Empire Of Salt (18 page)

Derrick felt himself starting to blush and looked again at Nixon. "I read it in a book somewhere. I don't remember."

"You read all of that in books?"

Now it was Derrick's turn to look at Veronica. He realized that she was an ex-gangbanger from Los Angeles and probably hadn't grown up in a home where Sundays could be whiled away reading a book. He almost said something sarcastic, but instead he just nodded. "Sure. No telling what I've read that may be useful." He examined the first page closely and eventually shook his head. "Nah. Not an Atbash. Too bad, really. It would have been the easiest thing."

"Yeah, too bad," Veronica echoed.

"Hey," Natasha said, getting everyone's attention. "Do you think Grandpa Laz knew what was going on in Bombay Beach and wrote about it in this book?"

The three of them gazed at the book with new respect. If it did have the secrets to what was going on here, then they could finally see if the locals were right about it being a government conspiracy. That there was a book lent credence to that idea. After all, why would their grandpa go to so much effort just to write about ordinary stuff? Codes such as these weren't meant for normal diaries. They were meant to keep secrets.

Than a thought occurred to Derrick. Was it possible that his grandfather was killed
because
of this book?

He glanced wide-eyed at Natasha, who shared his expression. She'd evidently thought the same thing.

The scratching had gone on for hours. Abigail stood in the doorway to the bathroom, her hand shaking as she held the pistol. It was impossibly heavy, but she was terrified to lay it down. It was the only thing that could save her if the creature burst through, so she had to hold it. She couldn't afford to put it down for even a moment.

Trudie lay beneath the window. She hadn't moved for hours. She was barely breathing, yellow bile staining the fur around her mouth. The chocolate had hurt her more than Abigail had anticipated. All she'd wanted to do was feed her poor Trudie, take away the edge of hunger for a bit.

Abigail had known that dogs were allergic to the candy, but she'd had no idea the allergy was this severe. That she blamed herself was an understatement. She looked in the mirror and saw a dog killer.

So as she stood holding the pistol to protect herself, other uses for the weapon came to mind, ideas creeping in under her determination to survive. If she made it through this crazy episode, would she be able to live with the knowledge that she'd killed her own dog? Would she be able to live with that truth?

That there was nothing she could do made her want to scream. What was this creature to hold her trapped in her own home? If it wasn't for this thing clawing through her floor this never would have happened.

She thought again of Trudie begging her over and over, whining, starving, entreating her for just one small morsel to eat. Abigail had given the dog one piece, then another - only two pieces really. Maybe three.

Abigail was so caught up in her miserable reverie that she almost missed the fact that the scratching had stopped. She glanced over her shoulder at Trudie who still lay beneath the window. The door to the room was still locked, the deadbolt secure. She could see a bulge beneath the mauve carpet where the creature had been working at the floor beside the toilet.

Then a hand burst through. Mottled-green skin tipped with hard gray nails tore at the carpet, ripping pieces away as the hole opened larger. Soon an entire arm wedged through, the hole widening quickly as a shoulder pushed through behind it.

Abigail brought the pistol up and held it with two hands. She aimed down the barrel like her husband had told her to and pulled the trigger.

The gun jumped. The explosion seemed impossibly loud in the small space. The back of the toilet exploded, sending shards of white porcelain and water raining across the room.

The creature continued undeterred.

She fired again, this time taking out the toilet bowl. Water sprayed from the pipes, drenching the opposite wall.

Still the creature came. It pushed its head through, hands tearing at the carpet and wood to enlarge the hole.

She fired again.

Part of the creature's lower jaw disappeared in a mist blood and bone.

But it wasn't even slowed.

She had to run.

She ran first to Trudie and scooped the dog into her arms. As she headed for the door, she saw the creature pushing its torso up through the floor, yellow eyes fixated on her. Was it the only one? As she unlocked the deadbolt and slammed open the door, she knew it was too late to ask that question.

She ran into the hall, dog in one hand, pistol in the other. She slid around the corner of the kitchen on the linoleum floor, hitting the refrigerator with her shoulder, caught her balance and began to fumble with the locks on the door to the back yard. She couldn't get her hands to work properly.

She dropped to all fours, shoved Trudie through the doggie door, and began to crawl through herself. She heard the sound of crashing come from her bedroom. She knew she had only had a few seconds. Moving as fast as she could, she pushed herself through the tiny square door, but dropped her pistol.

She reached back inside and searched blindly for it. The sound of pounding feet got closer. Her fingers brushed against the dustbin.

She could hear the creature's wheezing breaths from the other side of the door. She knew she should flee, but she needed the gun. Suddenly she felt the skin of the creature, screamed and yanked her hand back. It held it for a moment, but then her fingers slipped free and she fell backwards. As she found her balance, she saw the top of the creature's head as it began to follow her out the door.

Abigail scrambled to her feet, grabbed Trudie and hurtled down the stairs. It was night. Late. The only sounds she heard were from the occasional generator. She glanced back, running, and saw the creature glaring at her as it climbed out of the flap and got to its feet, half its jaw missing.

Oh, if only she hadn't dropped the gun.

The fence separating her home from the Klostermans' stopped her momentarily, it was so high that her old legs refused to clear it. So she leaned over the fence and flopped into the yard, winding herself and almost losing her grasp on Trudie.

Somehow she managed to get to her knees. She wasn't used to this sort of activity. She crawled as quickly as she could. The Klosterman Kid's doghouse rose up before her.

She found the bolt that kept it closed at night, lifted it, pried open the door and slid inside. She fell several feet; the floor was much lower than ground level. She was again surprised as she landed softly atop padded carpet.

Curling into a ball, she held Trudie to her chest and began to rock back and forth. She'd run as far as she could. All she waited for now was for the creature to break down the door. But it never happened. The creature never came. Her sobs gradually subsided until she heard the sound of heavy breathing. In the darkness all she could think of was a bear in a deep, dark cave. But she wasn't in a cave, and nor was it a bear she was hearing. She was in the doghouse and the sound could only be coming from the Klosterman Kid.

She wondered fearfully what he'd do to her.

She wondered if she was any better off than before.

P
atrick woke drenched in moonlight and flies. He was slow to come around, his mind foggy with nightmares of birthday parties, bloody cakes, and
Ode to Billy Joe
playing unceasingly in the background while everything spun as if he was on a crazy carousel.

He'd gotten a mouthful of sand while sleeping and the grit was caught between his teeth and his gums. He tried to spit, but his mouth was too dry. He managed to open his eyes. He was on the shore. In his hand, he held a single card, from an Easter when he was fifteen; he searched his memory and wondered why he'd kept that one, but couldn't figure it out.

He rolled to his knees and vomited onto the sand. Drool and saliva dripped from his mouth. There was more in his stomach that wanted out, but it wouldn't come. Until the stench of what had already come up hit his nostrils.

It took a few minutes for him to collect himself. As he got to his feet, still a little unsteady, the moon slid behind a mountain of clouds, leaving him in gray darkness. On the ground in front of him were the remnants of a fire - pieces of cards, some singed, most blackened beyond legibility, in a pile that had been soaked by the tide sometime after he'd passed out.

Patrick glanced at the card in his hand, and let it fall to the ground. Then he thought better of it, picked it up and shoved it in his back pocket. He looked around and spied the Old Crow bottle wedged in the sand like it had brought a message from a deserted island. There was an inch of booze left in it. He glared at the offending bottle for a moment, then tossed back the rest of the warm brown liquid.

A sound came from down the beach.

He switched his grip on the bottle, holding it by the neck, and peered into the darkness, but couldn't see a thing through the grit and tears in his eyes.

The noise came again. Several people dragging something huge, a muffled curse, a harsh command.

He blinked the tears away and saw several black shapes dragging a boat ashore. They were wearing masks and black clothes. One turned toward Patrick as he hit the sand and lay flat, but they appeared not to see him. After a few moments, they left the boat and headed inland.

Patrick found himself following them. Part of him said it was a bad idea, but he wanted to see what was going on.

He stumbled twice as the wet sand gripped his shoes, but was too far away for them to hear. He crept as close as he could along the seawall, then, when he thought the coast was clear, climbed over and slid down the other side. He tried to land on his feet, but when he hit the ground, he fell on his hip, crying out in pain.

The men stopped and squatted at the sound. One turned in his direction.

Patrick kept very still. He lay against the seawall and hoped that his form would blend into the darkness.

Then came another sound, this time from the opposite direction. The men turned toward what sounded like a bottle skittering down the asphalt street. One brought up a rifle. The sight of it sucked the air from Patrick's lungs. The man sighted down the length of the weapon.

A drunken voice spoiled the quiet with a refrain of
Now or Never
. The next verse was replaced with the sound of retching, then the sound of a gate opening and the clatter of cans as the Romanian waded through his alarm system. The trailer door closed and Patrick breathed easier.

The man with the rifle lowered his weapon and the three were once again on their way.

Patrick followed them for another half a block before they came to a burned_out hulk that had once been a double-wide. The top deck was nothing more than twisted wood. The chairs had melted to the roof.

The leader used a radio; the static-laced conversation was too soft to understand.

Patrick heard someone running behind him. He dove into the nearest yard, wedging himself beneath a propane tank painted like a jack-o'-lantern.

Three more men raced past, dressed in black like the others, carrying a net between them. They ran to the other three and, after a moment's conversation, began to move towards the open glass door of the trailer.