by Stephen Cox
Noises in the night
Molly jerked awake as suddenly as if she’d dropped from the ceiling. For moments, she couldn’t remember where she was, or when, but slowly memory returned: she was sleeping half-dressed in the double bed in the Hauser place by the lake. Gene snored, and she lay in Cory’s familiar warmth and smell.
The clock’s green glowing hands said one; the mysterious Pierre would be there at four to get them away to Canada. Go back to sleep, she told herself, but sleep would not come.
Maybe her cold feet had woken her? But thinking about it, she realised she’d heard something, a scraping, or a thump maybe. Had Eric escaped? Unlikely; Storm had produced handcuffs from somewhere – neither she nor Gene asked questions – and secured him to the metal-framed bed in Carol’s cabin, then locked the door. She’d take Storm’s competence over Eric’s any day.
She rose, shivering, and as she threw on her borrowed dressing gown there was a definite clink. I’m not imagining it. The noise was outside: a starving animal looking for garbage, perhaps? Her heart in her mouth, she teased back the drapes and peered through a chink in the shutter. The stars blazed, but there was no Moon.
The bedrooms looked south to the rising pines. Anything might be hiding there. They’d all been living off their nerves, jumping at every shadow, horribly alert to the terrible risk Eric had created. Maybe I should wake Gene . . .
She saw movement: something white down by the garage door – something or someone; it was as big as a man. The locked garage door was open. That was where their car was, and Eric’s.
Molly let the drapes fall, forcing herself to breathe. ‘Gene, Cory get up,’ she hissed, striding to the beds. ‘There’s a man outside.’
She shook Cory, deeply asleep. ‘Strangers! Get up, get up—’
It would be freezing outside; the cold would kill them if they fled half-dressed. She raced to put on boots and threw on a second sweater.
There was a crash downstairs – inside. A window, or a dropped tray of cups. In the silence it was as shocking as a bomb, but at least it woke Gene and Cory.
Gene groaned, his movements slow and addled as a drunk’s. ‘What— Where—’ He reached for the sidelight, but Molly slapped his hand away.
‘Get up! They’re in the house and the garage—’ But where were they? And how many? They had to warn Carol and Storm . . .
If there were soldiers in the garage, they couldn’t take the Lincoln . . . and they couldn’t run into the forest, not when they were miles from the nearest settlement.
Molly opened the bedroom door a fraction – and heard a squawked voice over a radio: ‘Detected – go go go!’
‘It’s soldiers. We’ve got to go. Cory?’
Cory was gone. Molly’s eyes darted around the room. Where is he?
Gene had laced up his boots, thrown on his coat and grabbed the bag. At least they’d learned that lesson: always be ready to run.
‘Cory, come out, please,’ Gene said. ‘We need you to hide us, okay, Big Stuff?’
A whistle cut open the night and they heard the roar of machinery, like several trucks approaching. They were coming along the lake shore.
Cory appeared in his coat, terrified and crouching, shivering. Molly pulled his hat on. ‘Just get us past the soldiers, sweetie-pie.’
‘No scaring, pleeese no-scaring, pleeese.’
There was another crash; that was the front door. There were soldiers in the house and trucks coming. An amplified bellow came from the snowscape outside: ‘Mr and Mrs Myers, this is Dr Pfeiffer. I can promise you the complete protection of the Federal Government. No one wants to hurt Cory. Please, give yourselves up.’
She slid back a window bolt, pushed the shutter a little ajar: spread confusion.
A stair-board creaked. They were very close.
At last Cory grabbed Molly’s hand and she felt the darkness strengthen. For some reason, this hiding felt strange; the darkness felt old, as if it had been here since before there were humans to be frightened of the dark. There was resentment, and hunger. The noise and the light retreated.
Cory had Gene’s hand too. Together, they walked to the bedroom door. At the top of the stairs were two soldiers in white snow-gear, their faces hidden in their inhuman masks. They had raised their guns and were pointing at the bedroom door, but they could see nothing. There were more soldiers behind them, judging from the racket.
‘Someone’s here,’ the lead soldier said. ‘Seal everything down and bring the dogs.’ His voice betrayed just a quiver.
They needed the back stairs. Molly could feel Cory’s heart pounding fifteen to the dozen, but he pulled them along, away from the soldiers. There were more banging noises downstairs; hard to tell if they were hammer-blows or shots. There was more radio static, and the enthusiastic yip of a dog.
Behind them, into the radio. ‘Confirm Target. Kids’ clothes. Both adults.’
Cory poured effort into hiding, turning the world into a cold black and white film. Dark, freezing night surrounded the cabin, but Molly refused to give up hope. If they could get out of the building, they might still escape. As long as they were free, there was still a chance.
At the top of the back staircase, Cory squeezed her hand, twice: Danger. Maybe he’d heard something at the bottom, or felt something with his mind. Behind her, two soldiers were staring down the corridor while others searched the bedrooms.
They ducked into the bathroom and with a sigh, Cory unhid them. Gene tucked a laundry rack under the door handle, a token gesture. Flickers of strong light came and went through the frosted-glass window: a searchlight through the shutters.
‘Dogs,’ Cory said, barely louder than a breath. ‘Many sowl-jers.’
‘There’s a net,’ Gene whispered.
Nets, of course, Molly thought. Nothing Cory can do will work on a net. The soldiers knew a little about what they were up against this time. She could hear banging from the porch side of the house now. They were closing in.
Cory was shivering from more than cold.
‘They’ll come up behind us and drive us into the net,’ Gene murmured.
‘Let’s jump out of the window,’ she said, astonished even as she said it. ‘The drifts are deep and it’s not that far. Then Cory can hide us.’
Gene frowned, but he opened the window and shutters as a red flare burst in the sky. There was light and commotion around Carol and Storm’s place too, and he heard rifle shots. More of their friends were in danger.
There was banging from the next room as the soldiers searched it. It was now or never. Gene lifted Cory onto the window ledge and whispered, ‘Jump, then hide.’
Gene helped Molly up – and a searchlight found her, dazzling her. She couldn’t see the ground and was worried about landing on Cory, but there was shouting now.
This might be the end.
She closed her eyes and half leaped, half fell. Her old gym teacher would have been appalled. She landed painfully, jolting her bones, and bit her tongue, the iron taste of blood filling her mouth, but then she felt Cory grabbing her and the discomfort didn’t matter.
He shuddered and the darkness and silence closed around them again. Molly became nothing but a beating heart, a blocked throat, a little dot of fear holding hands. There was too much going on, too confusing. She looked up to see Gene frozen in the window.
We’ve lost.
There was a lot of whistling, and dogs, at least half a dozen of them, black German shepherds barking as they raced towards them. Behind them were two armed soldiers.
‘Halt, or we fire,’ one shouted. The other was talking into the radio. ‘Sighted Male, upper window, no sign of Target.’
Gene fell like a sack of potatoes, swearing, and one of the dogs pounced on him, going for one arm, then another dog followed. He screamed, surprisingly high, and kicked out.
Cory unhi
d, screeching, ‘Help-Dad help-Dad—’
Her heart was breaking. ‘I can’t, Cory.’
One of the dogs was heading straight for Cory – dogs loved him normally, but these were hyped-up, fast, and mean. She moved to stand in front of him.
‘Bad dogs, Bad Men,’ Cory shouted, then his fear, his pain, his panic blossomed and she could feel the other power rising in him. He was only a frightened little boy – but his terror could help his family flee.
But she tried to stop him, reaching for his hand and murmuring, ‘No, Cory.’ Her throat was tight with fear.
Gene screamed again, and Cory’s fear strengthened. ‘Get ready run-run-run,’ he said.
Molly felt sick: her bladder tightened. She hated this . . .
Cory was inside her head, trying to protect her, as nightmare poured out of him, terror without reason. The stars in the sky became blazing stars in space, and here came the killers, the swift silver snakes that had destroyed Cory’s people: machines that hated life. Cory’s nightmare spawned one, and two, then three, headless, eyeless and vomiting blue flame: brutal killing machines that made no sense, his ultimate horror.
The dogs whined and scattered, leaving Gene moaning. The other dogs in the house howled like starving wolves.
Moving clumsily, the soldiers pointed their weapons up into the nightmare and blazed away, then Molly saw two snowmobiles, each carrying two people. On one was a shorter man, awkward as a civilian: Dr Pfeiffer.
Cory made the snakes swoop down and the machines swerved sharply to avoid them. Molly staggered over to Gene and helped him to his feet, wincing at the dark stains on his arms. A nurse keeps going. She had a first-aid kit; she could fix him up once they were away.
‘Run-run-run!’ Cory gasped. His panic took them and they fled towards the shore, staggering over the uneven ground, as fast as Gene could manage. The world was only fear; Cory’s panic was in charge. Molly didn’t know if they could be seen; she couldn’t focus on the vehicles or the yelping dogs or the soldiers, or the light trying to pinpoint them, or why there were fireworks rising from Carol’s cabin, and a truck on fire . . . All she knew was to keep running towards the lake.
The air was bitter, torturing her throat. The lake was frozen, and on the other side was deserted forest. Then she understood: Cory was going to run over the lake, but that was madness.
‘Get them, get them!’ bellowed Pfeiffer through a bull-horn. ‘Mr and Mrs Myers . . .’
Black ice was the safest, but colour alone was no proof of safety. Snow-covered ice was the most treacherous. They would be better walking one at a time, far safer not doing it at all.
Ice creaked under their feet and they skidded, until they fell into a rhythm, slide and step, not unlike skating. Under them was freezing water that would kill them; behind them were trigger-happy soldiers. Someone was shouting orders on the icy wind. Her poor, naïve boy, to think that the soldiers would simply wait on the shore.
Under the brutal stars and the strange wind, she remembered Storm saying, ‘The ice can be thick enough to hold a truck and fifty yards on, a small child will plunge straight through it.’ Would they dare risk the snowmobiles on the ice?
Even through Cory’s intense fear, Molly became aware of a clattering noise becoming stronger. A searchlight found them and she realised Dr Pfeiffer had brought a helicopter.
Even if they got across the lake, the helicopter could follow them. And Cory, already exhausted, could not hide them for ever.
Press onwards. The snowmobiles had stopped at the shore but soldiers in snowshoes had started following them. At least running onto the ice had reduced the numbers after them.
Creak. Crack. Was this how this wonderful adventure with Cory would end? With them drowned under the ice? The helicopter was heading for them, and Cory was wheezing and coughing.
‘Hide, Cory,’ she begged, but he was shaking his head.
‘Bad helicopter.’
From out of the darkness came the dream of the sea-monster, old and sharp-clawed and hungry. Cory trilled his alarm, his scream, as it brought up its foul stench of death and salt water and launched the nightmare into the helicopter. For all his fear, he did so with precision; the creature swarmed around the pilot and the man beside him and somehow Molly felt their panic and saw the machine drop almost to the ice . . .
If it broke the ice, they were all doomed . . . but the steely pilot took control and the helicopter lurched up and started zigzagging, to avoid an unreal enemy.
The monster’s smell hit her and her guts revolted, her nose and throat filling with burning acid. She slipped and fell to one knee, vomiting, unable to walk. The smell stuck in her head and she wanted to cough up her stomach, or die trying. Ice creaked beneath her, a proper cracking sound now, and she was sure it would betray her.
Then the net fell from the sky, pinning Cory and her under it. The soldiers edged towards them, careful and slow, rifles pointed, but Cory was utterly terrified, no longer in control, and the wind on the iced lake became the screaming of air leaving the wounded spaceship, the shriek of all his people dying. At the edge of his consciousness were the demonic silver snakes, and there was the star-ship, ripped into pieces. Each death was a vicious pain in his chest.
Gene crouched beside her to help her up, but Cory couldn’t move.
‘Grab Cory and go,’ she ordered as somewhere in the nightmare, she felt what Cory did: a soldier’s heart stopped beating, another fought for breath. It felt like the nightmare draining Cory would suck him into the darkness of all those deaths and take those soldiers with him.
But then men wearing snowshoes were upon them and one knocked Gene down with his rifle.
Cory tried, one last effort, but it was just a confusion of images and feelings, too wide, too thin, and then it was over, Cory coughed, his power died in a moment, and he went out like a little candle.
Molly felt nothing but his faint, sweet, herby breath.
He’s dying! My son is dying . . . She kept her face near his to check his breathing. A soldier brutally gripped her arm and tried to pull her away, but there was Pfeiffer, bare-faced and shivering, standing like a little boy among men.
He barked, ‘Let her go!’ and knelt at Molly’s side. ‘Is he hurt? Mrs Myers, what’s wrong? What do we need to do?’
‘I’ve no idea, damn you,’ she said, but she was too sick and too scared to fight anymore, even for those she loved more than her own life. Gene was bleeding, she was covered in vomit and her little boy lay cold and inert in her arms. Shaking, shocked, unearthly cold, she was empty and frightened and beaten.
‘Medical back-up, right here, now!’ Pfeiffer shouted. ‘Some of the men are hurt too.’ His voice was full of awe. ‘I said it worked on the mind – I told them. Extraordinary—’
Molly was full of rage against Pfeiffer and all his works, but even her overwhelming fury would not rescue them from defeat.
CHAPTER 38
The bigger picture
They bundled the captives into a military ambulance and handcuffed Gene to a gurney while Dr Pfeiffer engaged in some shouted, bitter argument right outside the vehicle. The Myers were outnumbered by the military nurses and soldiers crammed in with them. One of the nurses stared at Cory as if he were a bomb about to explode. How unprofessional, Molly thought sharply, putting her fingers behind Cory’s neck to take his temperature, then checking his thready pulse again. Where was his St Christopher, Rosa’s most precious gift?
Gene swore at the other nurse who was patching his head and cleaning up the dog-bites, demanding, ‘Let me see my son!’
‘Well, I’m sorry,’ Pfeiffer snapped to his unseen opponent, and levered himself up into the ambulance. In the harsh light, she could see he was red-eyed and unshaven. He grabbed a stanchion as the vehicle lurched forward, then lowered himself onto a stool beside Cory, who was lying limp and still on the gurney. ‘Well, t
he captain wanted to shoot him. At least I see the bigger picture. Mrs Myers, please, tell us what’s wrong. Tell us what you need.’
‘He’s too cold. We need to warm him up. His pulse is too weak. I need Dr Jarman. And Cory’s drugs; they’re in my bag. Get them.’
‘I’m a qualified physician myself,’ said Pfeiffer, irritated, ‘and Cory is my patient. I will do everything in my power to help him. Has this happened before? Tell me what I can do.’
The truck was lurching, not climbing, Molly noticed, so they weren’t going up the steep trail. They must be going the lakeside route – but it didn’t matter; there would be no rescue attempt. She needed to focus on her son.
‘Molly’s ill too,’ Gene broke in. ‘You need to help her. Let me over there.’
‘Only one of you beside it at a time,’ said the nearest soldier, fingering his rifle in a threatening way. ‘Orders.’
‘Well, Dr Doomsday can change the order.’
Cory’s nurse produced hot water bottles and blankets. ‘As soon as we’ve sorted it . . . er . . . the patient . . . we’ll clean you up, Mrs Myers.’ How cold and hostile the woman was.
Cory’s shallow breathing brought back all those memories of the times he’d nearly died.
‘What’s wrong?’ Pfeiffer repeated.
‘I’ve no idea! You send armed soldiers to arrest one little boy and now he’s collapsed – are you surprised? No wonder he’s so terrified – I’ll see you never practise medicine again—’
‘Mrs Myers, if it hadn’t been for me, the military would have used stun-grenades, tear gas and anaesthetic darts,’ Pfeiffer said. ‘I have spent days fighting for as little force to be used as possible. Cory’s far too important to be harmed and far too important to lose.’ He held up a shackle on a length of bright new chain.
‘You will not chain him like an animal,’ Gene raged, but he was impotent.
Molly could do Pfeiffer some serious damage with her nails, her fists, her teeth . . . but she had a gun pointed at her chest.