Dark Inside (19 page)

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Evans said. He moved past the mother and looked out the window. “We’ll have to climb out on the ledge.”

“I can’t do that,” the mother said. “We can’t. We’re not strong enough.”

“I’ll carry him,” Evans responded.

Michael looked at him with resentment. Evans was taking charge. Just like that. He didn’t throw up or lose all control of his body. He kept cool.

“We could try hiding,” he said. “They may not know we’re up here.”

“Don’t be daft,” Evans snapped.

Michael’s eyes hardened.

Something slammed against the door. The mother let out a yelp, pulling her child closer, nearly to the point of suffocation. There was a low, guttural hiss from the landing outside the room, and someone tested the lock.

A second bang.

A third.

The door cracked and groaned under the weight. They were coming.

Evans couldn’t get the window open. He pulled at it with all his strength. “Help me,” he snapped at Michael.

The wood of the door splintered.

He didn’t want to die. Not here. Not like this.

The door gave way. The Baggers filled the room. Four of them in total: three males and one female. Two of them were holding hands as if they were on some sort of psychotic honeymoon. Clothing soaked and stained, they dripped blood all over the floor, grinning like wild hyenas closing in on the kill.

I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kill the congregation.

The ridiculousness of the thought almost reduced him to hysteria.

The choice was easy. It wasn’t actually an option, just picking life over death. Michael stepped back into the bathroom, slamming the door and locking it.

The last thing he saw was the look on Evans’s face. They locked eyes, Evans’s narrowed until almost completely closed. Hands curled into tight fists. Disgust. Pity. Not because of the Baggers.

Because of him.

Betrayer.

No time to change his mind. Already one of the Baggers was working on the bathroom door, slamming his body against it. Michael had only seconds to act. Turning, he fled over to the bedroom window. It wouldn’t open either; there must have been some sort of locking mechanism he wasn’t seeing. Figuring it out would take too much time. On the bedside table was an alarm clock. Michael picked it up and threw it straight through the glass. He grabbed one of the pillows off the floor and used it to clear the frame of the remaining shards.

Evans shouted. The child was crying. Loud wails abruptly cut off. Evans screamed again, but he couldn’t hear the words. Something slammed against the wall, shaking the foundation. A painting over the bed fell, raining glass over the bloody mattress.

He stepped out onto the roof. Scrambled to the edge and jumped without looking. He hit the ground and rolled; his ankles and knees screaming in protest. White-hot heat shot through his side, knocking the wind out of his lungs. His face took a dive in the dirt; twigs and pebbles grinded against his tongue. Lying on the ground, he gasped, unable to move, unable to breathe.

For half a minute he lay helpless, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes and soaking the ground where his cheek rested. His body slowly came back to life as the air started to reach his lungs. Pressing his hands into the ground, he got onto his knees, puffing as if he’d just run a marathon. Dirt-colored drool escaped his lips.

He needed to move. They would be on top of him in seconds.

Finally his legs had enough strength and he managed to
start running, wobbly at first, swaying back and forth with drunken steps. He headed straight for the trees without looking back. He knew if he saw them coming after him, he’d freeze again, useless, and they’d be all over him, too.

Pop.

Pop.

Bang!

The world returned in an instant. His brain struggled to place mental imagery to the sounds. Not a car backfiring. Not gunshots. He knew that sound. He’d heard it enough times in the past. Someone was shooting off firecrackers just outside the window.

He couldn’t have been unconscious for long. A few minutes, maybe—not enough time for Twiggy to do anything. Mason was still lying on the floor, head throbbing, hair soaked in tea. At least he hoped it was tea. The broken mug lay inches from his nose.

Twiggy was over at the window, head sticking out, leg bopping up and down as he screamed at the intruders.

“Heathens. Leave. You’re not welcome here. Don’t make me come down there and get you.”

Mason sat up too quickly. Stars exploded across his vision, forcing the room into a spin faster than any amusement-park ride he’d ever encountered. He raised a hand to the side of
his head; the fingertips came back bloody. Struggling onto his knees, he managed to stand by leaning against the wall for support. The door was still open; Twiggy hadn’t bothered to close it after the attack.

“You.” Twiggy turned his attention away from the window. He’d left his crutches by the bed. Bouncing up and down on his leg, he seemed to be deciding if he could cross the room before his prey got out the door.

Mason was closer. Reaching out, he picked up the crutches and threw them into the hall. His legs continued to sway, but the stars were gradually beginning to fade. Vision growing stronger, he found his bag on the floor and picked it up.

“You woke up sooner than I expected,” Twiggy said. “What a shame.” His face showed visible disappointment.

“Why?” Mason asked. “You could have killed me back on the street. Why all the acting?”

“Had you fooled, didn’t I?” Twiggy said. “I always liked a show. Better than simply putting a bullet in your brain. I needed to see if I could convince you first.”

“What the hell did I ever do to you? What did any of us do?”

Twiggy’s face erupted in various shades of red. “Are you that stupid? Wait, don’t say a word. You kids today think you know all the answers. You’re nothing but a bunch of lazy bums. You’re the reason society is faltering. It’s because of you that the world needs to be cleansed. Because of you the voices come to us, turning some of us into mindless pack dogs. The rest of us receive clarity. I see everything that needs to be seen.”

“That’s an excuse.”

“No excuse,” Twiggy snapped. Spittle flew from his mouth. “We’ve been around for a long time, Mr. Dowell.
Longer than you or any of your stupid little friends could ever conceive. Sleeping in the shadows and waiting for the right moment. A disease you might call us. A plague. Evil. From beneath the ground, it rises as it has done many times in the past. It’s given us our mission. We’re cleansing. Removing the world of the filth it created. Rewriting, erasing the slate. How lucky we are to be a part of it. It chose me for a reason, and I am happy to serve. I’m one of the special ones, still able to keep my intelligence. My orders will be more complex and fulfilling than those of the insane heathens outside.”

“So you’re nothing but a dog, then,” Mason sneered.

Twiggy laughed. “Do you know why some of you are allowed to stay alive? It’s the fear. The pain. The enjoyment we get as we tear your skin to shreds. We feed on it.”

“Maybe I’m just smarter than you,” Mason replied. “Isn’t that what you said? Free will? Maybe I’m able to fight it. But you’re just weak. A sucker.”

“You won’t be singing that song when I tear the tongue from your throat.”

Mason’s legs were stronger. He calmly turned and stepped through the door. “Good luck with that, hoppy.”

“You’re all alone now,” Twiggy screamed behind him. “We’ll find you. You’ll never hide long enough. We’ll find you and kill each and every last one of you. All alone. Run, Mr. Dowell. You won’t get far. Don’t sleep! Don’t sleep!”

He was fine with the hallway. The stairs required a bit more navigation. His balance was off, but he managed to get down by holding on to the banister and taking the steps one at a time. Twiggy continued to scream, and every time Mason glanced back, he half expected to see the old man hobbling toward him at full speed. But the staircase stayed empty.

Whatever world savior Twiggy thought he was, he knew his limitations. Next time he’d just have to hit his victim harder and make sure he stayed down.

Outside, the light burned straight into his brain, making him cringe. He paused at the door, unsure of what to do next.

First things first—he needed to get as far away from the building as possible. Then maybe he could find someplace to crawl into for a while until his brain stopped punishing him. What was the deal with concussions again? No sleeping. He’d have to stay awake. Maybe he could find a hotel with a swimming pool. Cold water would be a blessing and it would keep him clearheaded. It was a good idea. Up ahead he could see some signs for a Travelodge. Only a few blocks away; he could manage that. Close enough to walk to without dying, and far enough that Twiggy wouldn’t follow.

It was hard moving. The sun pounded down on his back, making him sweat through his shirt. Squinting made his head want to explode, but the bright light made it throb worse. He kept his eyes on the ground, concentrating on moving each foot forward without tripping. His backpack weighed heavily on his shoulders, digging into his back, pushing him down.

He saw the couple cautiously coming toward him when he finally looked up. They were both wearing hiking clothes, with backpacks and sleeping bags. He froze, trying hard not to sway back and forth.

Keep cool, Dowell. Stand your ground.

“Hey,” the guy said. “Need help?”

Mason didn’t say anything. His knees shuddered. He was 100 percent positive he couldn’t move another step. Something happened when Twiggy hit him: damage to his central nervous system or something.

“Hey,” the girl said. They were closer now, almost on top of him. “You’re really hurt.”

“Stay away,” he muttered.

“You’re bleeding.” She reached out to touch him, and he jerked back, almost toppling in the process.

“Watch out, Chee,” the guy said. “He’s scared.”

“Screw you,” Mason said.

“It’s okay, man, we’re cool.”

“How do I know you’re not one of them?”

The girl snorted, her hair flipping up behind her. “How do we know
you’re
not one of them?”

“If I was, you’d be dead by now.”

The girl stepped backward. “Well, if you’re going to be a jerk about it … Come on, Paul. We don’t need this.”

But the guy didn’t move. “We can’t leave him. He’ll be hunted down.”

“He is pretty messed up.”

Mason didn’t know what to do. They seemed normal, but so had Twiggy. Who was he supposed to trust in this new world? More than that, who could trust him? Maybe that’s why he was still alive and Twiggy hadn’t killed him.

There was too much darkness inside his brain.

Until he knew for sure, he was better off alone. He knew this.

The guy sensed his wariness. “Look,” he said. “We’re cool. We’re not gonna hurt you or try and rob you. We’re in the same boat, man.”

Mason decided to take the chance. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Some crazy guy with one leg just invited me up to his place for tea and then tried to bash my head in with a mug. I’m a little short on trust right now.”

“One leg?” The girl snorted again. “And he still managed to do that?”

“He seemed pretty normal at the start,” Mason snapped, but a grin started to appear on his face. “I mean, how much trouble can a one-legged person be?”

“Is that some sort of bad joke, or are you really asking?” The girl grinned back.

“Little bit of both.”

There was a short, awkward minute, while the girl visibly grew impatient. She glanced back and forth between them, shuffled her feet, and finally decided she’d had enough of the silence.

“I’m Barbara Flying Eagle, but everyone calls me Chickadee or Chee ’cause I’m so tiny. I hate Barbara, so don’t ever call me that. Yuck. And this here is Paul Still Waters. We just call him Paul. But he’s so tall, he won’t hear you unless you shout.”

Mason grinned again. The girl was definitely small. She had to be a little less than five feet tall. Her hair was long, almost down past her bum, making her appear even tinier, if it were possible. The guy beside her, Paul, was the complete opposite. He towered over her, gawky and serious; Mason instantly knew they were one of those couples that people always joked about in a friendly way. Night and day. Fire and ice.

“I’m Mason Dowell,” he said.

“It’s good to meet you,” she said. “Now that we’ve got all that out of the way, I suggest we get the hell outta here. Didn’t you hear the shots earlier?”

“I thought they were fireworks.”

“Sure, the kind that come flying out the barrel of a gun.” They started walking, moving slower for Mason’s sake. His legs were working again, but his head still felt fuzzy. Pain clawed at the insides of his skull. Chickadee and Paul stayed in the lead, walking about five feet ahead. They may have
exchanged names, but neither side was taking any chances.

They were still strangers.

“Where are you headed, Mason?” Chickadee asked, keeping her voice low. She nodded toward his backpack.

“West,” he said. Absently he reached his fingers into the back pocket of his jeans to make sure the Stanley Park picture was still there. “Vancouver.”

“Cool,” she said. “We’re going north. Paul’s got an uncle in the Yukon and we figure we’ll head up there. Not a lot of people. Can’t imagine it’s been affected like it is here. His closest neighbor’s about an hour away.”

“Sounds like a good idea.”

“It will be if we can last that long,” Chickadee said. “It’s pretty scary. We had some trouble this morning coming through the city. Did you see the fire? Couple of the crazies chased us, but we lost them in the smoke. They’re bloody everywhere.”

“I drove through some of it,” Mason said. “But my car broke down a few blocks away. That’s how I met Twiggy.”

“We drove for a bit. Got stuck in one of those roadblocks a few weeks ago. They came at us with shotguns. I’ve never been so scared in my life. Luckily it was nighttime and we managed to hide in a wheat field. But we lost Trevor. He was my sister’s boyfriend. My sister, she died a few weeks ago when this all started. I still dream about her every night. Paul lost his entire family because his older sister went crazy. Attacked everyone in the middle of the afternoon. I still don’t know where my mom is. I’m hoping she’s all right, but I doubt it. She didn’t deal well, if you know what I mean.”