grotesque thing heâd ever seen. Her skin was a transparent, slimy white and covered with open, runny abscesses. Her eyes were blue, but the whites of them were laced with red, and the look in them was pure hatred. She smiled at him; her mouth was full of sores and half her teeth were missing. The ones she had were yellow and pointed, like a vampireâs. She looked at him like she owned him.
He tried to push her away, but it was like pushing a brick wall. He tried to roll himself out from under her. She laughed, a howling, mocking laugh. The more he struggled, the louder the laugh became, until the woods were echoing with it. He screamed at her to leave him alone, and she stopped laughing. The silence was almost worse. She looked in his eyes, and he couldnât move. Somehow her gaze had the power to paralyze him. He couldnât do anything but watch as she wrapped her bony hands around his throat and started to squeeze. He tried to move, but he couldnât. He could feel her fingers digging into his throat with a strength that was not human. In seconds, he couldnât breathe at all. She started that laugh again, and as she leaned her head back to howl, he was suddenly able to move. He grabbed her hands, but her grip was like iron. He thrashed, trying desperately to throw her off him. He had to breathe. His chest felt like someone had run a hot knife through it. In a wild attempt that he knew would be his last, he summoned every ounce of strength and shoved himself to the side. Her grip slipped just enough, and he managed to shove her off and roll away. He sat up, gasping for air. He looked around quickly, to see where she was, and realized he was awake.
He sucked air into his lungs in visceral gasps. His eyes scanned the apartment. The late-morning sun was bright and he could see right away there was nothing wrong. He lay back down on the pillow and took deep breaths. His head felt like someone had it in a vise.
The phone rang, making him jump. He glanced at the clock. Christ, had he really slept until eleven? The machine picked up. He heard his own voice; the one that followed the beep was not Rickâs.
âYes, Iâm trying to locate a Mr. Jack Landry. This is Bill Warren at the Los Angeles County coronerâs office and I need you to return my call at your earliest convenience. The number here is (213) 343ââ
Jack turned the machine off, then stared at it in disbelief. There was only one reason heâd be getting a call from the Los Angeles County coronerâs office.
Cam is dead.
He didnât move for a long time. Just lay there, staring at the phone.
Cam is dead.
What the hell was he supposed to do about it? When he finally picked up the receiver, it was to call Rick and say he wasnât going to work at all this week, pretending he had the flu. Then he dressed and headed down the road, on the two-mile walk to the liquor store.
H e sat in the vacant lot behind the train depot, where he and Ethan and Tallen used to play. He took the pint of Jack Danielâs out of the paper bag and looked at it. Heâd felt as nervous buying it as a kid with a fake ID. He hadnât gone near alcohol in ten years, no matter how much heâd needed to escape, but heâd always told himself it would be there if things got bad enough, and that it would be okay as long as he was careful. He twisted the cap and broke the seal, and was halfway amazed that there was no ensuing thunderclap.
He opened the bottle and tilted it, letting half the contents spill onto the ground. He watched the copper pool soak into the dirt until he was satisfied the right amount remained in the bottleâenough to spread a soothing fog over him, but not enough to do any real damage. He put the bottle to his lips, paused for a moment, then tipped his head back and felt the welcome burn slide down his throat. A few minutes and a couple of ounces later, he let himself think about Cam.
What on earth
He tried to push her away, but it was like pushing a brick wall. He tried to roll himself out from under her. She laughed, a howling, mocking laugh. The more he struggled, the louder the laugh became, until the woods were echoing with it. He screamed at her to leave him alone, and she stopped laughing. The silence was almost worse. She looked in his eyes, and he couldnât move. Somehow her gaze had the power to paralyze him. He couldnât do anything but watch as she wrapped her bony hands around his throat and started to squeeze. He tried to move, but he couldnât. He could feel her fingers digging into his throat with a strength that was not human. In seconds, he couldnât breathe at all. She started that laugh again, and as she leaned her head back to howl, he was suddenly able to move. He grabbed her hands, but her grip was like iron. He thrashed, trying desperately to throw her off him. He had to breathe. His chest felt like someone had run a hot knife through it. In a wild attempt that he knew would be his last, he summoned every ounce of strength and shoved himself to the side. Her grip slipped just enough, and he managed to shove her off and roll away. He sat up, gasping for air. He looked around quickly, to see where she was, and realized he was awake.
He sucked air into his lungs in visceral gasps. His eyes scanned the apartment. The late-morning sun was bright and he could see right away there was nothing wrong. He lay back down on the pillow and took deep breaths. His head felt like someone had it in a vise.
The phone rang, making him jump. He glanced at the clock. Christ, had he really slept until eleven? The machine picked up. He heard his own voice; the one that followed the beep was not Rickâs.
âYes, Iâm trying to locate a Mr. Jack Landry. This is Bill Warren at the Los Angeles County coronerâs office and I need you to return my call at your earliest convenience. The number here is (213) 343ââ
Jack turned the machine off, then stared at it in disbelief. There was only one reason heâd be getting a call from the Los Angeles County coronerâs office.
Cam is dead.
He didnât move for a long time. Just lay there, staring at the phone.
Cam is dead.
What the hell was he supposed to do about it? When he finally picked up the receiver, it was to call Rick and say he wasnât going to work at all this week, pretending he had the flu. Then he dressed and headed down the road, on the two-mile walk to the liquor store.
H e sat in the vacant lot behind the train depot, where he and Ethan and Tallen used to play. He took the pint of Jack Danielâs out of the paper bag and looked at it. Heâd felt as nervous buying it as a kid with a fake ID. He hadnât gone near alcohol in ten years, no matter how much heâd needed to escape, but heâd always told himself it would be there if things got bad enough, and that it would be okay as long as he was careful. He twisted the cap and broke the seal, and was halfway amazed that there was no ensuing thunderclap.
He opened the bottle and tilted it, letting half the contents spill onto the ground. He watched the copper pool soak into the dirt until he was satisfied the right amount remained in the bottleâenough to spread a soothing fog over him, but not enough to do any real damage. He put the bottle to his lips, paused for a moment, then tipped his head back and felt the welcome burn slide down his throat. A few minutes and a couple of ounces later, he let himself think about Cam.
What on earth
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