooden building . . . a silver boat with feathered silver wings skimming over a lagoon . . . his fear at seeing one of the monsters, swimming just under the surface.
The Lincoln’s engine was purring steadily. They slammed the doors, Gene put it in gear and the car surged forward, heading after the retreating Jeep.
The soldier stood in their way, not moving.
Molly shrieked, ‘Gene!’ but he was already swerving, and thank the stars, the soldier finally leaped into life. The side-mirror clipped him, but they had no death on their hands.
So close, so close . . .
With a gasp, Cory stopped the dream.
Molly, praying hard to the Higher Power she didn’t believe in, saw the Jeep behind them had knocked over a mail-box. Someone was striding along the sidewalk towards the driver, shaking his head.
Cory shivered. ‘So-tried not to hurt . . .’
‘Good boy,’ Molly said, consoling him; at least he’d used less power than he had with the thugs, so maybe they wouldn’t be as traumatised.
The Lincoln slithered down a street of gabled homes aglow with Christmas cheer. They were close to the junction – but had the soldier radioed his superiors? How quickly would they all join the chase?
A truck passed, then a car, delaying them pulling out. In the side-mirror Molly could see headlights: the Jeep was back on the road.
‘Bad car come,’ Cory said, hands over his eyes. ‘Not enough, not enough . . . no-no.’
Gene’s big hands gripped the wheel and he took off onto the main road. Molly turned to see the Jeep was driving fast to catch them up, but horns blared from other cars: Amber Grove always expected courteous driving.
Now the Jeep swerved, ready to come alongside them and maybe even get in front of them. The soldier in the passenger seat was winding down a window; Molly could see the rifle. She didn’t think her heart could beat any faster. They would be forced to stop and then it would all be over . . .
‘Sorry Mom, Dad,’ said a tired voice. ‘Last puff.’
Even as her mouth opened to protest, Cory was kneeling up to the back window. He let his fear come out of him again, like the winter breathing out every horror it had.
‘No, Cory, don’t—’ Gene said, but his heart wasn’t in it either.
The dream-monster leaped into the Jeep, old and terrible and leather-skinned, claws that could rip the thickest wood. It lurked beneath the sea, stinking of ancient fish, and liked tender, intelligent flesh. Molly, hearing screams in her head, was struggling to tell the solid from the dream, but the four men locked in a moving box panicked completely, seeing and feeling a beast that wanted to rip their throats out; the Jeep spun out of control like death on skates.
Gene put his foot down and the Lincoln sped forwards, skidding a little on the curves. Molly looked back, fist to her mouth, dreading that the crashed Jeep meant deaths – but no, she could see the men staggering from the car and running, all the while angry horns blared and cars skidded, trying to avoid the crazy people in the middle of the road . . . then they rounded a bend and she could see no more.
Gene had never driven like this, let alone in these conditions. He skidded turning into a side road, clipping a mirror from a parked truck, and ran a red light heading for the highway.
Don’t crash, don’t crash, get us out in one piece. But Molly, looking back, couldn’t see anyone following.
‘Cory, are you okay?’ His inner eyelids were shut; he was barely awake. She opened their coats and hugged him close, trying to warm him, and wrapped the rough blanket that smelled of mothballs around them both.
What on all the planets in the galaxy are we going to do? Where will we go? Lizard-breath and weird winds and falling snow jumbled in her head.
Gene clicked his tongue. ‘We need to call Mom and Dad, head east, to the neighbours’ hideout . . .’
‘They’ll put out a description of the car, and us.’
‘I’m not stopping yet – we need to get further away. Lars gave me some different licence plates . . .’
‘That’s illegal,’ she said, and Gene began to laugh, a jagged, difficult laugh.
In an hour, she might find her comment funny too. She stroked Cory’s forehead but he still didn’t react. ‘Cory’s passed out. He’s exhausted.’ She hoped that was all it was.
Gene tried to look over his shoulder. ‘What can I do?’
‘Drive, eyes on the road.’
CHAPTER 30
Disguises
The snow came down on the highway like white folds of cloth. There was more traffic than Molly had expected. She held Cory and tried to ignore the tremor in her hands. I’ll never see the house again. Or Diane and Janice and Roy, or their children. Dr Jarman and Rosa Pearce. Every man’s hand is raised against us. Even now, the men of power would be flocking around her friends like crows to a wounded lamb. They were so many, and armed, and the Myers were so few.
After a long silence, Gene gestured at a baseball sticker on the windscreen. ‘Roy’s idea of a joke. If they catch us, hide the Red Sox decal. My family could never bear the shame.’
They pulled in at a gas station to find a phone. The sullen-looking bald guy at the cash register was buried deep in the sports section. Molly kept her hood up, got out her coins and found the payphone.
Trembling, Molly called the farm to warn them and got no answer, which might mean anything. Country folk go to bed early, she thought, but not this early. Perhaps they were with friends, or perhaps one of the pigs was ill.
She called the operator, who said, yes, all phones on the Amber Grove exchange were down. Then she flicked through the blue notebook which held every phone number she’d ever need to know. There wasn’t anyone in Bradleyburg she could trust, but she could warn Peggy Fell in Maine.
The phone rang out, with no reply.
She called the farm again and got nothing, and by now a fierce truck driver was waiting for the phone. The manager made a show of putting down his paper and glared at her.
With her hood still up, Molly got back into the car.
Gene, watching Cory from the driver’s seat, frowned. ‘He’s flat out. Should I try to wake him?’
‘Let him sleep. Try to find news on the radio.’
In this weather, a black FBI car
could get very close before you realised, or a truck might be on you before you saw that it was military. Even something as simple as using a toll road meant more witnesses.
‘Plenty of reasons why Mom and Dad mightn’t answer the phone,’ Gene said.
Over the next hour the roads got more treacherous and visibility worse, the driving snow obscuring wooden churches and scenic barns, metal bridges and stretches of highway named after long-dead politicians. The heater fought in vain to keep out the chill.
Time felt out of joint, but at last they reached the turn-off. These last miles would be slow work. The last gas station was dark and deserted, but its payphone was working.
The phone rang and rang and rang – and as she took the receiver from her ear, somebody picked up. ‘John,’ she gasped, ‘thank goodness you’re—’
But the man’s voice wasn’t John’s. ‘Myers place, Bill Burrowes speaking.’
She tensed, but remembered: the neighbour who lived two farms over.
‘Bill, it’s Molly. Are John and Eva there?’
‘Oh, Molly! Eva’s been taken ill – it’s her lungs. John’s taken her to Caffrey County General. They tried to reach you, but your phone was down. I came over to check on the animals.’
‘Right,’ she said, thinking fast. ‘Which ward?’
‘John’ll call and tell me when they’re sorted.’
A pause.
‘You could call the hospital. I have the number.’
She took it down with numb fingers.
‘Where are you?’ Burrowes asked.
Her mind whirred. She wasn’t sure, but could she hear something strained in Bill’s voice? Was someone listening beside the phone?
‘Do you need any help? Where are you?’ Burrowes repeated.
‘Gotta go – I hear something boiling over,’ she said at random and hung up, then ran back to the car.
Gene looked at her. ‘What happened?’
‘Bill Burrowes answered the phone. He said Eva’s lungs are bad, that John’s taken her to Caffrey General.’ As Gene’s eyes widened, she said quickly, ‘I don’t know, but he didn’t sound right.’
Grim-faced, Gene swore and started the car.
In Molly’s imagination, the old man was standing there with the FBI or the army at his shoulder. A nightmare, that Eva had stopped breathing at the shock of the FBI arriving.
Without asking, Gene turned south, towards Caffrey.
Molly felt tears coming, but she needed to be strong. She could weep later. ‘We can’t go to the hospital. It might be a trap.’
‘It doesn’t feel safe to hang around,’ Gene said. ‘There’s a motel somewhere along here.’
‘We should go to the house your folks told us to use.’
‘Bill knows it well. Suppose he tells the Feds?’
There was silence for a mile or two, but they needed to make some decisions.
‘I’ll call the hospital,’ Gene said at last, ‘but I’ll have to be really careful. They’re serious, the Feds, and moving very fast . . .’
Cory was worn out, and scared of using his nightmares. Molly thought the choice was clear. ‘John told me if things went down, to keep Cory safe. We can’t fight the government, so let’s head for Canada.’
Gene said, ‘I’ll call from the motel.’
‘We should just head north.’
‘We need Cory fit . . . you know . . . in case we need him.’
Cory was oblivious to the world whirling around him. Molly hoped this was tiredness, nothing more; that at least for now, he’d found happy dreams.
Outside the narrow strip of their headlights, all was darkness. The radio, turned very low, played the old Christmas tunes.
*
The Perfect Motel – Vacancies announced itself in neon pink. Gene parked between cars and trucks heavily encrusted with white. ‘You do the talking,’ he told her.
Molly prayed for the motel staff to be sleepy and not very talkative. As she opened the door, a gust of warm, stale air hit her. Wallpaper faded to grey and pink reminded her of her childhood. The woman behind the desk looked exhausted, but she still managed a smile. Behind her, under a large wooden cross, a TV with the sound turned low showed the news. The only brightness was a little Christmas tree, hung with lights and baubles.
Molly gave her grandmother’s name, and paid cash.
‘And where are you folks from?’
‘Bradleyburg. We’ve been visiting friends.’ Molly spun her tale, needing to get away.
The woman noticed Molly’s eyes flicking to the TV, where students were burning the flag against stock footage of a mushroom cloud.
‘These are dark times,’ she said, ‘these wars and riots. This’s what happens when we walk away from God.’
Molly had no time for that discussion. ‘Things are bad, sure enough, but there’s still hope,’ she said, and took the key.
It could’ve been any motel: three sides built around a square parking lot, two floors of rooms all the way round. Only a few lights were on. Gene carried Cory in his blanket up the stairs and into the faded, cramped space, but at least it was warm and when she smelled the sheets, they were clean. They put Cory to bed, then Gene checked the fire escape: a way out, but also a way the cops could come up.
He stood at the door, coat still done up, and hating herself for saying it, Molly said, ‘They can trace phone calls – please don’t phone the hospital.’
‘I’ll change the licence plates,’ he said.
The moment the door closed, Molly wished he hadn’t gone. Feeling bone-weary, she jammed a chair under the handle before producing two small bottles. Time to see if being a red-head works for me. She thought of the glamorous film stars of her youth.
She worried about Gene’s parents and their friends, who’d tried so hard to keep them safe. They’d surely seize them all. Little Bonnie would be in tears – and Roy might be wounded, maybe even be dead. Pfeiffer knew about the criminals who’d come after Cory; he could easily guess who else knew about them. Out there, outside this little room, she imagined the great gears of power turning to find the Myers and crush them.
They had nothing and no one they could mobilise against Pfeiffer and all he stood for.
She shouldn’t have let Gene go. She looked down on Cory sleeping and didn’t know what she could do if they came. She was sick with nerves by the time Gene got back, more than an hour later. He’d been far too long, and he had the shifty look of someone who had made a mistake.
‘Better shave,’ he said.
She remembered his high-school Year Book photo. She preferred the beard.
‘You called the hospital in Caffrey,’ she said. ‘Have you no sense at all? They’ll be after us . . .’
‘No, they won’t,’ he said, with his stubborn face. ‘I walked for miles and called from the payphone by the highway. I could tell at once I was getting special treatment. This nice lady, ever so talkative . . .’
She leaped up. ‘Keeping you talking . . . We need to leave, now!’
He went over to the sink, pulled a face at her bottles and ran the hot water.
‘It takes time to run a trace. Lars explained how long, so I hung up straight away.’
‘Next time you take a stupid risk, discuss it with me first.’ She felt so sick. They’d paid for the room with scarce cash.
‘We’re all my folks have – the Feds will assume we drove on.’
She could have hit him. ‘You don’t know that! Gene, this isn’t a cowboy movie – we can’t waltz into the hospital, put Cory in danger . . .’
‘I’m just suggesting we go to Caffrey, take a look, that’s all . . .’
‘And find they’re in hospital under armed guard . . . So what then? Ask Cory to hide us? The army knows about hiding now. They’ll have hundreds of people . . .’ She sighed. ‘It�
�s got to be Canada, Gene, first thing.’
For a time, there was silence between them, then she got up and took his hands. ‘I hate this, Gene, it feels like we’re letting them down. But the Feds will know we’re coming. Remember how tired and fragile Cory was after the thugs . . .’
‘Just a careful scouting expedition—’
Molly felt frustration rising. ‘Gene, what would John and Eva want? I can hear your dad now: Never you mind about us old ones, just skedaddle.’
He smiled at her imitation. ‘We’re all they have,’ he repeated, and she loved him for his loyalty. She had won the argument, though.
*
Someone shook her, a kind, strong hand. Molly didn’t remember getting into Cory’s bed; slowly, coming round, she worked out it was still the motel room. Gene, bleary-eyed, was standing over her. He’d pulled the drapes apart a little, but the sky was dark.
He looked so odd clean-shaven. I must get him something for the shaving-rash, she thought. He’d grown the beard to hide a neat scar under his chin, but she could barely see it.
‘Gotta go,’ he said.
Cory stirred enough to sniff a cookie with his tentacles. He ate that and drank a cup of water, all without opening his eyes. Molly felt his neck for temperature and stroked his ear for love.
‘We’re going to Canada,’ Gene said, sitting by him on the bed.
‘Where Grandpa and Grandma?’ he asked, rubbing his ears and eyes.
‘We don’t know right now, Big Stuff, but we need to go to Canada and we might need you to hide us.’
‘No, no, too-haaaard. Tooo tired,’ Cory said, pulling the blanket over his head.
‘Well, we’ll get some proper breakfast and drive somewhere new, with new sights, and I’m sure if you need to hide us . . .’
‘No,’ the blanket said, ‘too-too-tired to hide other people, so-hate running away. Hate scaring so-much, hurts people.’ He muttered in his own language.
‘You must get up, sweetie-pie, we’re going.’
Cory surfaced. His inner eyelids flicked open. ‘Where this?’