The Sleepwalkers (27 page)

The car is stopped, and Margie’s heart is racing.

“Margie, please, turn it around. I can’t go to the sheriff.”

“Why?” asks Margie. “We have to.”

“Didn’t you listen?” says Christine. “He’s one of them.”

Margie stares at the girl. She’s terrified. “Listen to who?” she asks.

“Anna. That was Anna.”

“What was her? When?”

“Just then. That was her, in the radio.”

“You’re in need of medicine, child. For your head.” Margie’s voice is filled with almost as much pity as fear. “I ain’t heard talk like that since . . . ”

The girl is looking over her shoulder now.

“ . . . since the asylum shut its doors all those years ago and put all those crazy folks back on the street.”

“He’s coming,” Christine says, still staring through the back window into the dark of the storm, “and he isn’t alone. We have to go.”

“You’re scaring me, Christine. We’re friends, right? Remember, I served you a piece of cake on every birthday you ever had—and I remember every one too.”

“We have to go, Margie. We have to.”

“Okay, honey. We’ll go. I just want you to remember I’m your friend. I don’t want you to forget that. I just want to help you. I just—”

Margie stops. She sees something in the rearview mirror. She thought she imagined it at first, but as she squints through the raindrops, the flashes of red become clearer. And she thanks God over and over. It’s the sheriff.

Christine sees it too.

“Go, Margie! You have to go! They’ll take me back!”

The police car comes to rest behind Margie’s car with a little burp of the siren. Christine is getting frantic.

“Go, go, go, go, go!”

“Sheriff! Thank God!” Margie yells out the window. “Help!” She looks in the water-dappled side mirror, and in its distorted face she sees the sheriff get out and begin walking toward her. She doesn’t notice the other three smaller figures that get out of the squad car too.

“Margie, please, please
go
!” Christine begs. Tears are running down the girl’s cheeks now, but Margie ignores her. All she wants is for this girl, this daughter of a witch, to be safely locked away. She just wants to go back to the diner and clock in for work, to go home and fix dinner and watch TV and go to sleep. She just wants it all to be over.

“Sheriff,” Margie calls out the window, “come quick.”

“They’re coming to take us into the dark,” says Christine. She sees them coming, but realizes that for Margie their figures must be drowned out by the glare of the squad car’s spotlight, which is trained on her rearview mirror. In a flurry of motion, Christine bounces from one side of the car to the other, locking all the doors.

“Keep them locked,” she says. “Roll the window up!”

“It’s just the sheriff,” Margie says, trying to sound comforting, but only sounding afraid.

The sheriff ’s figure is coming close now through the blinding glare of the spotlight, moving with slow, crunching steps over the gravel shoulder and up to Margie’s window.

“Don’t open it,” Christine whispers. “They’re with him.”

Just as she speaks, the sheriff is passing the back window, and he ducks his head down and looks in, blasting Christine’s eyes with his flashlight. She blinks and squints, but doesn’t dare take her eyes off him. She catches him leering at her as he stands up and approaches Margie’s door.

“Margie, don’t open it, Margie!”

Christine stares out the back window, watching the figures move slowly, two on one side and one on the other, toward the car. They are only white streaks in the rain-distorted world outside her windows, but she knows who they are. She has seen their kind in the dreams she never remembers. In those dreams, something tells her, they always appear in her mirror.

Because they’re me,
she thinks,
or I was one of them.

And I could never see them. Because . . . Because . . .

Because my eyes were closed.

“Margie, don’t open the door! Don’t!”

The white shapes are close, passing the back of the station wagon. Surely, Margie must see them now.

“Don’t open the door!”

“What seems to be the matter, Margie?” the sheriff asks.

“Margie . . . ” says Christine, “don’t! DON’T!”

And Margie unlocks the car door, opens it, and gets out.

Through the rain-soaked glass, Christine watches in horror as the figures from her forgotten nightmares lurch toward the open door. Quick as a cat, she leaps over the driver’s seat, yanks the door shut and pounds the lock down with her fist. She backs away from the door, into the passenger’s seat, and curls herself up into a little defensive ball. Her mind reels. She’s surrounded.

The sheriff bends down and looks in at her, with the same leering grin as before, then his face disappears, and Christine watches Margie’s torso as she gestures to him emphatically. Trying to tell the sheriff what’s going on, of course. As if he doesn’t already know.

Christine looks to the back of the station wagon and is relieved to find the white figures are gone.

Maybe they left,
she tells herself, maybe they . . .
woke up?
For some reason that sounds right.

She watches the sheriff ’s torso ushering Margie’s torso back toward the squad car before they disappear in both the downpour and the glare.

This is it, her chance. She pushes herself into the driver’s seat, wincing as she brushes her burned legs on the car seat. She puts one dirty bare foot on the brake, one dirty, pale hand on the wheel, and reaches for the key to start the car, to make her escape, to leave this damned town and run and run and be happy—but instead of a key, she finds nothing. Because Margie took the keys with her.

How many times can luck leave one girl orphaned?

Suddenly the police car’s floodlight and headlights go dead, leaving only the eerie red blink of the light bar and the darkness. Rain hammers on the roof of the car. This is the end. Unless . . . and Christine turns on the radio . . . unless Anna has some advice—of course, the radio won’t work without the keys.

Only somehow it does.

A shush of static fills the car, but instead of little Anna’s voice there are other voices, thousands of them, tormented, mad voices, screaming words of venom in languages Christine doesn’t understand, and doesn’t want to. The screams and shouts rise and rise. She tries to cover her ears, but the sound bores through her hands, through her flesh, into the core of her brain. Screams rupture her mind, ripping her ears from all sides. From the air all around her, from the car seats, from the glass of the windows, from her own goose-bumped flesh, from every strand of her hair, death-screams sing and slice her will into a thousand pieces.

And then it all stops, and only one thought remains. It might be whispered to her from the radio, or it might be coming from her own mind, but either way it is a horrible realization, and it means the end of her:

The cargo door in the back of the station wagon is unlocked.

And in that instant, certainty settles into her heart: there will not be time to climb back and lock it.

She looks back and sees two white shapes blinking with bursts of red, blurred by rain, standing at the back window. And the tailgate opens.

They’re climbing over the backseat with impossible speed. Their eyes are closed, but they see Christine Zikry all too well. Their pale hands claw her face already as she fumbles desperately with the door handle.

The sound of her own gasping and wails of terror are eclipsed in an instant by dissonant laughter from the radio, which swells to an eerie blast, loud enough to make the windshield quiver. One sleepwalker has her by the hair now and is climbing over the seat; the other is two inches from her face, teeth bared in a snarl, ready to bite her cheek off like a starving dog. That, she’ll remember later, is when the white light comes back and her hand finds the door handle.

The next instant, she’s out in the night, drenched, growling in pain as she yanks her hair free from the hand of the thing in the car. She slams the door, hoping it will buy her a second or two.

As she turns to run, though, her heart plummets in despair.

There were three of them. Two are in the car. One is here.

And now it’s upon her. Her body seizes up with pain as the thing, the sleeping thing, slams her back into the car door. For a second she thinks it snapped her spine, the pain is so debilitating, but she’s still on her feet, still fighting, holding its clawing hands back, ducking away from its chomping, gnawing teeth (this thing is a fourteen-year-old boy, she realizes, nothing more. Just a boy. And he’s
asleep
—but he’s also a monster).

Its teeth are closing on her face now; she feels the tips pushing into her skin, and she knows in another instant it will be chewing her nose in its jaws, but the horrible laughing from the radio is a little quieter since she slammed the door, and the white light—must be the floodlight back on—is blazing again, and that’s a better way to die.

The light grows.

The gnawing teeth are on her face and they hurt, but they can’t puncture the skin yet because of the slickness of the rain or because of amazing luck, she doesn’t know which. But the biting doesn’t stop, and she knows it will never stop until she’s in many pieces.

And the light grows, then roars—
thud!
—and rushes past.

Christine Zikry is on her knees in the mud. No pale creature is attacking her anymore because he’s lying twenty feet away in a reddening mud puddle, his limbs all bent the wrong way.

She feels very dizzy as she sees this, and realizes it’s because she’s been holding her breath a very long time. Still, she can’t breathe in; her lungs are frozen with fear.

She hears something, but her brain can’t register the sound,
pop-pop-pop.

The side-mirror just above her head leaps off the car and skitters across the muddy shoulder. She stares at it, dazed.

“Come on!” someone yells. “Get in!”

A car idles in front of her with the passenger door open. It must’ve struck the demon—the boy—who now lies dying.

“GET IN!” shouts a voice—seemingly issuing from the taillight Christine is staring at.

She’s about to get up when the popping comes again, but this time it sounds sharper, louder, more frightening.

And suddenly she gets it. The sheriff is shooting at her. And she’s in shock.

She tries to stand, not knowing if it will be possible, not knowing if she’s hurt beyond repair, maybe broken like the kid, the sleeping demon, but she finds that she can stand. And when she tries to run, she finds that her legs work fine.

As her feet slap through the mud, she experiences everything very clearly, hears the station wagon door open behind her and hears the two pale things get out to chase her, feels the rush of air as a gunshot whistles past her cheek, sees the demon again, somehow horribly just a dead kid now, lying in a pool of streetlight and summer rain. Then she’s in the car. The door is shut, the rain is gone, and the sound of an engine roars her away.

She still isn’t breathing when she looks over to see who’s driving the car, because it might be one of them, or (and this is what she really expects, what she fears the most) it might be the director, ready to take her back to the white, white room.

When she sees who it is, she still can’t breathe.

“Are you okay?” the voice says, deep with concern.

She can only nod. Breath can come later.

For now, her Billy is enough.

Chapter Fourteen

F
OR A WHILE THEY RIDE TOGETHER
without saying a word, letting the engine and the thunder do all the talking. Caleb, Billy, concentrates on holding the car on the road through the slippery, wet corners while keeping the flashing red lights of the sheriff ’s cruiser as distant as possible.

Christine concentrates on Billy. She watches his face—very serious and very handsome—in the periodic ruby blink that reflects in the rearview mirror. After a while, she breaks the silence:

“How did you find me?”

Caleb is distracted, fighting a wind gust to keep the car on the road; then he answers. “Uh . . . Anna,” he says. “Five thirty-five AM.”