"Do you think we could be going in circles?"
Chris was brought from his thoughts by the sudden question. He felt Lynn's hand tighten.
"I think I need to stop for just a few minutes. I just need a quick rest - all this walking is way more than I'm used to. The most exercise I usually get is when I go shopping at the mall." Lynn's laugh sounded forced. "My feet are really killing me."
Chris stopped with her and let go of her hand, the lack of contact bringing with it a heightened sense of claustrophobic forlornness as the darkness itself seemed to be pressing in on all sides. Constricting, suffocating. It was too easy to imagine there was nothing but the blackness - Lynn wasn't there, nothing was. Too easy to imagine that he was not only hopelessly lost, but, worse, that he was lost alone.
"I'm hoping that we're going in as straight a line as we can." Chris spoke more to break the consummate silence than to truly answer Lynn’s original question. "I think I read somewhere or saw something on TV about being lost in the woods. It said that people have a tendency to veer slightly to the left or right over a period of time depending on whether or not they're left or right-handed. I'm not really sure how we could try to make up for that. Like maybe purposely go a little bit left if we're both right-handed. But it seems like there'd be a big chance of us over-doing it and ending up going too far left. Kind of a catch 22."
Chris laughed dryly. "If that's any kind of answer." He sat down slowly, his legs having become prone to a surprisingly diverse array of tingles and pains.
"So I guess we're probably screwed either way, right?" Lynn asked. "Damned if we do, damned if we don't. If we're going in circles, that would maybe explain why we haven't come to a wall or anything yet, though, right?"
"That could make sense, yeah." Chris said slowly, again feeling he wasn’t being fully honest. "But I don't really know how we can avoid that. I'd be wishing we had a compass if it wouldn't be impossible to see where it pointed."
Lynn did laugh then, and he was surprised how comforting such a sound could be.
"Can't win for losing." She said. "That's what my mom says. 'Can't win for losing.' It's pretty much the story of my life. When everything goes wrong, it really goes wrong. So in other words, when I'm screwed, I'm really screwed."
Chris grinned in spite of himself. "I can sympathize - it's pretty much the same way for me. I'd like to think it's that way for everybody - that everybody's got the same terrible luck, but I think that's probably just wishful thinking."
"I don't know. For some people everything just seems to always work for them. No matter what they do, things just go their way. It's so annoying - I have to work so hard to get things to work for me. And then something like this happens, and who the hell knows what's going to happen now."
Lynn's tone took on a suddenly very serious edge. "So what do you think? Think we're screwed pretty bad? Fucked, really. Fucked pretty bad?"
Chris wished for what must have been the thousandth time in the past hours that he could see her face. Wished he could read her better to gauge just how honest he should be in his answers, how many of his own doubts he should simply keep to himself.
"We're both going to get out of here." He said. "We're going to stick together and figure this out. Find whoever's put us here and do whatever we can to help them get what they're after as far as money or whatever goes. I don't know why they've put us in this place, instead of somewhere where they can communicate with us or keep a better eye on us, but they'll have to deal with us sooner or later."
"They have to feed us sometime, don't they?" Lynn asked. "I mean we haven't eaten."
Something tugged at him, something sparked by Lynn’s words, but Chris’s conscious mind refused to acknowledge it – shoving it back into the deeper recesses of his thought.
"They'll have to make contact with us at some point.” He said. “We're not worth anything to them dead."
Or are we? Are you really so sure about that? Because you know what they say about making assumptions, don't ya, ol’ boy? To assume is to make an ass of u and me.
"I hope they can find us." Lynn said. "This place is too big. I don't understand how it can be so big without walls and stuff. I can't even tell if we're inside for sure or not - if we are it's got to be one of the biggest buildings in the world or something. Maybe it's just because there's no light. I don't know. I don’t understand how it can be so dark. It's so weird."
"We just have to keep walking.” Chris said. “We'll rest for a few minutes and then keep going. Do you feel ok?"
"I'm fine - I just needed to sit down for a few seconds. Sorry. I'm ready to start walking again if you are. I don't want to slow you down."
"No. No, don't worry about that. If you need a rest, you need a rest." Chris took a deep breath and settled into a more comfortable position. "I'm probably going to end up needing more breaks than you do. I'm not young anymore."
He laughed softly. "You could ask any of my kids and they would tell you. I'm getting to be pretty ancient. Gray hair and everything. I can remember whenever Sarah used to count how many gray hairs she could find on my head. She doesn't do it anymore - there's too many."
"If we get out of here, I'll help you convince your wife into letting you dye it just once to see what you think of it."
"You mean when we get out of here." Chris spoke in the same tone that he used whenever he assured his daughter that the monsters under her bed weren't real. Full of confidence - no room for argument. He found himself tracing and retracing the contour of his wedding ring with the tip of one finger. "We're going to get out of here. I'm going to get back to my family, and you're going to get the chance to hear your boyfriend tell you just how badly he freaked when you went missing. Tell you how much he worried about you."
"Yeah, I know." Lynn said. Chris could hear the confidence build in her voice as if in an effort to match his own. "That's what I meant. When we get out of here. We're going to dye your hair. I think your wife would probably love it."
"Dye it?" He frowned. The idea had never crossed his mind. "Guys don't dye their hair. Do they?"
Lynn sounded amused. "C'mon - there's got to be guys that you know who are at least your age or older who don't have gray in their hair, right?"
"I don't know." The concept was completely foreign to Chris. "I guess I don't pay a lot of attention to hair."
"You said you’re a writer for a newspaper?"
Chris grunted. "Columnist, editor, occasional reporter.” He answered. “I even do a Sunday comic strip. I guess you could say I’m a jack of all trades and a master of none. Something to that effect. ”
"Well, I would bet that at least half of the guys you work with over the age of forty dye their hair. At least."
Chris grunted. "I'd have to take your word for that. Never really thought about it."
"I know a lot about that kind of thing - my sister's a hairstylist. She's really good."
There was silence for a few minutes and Chris wondered how well Lynn was really holding out - wondered how long she could hold up if nothing about their situation changed. If they didn't find the ray of sunshine. He stood up slowly.
"I feel like getting moving again. You up for it?" He asked.
"Sure." Lynn said. "Just waiting on you, old man."
Chris grunted.
The passage of time began to seem an increasingly abstract idea to Chris as he and Lynn walked. He knew that with every step he took in the darkness another few seconds passed, but when the seconds turned to minutes and where the minutes became hours was impossible for him to gauge. Events began to meld together in a mindlessly monotonous cycle. They would walk until either of them suggested a rest, then pause for a few minutes before starting again. Sleep was a welcome escape, but came at erratic intervals and usually only lasted for what Chris guessed to be a few hours. It was nearly impossible to sleep with any kind of comfort on the glass-like ground.
A kind of mental fatigue began to limit what Chris would allow himself to rehash in his mind's eye. The questions that had been so important for him to answer slowly faded to the back of his thoughts, their priority dulled by his inability to answer them. Thoughts of his family had become his driving motivation, coupled with a self-inflicted sense of responsibility for Lynn's fate. He prodded her on with a feigned confidence in the fact that, if they kept moving, they would eventually find something that could provide them with answers.
There was an unspoken agreement between them not to talk about the details of their quandary that seemed to defy any logical explanation. Talking about those items had begun to seem as pointless to them as chasing their own tails, but that did little to change the fact that those inexplicable realities were still there - staring them tauntingly in the face. They were two people who had been forced into a seemingly impossible world of night, and the instinct to simply withdraw into themselves and wait - wait for The Grand Explanation that would make everything alright again - slowly overtook them.
They talked for hours on end at first, but as time wore on their conversation became more intermittent as they both struggled with their own growing demons. Speech became a tool they used to keep track of each other in the darkness and little more - relating stories of their families and pasts becoming increasingly painful as doubts gradually gnawed away at waning hope. It became impossible for them to think that they had been walking for any less than a few days, and one fact in particular hit Chris harder than any other.
He heard Lynn remark shortly after one of their fitful sleep sessions that she needed a drink, and the realization that had been lurking at the edge of his thoughts finally forced itself to be heard.
When was the last time you had something to eat, ol' boy? When was the last time Lynn had anything to eat - anything to drink? Days? He struggled to remember exactly what and how much he had eaten before falling asleep in his own bed that night, but the details had little bearing. Chris wasn't hungry. Hadn't been hungry since waking up to find himself lost. He hadn't eaten for days, but wasn't growing weaker - wasn't feeling any type of hunger pains.
Like a dead man. Only a dead man doesn't need food. Ladies and gentlemen, let me direct your attention to curtain number three. We have a modern mutation, a sort of freak for you. He walks, he talks, he goes for days on end, but guess what? He never needs food. Yes that's right, folks. He runs on empty all day long, and for only a few cents more he'll sing you a song.
"Lynn. Lynn? I need to stop for a few seconds. Sorry. Feeling a little dizzy for some reason."
I'm either morphing into Superman or I'm dead. Have to love those options, don't ya, ol’ boy?
And then, as they paused, he heard the noise. The damned noise. Lynn's noise. A kind of howl that brought goose bumps out on his arms. He could hear it, too, and Lynn had been right.
Sounds like a wolf. Or maybe more than one. Christ. I'm going crazy. I've seriously lost my damned mind.
"Oh God. Did you hear that? Please say you heard that. Oh my God. Oh my God, I want to go home so bad. I want to get out of here, Chris. Please. We've got to get out of here."
"Yes, I heard it." He whispered. "But it doesn't sound like a wolf."
He didn't know why he was lying, didn't know why he felt so much guilt whenever he heard the stark, naked fear in Lynn's voice. He clutched his head in both hands. He couldn't see the world spinning, but he could feel it. He fought off the growing urge to vomit.
"It sounds more like a factory siren, or a few of them, going off." He said.
A factory siren? He laughed dryly to himself. Is that the best you can do? Do you even know what that is?
"And whatever it is,” he continued, “it's a long way off. It's so silent in this place that we could be hearing it from miles away."
"But it sounds closer than it did." Lynn was almost whining. "It's getting closer. Oh God, it's moving closer. What if it's following us? We have to get out of here. Come on. Please? We have to get moving again. We have to walk faster."
Chris found that he was actually growing angry. Why did he feel such an overwhelming responsibility for her? Why was Lynn even his problem?
Christ. I've got enough problems of my own. I might be dead, and to top that off nicely , I'm getting dizzy spells. Here’s the pop quiz question of the day. Do dead men hurl?
He heard the soft sound of footsteps leading away from him. Lynn was moving again.
"Lynn." He said. Then louder, "Lynn, you've got to relax. I need a second here. I feel like I'm about to puke, and everything's spinning. I don't know what's wrong with me. Give me just a second. It's not a wolf - it's something else and it's a long way off."
"Chris, we have to go now." Lynn practically hissed the demand. There was a fierceness in her voice then that caught Chris off guard. "It's getting closer. I know it. It's following us - it could be chasing us right now."
He heard the footsteps again, and realized she wouldn't wait for him. He stood slowly - his sense of balance seeming to have all but abandoned him.
"Lynn?" And then he was shouting as he lost his footing and fell to his knees. "Lynn! Lynn, wait! We can't lose each other. We can't let ourselves get separated."
But she wasn't listening - the footsteps were disappearing. Chris struggled to stand again.
Damn it, what's wrong with me? Get up and follow her. Shit. You're going to lose her.
A sound - low and guttural - reached him, and he froze. He sank back to his knees slowly. He could feel the beads of sweat forming on his forehead.
It had sounded like a growl. A growl from someplace very close.
Shit. He thought. Shit. What the hell is going on? Christ. This can't be happening. What if she was right? A wolf. But how did it get so close so fast? More than one of them, maybe?
A bead of sweat rolled lazily down the left side of his face, but he made no move to wipe it. Something primal had taken control, a set of instincts he might have been hard pressed to believe he even possessed. He didn't move a muscle as he waited, his ears straining to pick up anything they could.
This is insane. There's nothing out there. There can't be anything out there. How could a wolf or anything like one even survive in a place like this? We're losing our minds. Hearing things.
And then the hair at the nape of his neck stood as he heard the scream. Lynn's scream.
Oh fuck. Oh Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ. I lost her. I let her leave me behind and now- Christ. Please don't let me be too late. Don't let me be too late.
He was on his feet before the scream had ended. He threw himself forward in the direction from which the piercing sound had come - somehow managing a clumsy run for at least a dozen yards before he fell again. His balance was gradually returning to him, but it was going to be too late.
Lynn! Oh God, Lynn. Why did you run? Why did you have to run on your own?
"Lynn! Lynn, I'm coming!"Chris could hear the raging panic in his own voice. He heard Lynn begin to scream again, and, unable to regain his feet, continued toward the sound at a crawl. He felt a wave of sickening disbelief as her screams carried on.
This can't be happening. Please don't let her be hurt. I'm going to be too late. Whoever's listening, please. Don't let her be hurt.
Lynn's screams were getting closer and no longer sounded as if they were borne only of terror. Her shrieks seemed filled with something else then. Agony. Something was hurting her. Chris pushed himself as fast as he could, his knees pounding the ground painfully as he crawled.
"Lynn, I'm coming! I'm almost there. Fight it! Fucking fight it!"
The last scream Chris heard from her was so distorted it was almost unrecognizable as a human sound. The three words that ripped from his throat as he heard her voice become garbled before going silent carried with them a desperation fueled by guilt. Guilt that he had allowed himself to fall so far behind her.
"Nooo! Lynn! Lynn?"
Chris was still crawling, but there was no sound from Lynn. The same low, guttural growl that he had heard before repeated itself. He refused to even so much as slow his pace, despite the fact that it had sounded as if he was, in fact, definitely moving in the direction from which the growling had originated. As the thought that perhaps he had missed Lynn in the darkness crossed him, he felt his hands land in a puddle. A small puddle of something warm.
Chris didn't want to ask the question - didn't want to know.
And then as he tumbled forward - his hands slipping in the liquid - he fell into her. He fell into Lynn, and she was warm. No. Not warm. She was covered in warmth. Chris recognized the smell of blood and felt something beyond horror, beyond disbelief. He had fallen flat in the puddle
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
the puddle of something warm and red and oh yes still almost alive
and his head had impacted with her chest. Only Chris couldn't tell that it was a chest. It was something else. It was what was left.
Oh fuck. Fuck. Fuck. My head's inside of her chest, isn't it? Oh Christ. No.
He tried to scream. He couldn't.
"No. No. No." He seemed only to be able to whisper.
He realized that her blood had begun to soak into his shirt as he laid there. He scrambled to get his hands beneath him again and pushed himself back onto his knees - pushed himself away from Lynn.
No, not Lynn. What's left of Lynn.
He began to dry heave uncontrollably.
I'm not going to be able to handle this. I'm not going to be able to. I'm going to lose it. Right here, right now. Elvis is about to leave the building, folks. Just as soon as he finishes puking up an empty stomach.
The growl sounded so close that it could have been less than a yard away.
Chris clamped his mouth shut in an effort at cutting off some of the noise he was making as his stomach attempted to return whatever it held.
Yeah, that's right. I'm too close to your new kill for you to eat comfortably, is that it? Or maybe you don't think she's enough for you. Maybe you're a little bigger than that. Maybe it would take both of us to make up enough for a real meal?
Another dry heave racked him as he struggled to remain as motionless as possible. He heard the growl again just before he felt the rush of air hit him, followed by the weight of the wolf's body against his side.
Claws ripped into his right arm and sent him rolling to his left. A blanket of sheer, white pain flooded his brain. And then there was a huge weight on his chest, accompanied by a smell. A raw, sweaty stench. The growl came again - this time so close Chris knew it had come from mere inches above his face.
You bitch. Get the fuck off of me.
Chris balled his hands into fists and brought them up and in towards each other with as much force as he could. He felt them connect with either side of the wolf's head, but realized that such a strike would likely do little damage.
"Bitch!" He screamed and shoved his hands upward into the animal’s body with everything he had. The wolf seemed to back off of him more of its own accord than anything else.
Maybe I actually hurt it. Maybe the fucker didn't like having its skull sandwiched. Or maybe I’m delusional.
He moved as quickly as he could. Pushing himself up off of his back, he swung his right fist out in front of him and connected with something heavy and big - something that very much wanted to kill him. He rolled forward onto his knees and grabbed with both hands. There was an incredibly sharp, deep burst of pain in his left hand, and he realized that the wolf had his palm between its teeth. His right hand had found purchase, though. He grabbed a handful or warm, sweaty fur and continued rolling forward until he fell on top of the animal - wrestling it down.
The wolf growled under him and sank its teeth deeper into his hand. Chris screamed. He felt claws shred into his chest. He had the wolf mounted, its torso pinned between his knees.
Come on, bitch. You fucking killed her. You want me, too? I’m going to make you work for it. Where the hell did you even come from? You belong in this place even less than we do.
He pulled his upper body up and swung down with his right fist. It connected with the wolf's head, and the animal released his left hand from its jaws. Chris ignored the searing pain he felt in the wounded extremity and began to pummel what he hoped was the animal's head with both fists.
He barely registered the fact that he was screaming.
"You bitch! You killed her! You fucking killed her!"
The wolf's midsection seemed effectively trapped beneath him, its paws clawing upward clumsily. Chris brought both hands up over his head, balled them together, and brought them down with as much weight as he could throw behind them. He heard perhaps the most satisfying sound of his life - a dull crunch as his hands connected with bone and skull.
He screamed wordlessly as he brought his fists down onto the thing's head and chest again and again. Bones gave way. He could feel its blood on him - could feel it spraying up into his face. His hands were covered in warmth, but he continued to hammer his fists into the now nearly motionless form beneath him. More crunching, more wetness as blood pooled around his knees.
Chris couldn't have said how long he continued like that. He didn't stop until there was no more bone to break, no more sound whenever his fists came down onto the wolf's remains. Blood covered him. Even then he would not stop screaming - could not. At some point he lost his voice.
The darkness caved in around him - the smell and feel of blood and death all that he could grasp. Any type of logical thought eluded him until at last he rolled off of the animal and allowed himself to drift. One series of thoughts repeated themselves endlessly until he found his own brand of bliss in sleep.
Lynn... Lynn, I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry.
Chris's dreams were intermittent. The throbbing pain in his hand refused to allow him to fall into deep sleep for long, and so he drifted in and out of his dreams with a strange detachment - at points realizing in some offhanded way that what he was seeing and feeling had no real substance. He was almost aware that he was dreaming, yet he did not wake.
He was standing in his kitchen. His wife was speaking to him from across the room.
"Can you take out the trash?" She asked him. "Just be careful. We can't let them in the house."
Yes, the wolves. There were wolves outside, weren't there?
Chris could see outside the kitchen window - the one above the sink. It was dark outside. Night.
Laura walked across the kitchen to him, and in the dream he wanted to watch her forever. Some part of him knew - knew that the sight of her was something that he should cling to. But it was a dream, and, as in life, it was impossible to stop it. Impossible to hit a pause button, or freeze a frame of it to watch again. She had been holding something, and as she approached him she handed it to him. A broom.
"Here, you can use this.” She told him. “Take it with you. Just please don't let them in the house."
Chris could see the fear in her eyes. She was afraid of the wolves, but the trash had to be taken out. Because it was a dream, and in dreams the rules are always different.
He was holding the trash bag in one hand, and the broom in another as he walked towards the front door. The door to their home - the door that led outside. He opened it and stepped out into the night.
He stood in his front yard, on the concrete walkway that led to the front gate. He could feel them - the wolves. They were there, hiding in the darkness. More than one, maybe a dozen. They were there and they were waiting. Waiting for him - waiting for a chance to get into the house. Because there were children in the house. Easy hunting. Easy meat.
Chris had closed the door behind him, though. There was no way for them to get in.
His family was safe. And so he began to cross the yard, knowing that the animals would inevitably make their move. The trash had to be taken out, and so he kept walking. He could see the garbage bin, then, about a yard outside the front fence. He only needed to get through the gate.
He was halfway across the lawn before he saw the first one. It was running at him across the grass from the driveway - teeth barred, yellow eyes reflecting the moon's light. Evil seemed to radiate from it. Like heat coming off of the old space heater that had kept his room warm at night when he was a kid. Oddly, he found that he felt no fear. The predator couldn't get into the house, couldn't hurt his family. Whatever happened to him, they were safe.
Chris swung the broom at the wolf's head as it leapt the last couple of feet at him, and saw it connect. He watched it fall, but there were more, and they kept coming. Rushing at him from all sides, then. Materializing out of the night.
Chris fought them one by one as they charged. Even in the dream, he knew he would lose. They would keep coming and eventually the inevitable would happen and he would be overrun. He fought his way towards the gate until he fell. Until he knew that he had lost.
The dream shifted, and the wolves were gone.
He was standing at the intersection of Farlane St. and MacBeth Avenue, waiting for the light to change so that he could cross. He hadn't crossed the intersection in nearly twenty-two years, but it looked the same to him then as it had when he was 10.
Perhaps he was ten again. He checked both ways, but the traffic was non-existent. The streets were abandoned, and the air itself felt strange. It was the town that he had grown up in, and it was the same intersection that he had stood at hundreds of times before. And yet it wasn't.
Chris recognized that he was downtown, and from where he stood unbroken rows of buildings were visible lining both sides of the two intersecting streets as far as he could see. There was the old hardware store - one of the oldest shops in town from what his grandmother had often told him. A cake shop, a small sporting goods store, and a dozen other small businesses that made up the heart of the growing town were easily visible from the intersection. The light had changed, and so he crossed - being careful to stay within the white lines that marked the cross-way. His father had impressed the Rules for Walking upon him in such a manner as to make it seem almost a sin to break even one, and had made Chris memorize them word for word before finally agreeing to allow him to walk downtown on his own.
As when he had walked that way when he was a boy, Chris had only one place in mind. Farmer's Drugstore stood across the intersection and three shops to the left. Large glass windows surrounding a glass door and a clean, whitewashed front had always given the place a classier look to him than many of the shops that stood beside it. Farmer's Drugstore wasn't only a place that he had walked to occasionally - it had been Chris's favorite place to be throughout most of his teens.
The dream slipped quickly, and he was opening the glass door at the drugstore’s front and stepping inside within seconds of crossing the street. The bell rang as he entered, and the feel of the place gave the sensation of stepping into a completely different world to him just as it always had. Chris passed the candy rack and toy aisle with not much more than a glance. At a different time he might have given them a closer going-over, but on this trip he made a beeline for his favorite part of the store.
The comic book section took up nearly an entire corner of racks near the back of the place, the drugstore’s owner having been an avid comic book reader himself. Row upon row of the colorfully illustrated publishings lined the rotating racks and screamed to be read. The characters that claimed the lead roles in the majority of his boyhood fantasies were all there in one place. He had spent so many hours each week poring over the rows of comic books that the owner had even had a cushioned chair placed in the corner especially for him.
Chris walked over to one of the racks and reached for one of the first comics that caught his eye.
"You shouldn't be here, Chris."
He knew the owner of the voice that had spoken instantly, and he turned to find the man towering over him with a look of unmistakable concern on his old face. Mr. Farmer had been the subject of many good-natured tales when Chris and his friends had had nothing better to do than amuse themselves with stories that were very rarely based on any type of fact. He had been the old man who always had a smile for any one of them who might have wondered into his store on a given day - the old man who hadn't minded giving them discounts on candy or comic books when they had been short a few cents. Dressed in his usual white sales apron over denim overalls, the sight of Mr. Farmer would have brought a grin from an adolescent Chris on most days, but this particular trip to Farmer’s Drugstore was shaping up very differently than any prior visit.
Chris felt a wave of dread wash over him upon seeing the expression on the old man's face then. He had never seen Mr. Farmer look so anxious.
"It's dangerous for you to be here today." The man said. "You can come back and look another day, but I think today you had better get back home, Chris. Get back home to your parents."
Mr. Farmer looked past Chris toward the large glass windows at the store’s front. Looked out onto the street.
"I think you should run, Chris. Run home as fast as you can, and when you get there, bolt the door behind you. It's not a good time to be out and about." There was something more than mere concern written on the old man’s face as he spoke, and Chris recognized it as fear. "It's not a good time at all."
Please not here. Why does there have to be fear here? This place was my sanctuary. Of all places, why can't I be safe here?
Chris turned to look out the glass. Despite the fact that it had been daylight outside when he walked into the store only a short time before, he wasn't
it's a dream and even though you don't realize it fully it's not really real things don't have to make sense they just are because it's all in your head it's an echo of reality tainted by the struggles of your mind mixed with a lot of bull and a touch of insanity but it's all you, ole boy, it's all you
surprised at all to find that it was now dark outside.
"What's out there, Mr. Farmer?" He asked as he scanned the portion of moonlit street that was visible through the windows. "Why can't I stay here?"
"It's not safe here, boy. Just mind what I say and get home now. You don't have much time."
When Chris turned back around the old man was gone. Somehow he knew he was alone in the store - Mr. Farmer had gone home. He was alone and he couldn't stay there because even though it should have been safe it wasn't. There was a danger out
the wolves are out and they've brought something even worse to play so you'd better run if you know what's good for you because it may be a dream but you don't want to come face to face with what's wondering these streets even in a dream
and the only place that was safe was home. Because home was always safe, wasn't it?
The dream slipped quickly and Chris was standing on the sidewalk in front of the drugstore. He knew the wolves were out waiting for him along the darkened streets, but it wasn't the thought of the wolves that pushed him to start running as fast as he could. It was something else - something his mind didn't want to put a name to. There was an evil out wondering the streets of Bradenton Beach, and Chris didn't want to admit that he knew it was there. Knew it would be after him. He didn't want to see it, didn't want to understand it.
And so he ran.
The Rules for Walking were forgotten completely as he crossed the intersection and tore down the sidewalk that ran the length of MacBeth Avenue. He could see the wolves on the street as he ran - could see their yellow eyes following him and even hear them take up the chase as he passed them. He could hear them growling at his heels, but he refused to look back because he knew that he was being chased by something more. Something much, much worse. He was running as fast as he could but he knew it wasn't fast enough, and
please let me wake up I don't want to see it I don't want to know what or who it is oh shit please just let me wake up now
it was only a matter of time before he had to turn and fight.
Only Chris didn't really believe that he could fight it. Something was whispering to him. A low, fluid voice that was almost his, but not. Whispering something that Chris couldn't quite make out again and again. A voice that
not afraid of the boogeyman, now are you, ol’ boy? why not turn around? turn around and prove that the boogeyman doesn't exist the boogeyman can't hurt you turn around and prove that those monsters really don't live under the bed there's nothing to be afraid of
seemed to emanate from inside his head and all around him at once - loud enough for him to hear, but not loud enough for him to understand. A voice that he knew wanted him to stop running.
But Chris wouldn't stop because he somehow understood that, if he stopped running and turned to face what was following him down the abandoned street, he would never make it home.
And then the streetlights were going out. It (he) was putting them out. The lights were dimming one by one, and the darkness was closing. Chris was running faster than he had ever run. Faster than was possible only in dreams, but still not fast enough. The last street lamp faded, and the shadows were all that was left. He could hear the wolves' snarls at his heels, but it was the whispers that fed the fear that gripped him - nearly overwhelmed him while spurring him on. There was something far worse than the wolves on his heels, and he understood that. The whispers were getting louder, seeming to reverberate inside his skull. Almost loud enough to make out, then, but the words were coming too fast.
Chris didn't want to understand the whispers. He wanted to get home and bolt the door behind him like the old man had said, because the whispering would stop then. Only he knew that he wouldn't make it; he couldn't run fast enough. The wolves couldn't catch him, but it (he) could. Chris felt a growing surety that it (he) was only toying with him - that it could catch him at any time if it wanted, but that it was allowing him to run for the pure amusement. It was closing in behind him, and the evil that radiated off of it was so much worse than what he had felt from the wolves - a wave of pure hate threatening to overrun him.
oh Christ it hates me it hates me and it wants to kill me
Chris had almost made it to the end of the street. The sidewalk continued on into the town park, forming a large figure eight through the oaks and well-kept landscaping that had been designed with the fitness-prone joggers and walkers of Bradenton Beach in mind. The park lamps had gone dark just as the street lights had, and the park was darker than Chris had ever seen it. He didn't want to pass through it, but it was the fastest way home. He followed the sidewalk into the shadow of the oaks.
The walkway snaked its way through patches of azaleas and around a small playground - a playground that he had played on countless times. The swing set was still missing one swing, the links in its chain having been cut by some prankster on a particularly boring night. On the far side of the monkey bars, just beneath the second wrung from the top, there was an inscription scraped into the rusting red paint that read "Chris luvs Tina 4evr". He couldn't see it, but he knew it was there. The playground didn't look the same at night - didn't look right caped in shadow and abandonment.
Chris looked forward and could make out the bridge that arched over the park's small pond up ahead of him. Somehow he knew that he hadn't been fast enough. He wouldn't even make it as far as the bridge, because the whispers had become too loud. He had outrun the wolves, but the other evil that followed him was right behind him then. He could feel it - it had decided to close the gap. It (he) was moving in for its (his) kill. Chris would have to turn around or die blindly - die without knowing what the whispers meant.
And then he felt pain, and the dream was slipping. He was escaping, and the whispers were gone.
Only he didn't truly believe it could be that easy.
It was like knives stabbing into his hand in a continuous cycle. The pain ripped Chris from his sleep and forced him awake. He felt a wave of intense relief as he opened his eyes - the pain in his hand an almost welcome sensation because it meant that he had escaped. Escaped from what he wasn't sure. He couldn't remember what had been chasing him through his dream (nightmare), only that he had been running. Running from something he couldn't afford to let catch him.
Even in a dream.
Chris could feel blood running across his palm, and realized that he was bleeding badly. The thought of applying a tourniquet to slow the blood flow crossed him, but it seemed almost more effort than he was willing to expend. Guilt gnawed at him, threatened to consume him as he remembered the sound of Lynn's screams in the dark.
He had let her die. He had let an animal mutilate her while he listened. Her body lay less than twenty feet from him, and he couldn't even bury her. He couldn't do anything for her - hadn't done anything for her. He had been too late. He had promised to see her home, and had failed her miserably - had let her die a dozen yards from him in a nightmarish hell that she would never wake up from.
Chris laid still in the darkness and stared into nothing. The throbbing in his hand was worse than anything he could remember experiencing - an excruciation that came in sickening waves. He would grit his teeth and rock himself slowly as the worst pains passed, then wait for them to return. Time seemed to have stopped around him - there was only the sound of his own breathing, the blackness, the pain, and memory.
He pictured the faces of his children one by one, attempting to recreate them in his mind's eye with as much detail as he could - every line, every shape, every color. It was a welcome relief from the constant replaying of Lynn's death. He had heard her screams a million times, felt himself slipping in her blood again and again - had imagined her body rotting in the darkness as clearly as if he had seen it.
Chris slowed whenever he came to his wife's face. Hers he drew with immaculate care, from the smile creases just beyond the edges of her mouth to the lashes that she had never needed to darken. He traced and retraced the curves of her face until they drowned out everything else - until he didn't have to see anything but her.
He was almost afraid to sleep, but at some point his eyelids refused to cooperate any longer. His wife's smile faded, and this time, whenever sleep finally took him, it was dreamless.