Nightmare City (5 page)

He nodded. “I know.”

“Will you be all right?”

He glanced at her. This time he managed to get one corner of his mouth to turn up. “Sure,” he joked, “I never wanted to have any friends anyway.”

Lisa smiled. “You have one, at least,” she said.

Grateful, Tom was about to answer her when he sensed a new presence in the room and turned to the door. Instantly, he forgot whatever he’d been about to say to Lisa—he forgot Lisa entirely—and sat there silently, staring, openmouthed.

Marie—Marie Cameron—was standing in the doorway.

He had been in love with Marie since they were both in the third grade. She had been beautiful then, but she was wildly, glamorously beautiful now. Her blond hair poured
down in ringlets framing her high cheeks, her button nose, and her Cupid’s-bow mouth. Her blue eyes shone and sparkled. Her figure was slender and lush by heart-stopping turns. Her smile was dazzling, a kind of silent music.

Tom did not know how many times he had dreamed about going out with her, putting his arm around her, kissing her. But Marie had always been with Gordon Thomas—the head cheerleader and the football quarterback, so perfect for each other they were a walking cliché.

All the same, even though Tom knew he had no chance with her, his heart sank to think that Marie would hate him now for what he’d written about the team. The Tigers’ drug use had taken place while Gordon was still in middle school—but it was Gordon’s team now, and he’d be furious to see it publicly shamed. Since Marie was Gordon’s girlfriend, Tom thought she would be furious, too.

She stepped toward him and Tom tensed, waiting for her to unleash her rage.

Instead, she lifted her hand—her small, white, perfect hand—and said, “Hey, Tom, I was hoping I’d find you here. Do you think you could give me a lift home?”

For a moment, he could only sit there, could only go on gaping at her silently like some kind of nutcase.

Then he leapt out of his chair so fast he nearly knocked it over.

He drove Marie home in the old yellow Mustang Burt had left behind when he went overseas. He wished he had cleaned out the ancient papers and fast-food bags lying all over the floor in the backseat, but whenever he was working on a story, he got so involved he forgot to do stuff like that. He must’ve apologized to Marie for the mess about a hundred times—and every time he turned to say the words to her, he was amazed to see her sitting there, real as life but far more beautiful, in his very own passenger seat.

They drove up into the hills, the Pacific Ocean falling away below them, the water gleaming under the afternoon sun.

Marie waved off his apologies. She said she didn’t care about the messy car. Then she said: “I want you to know, I really admire what you did, Tom. Writing that story.”

“Really? I thought you’d be ticked off like everyone else . . .”

“I’m not at all. I think it’s brave to tell the truth like that. Not caring what anyone thinks of you. It’s really brave.”

Tom didn’t answer. He didn’t even glance at her—he didn’t want her to see the look on his face. To have Marie tell him he was brave—it made up for all the nasty looks in the hall, all the nasty comments online, all of it.

“But what about Gordon?” he asked her. The words came out of his mouth as the thought came into his mind. “I mean, I know he didn’t do anything wrong, but . . . it’s his team. Isn’t he angry at me, too?”

But Marie shrugged again. “I don’t know how he feels. We haven’t talked about it,” she said.

The answer surprised him. It was almost as if she didn’t care what Gordon thought. Tom didn’t really want to question this, but it made him so curious he couldn’t help himself. He had to ask: “Speaking of Gordon, how come he couldn’t drive you home? Wasn’t he around?”

“He’s around,” Marie said offhandedly. “But I wanted you to drive me, that’s all. I feel like I don’t get to see you enough.”

This time Tom was so surprised he couldn’t help but look over at her. She smiled. And what a sight that was. Amazing.

He stopped the Mustang in front of her house. It was a sprawling two-story mansion with white curving balconies overlooking the ocean. Really a massive palace of a place. Marie’s father, Dr. Cameron, was one of the most important guys in town—and obviously one of the richest, too. He was always in the newspaper, serving on this board or that, or showing up at some big party for some big charity or other.

And there he was now, in fact, just stepping out of the black Mercedes parked in the driveway. He looked up and
smiled at Tom and Marie and gave them a friendly wave. Marie waved back.

Then she turned to Tom. “I meant what I said,” she told him. “I admire what you did. And I hope we can see each other more from now on.”

Somehow Tom managed to hide the thrill he felt. He managed to sound almost cool and calm as he answered, “I would like that. I would like it a lot.”

Marie gave him another smile—this one so brilliant it may have actually been illegal. “Good,” she said. “Then we have a plan.”

Tom watched her get out of the car. He watched her walk up the drive to join her father by the front door. He watched her turn and twinkle a final wave at him over her shoulder.

Amazing
, he thought to himself. It was the only word he could come up with, and he thought it again and again:
Amazing
.

6.

M
arie!” he cried out now.

Wild-eyed, he hurried down the hall to her, the images of the shambling monsters out in the fog still filling his brain.

As he stepped into the kitchen, Marie leapt up from her chair at the round table in the breakfast nook. She rushed into his arms and he held her, his cheek against her golden hair.

“I’m so glad you’re all right,” she whispered into his chest.

Tom let his fear and panic melt into the warm press of her and the sweetness of her perfume. He closed his eyes for a moment, in relief and pleasure. When he opened them, he looked over Marie’s head. Behind the table in the nook, the windows showed the backyard. Everything looked strangely normal out there. The mist was not as thick as it was out front. It obscured the sun, but Tom could still see the backyard grass and the hedges that bordered the Laughlins’ property behind them. Most important, there were no semihuman shapes visible, no threatening figures shuffling and limping toward the house.

He held Marie away from him so he could look down into her face. “What about you?” he said. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, her crystal eyes glistening. “I’ve been so scared, though. So scared.”

“Then you saw them? Those—those things in the fog. I’m not imagining them. You saw them, too.”

Marie turned away from him. She put her hand to her face, rubbed her eyes wearily. “I don’t know what I saw. I was so terrified. I just ran. I just ran to get here, to find you.”

Even in his fear and confusion, the words filled Tom’s heart. Now, at least, he had a job to do: protect Marie. Keep her safe. Even if nothing else made sense, there was a mission that could guide his actions.

“I think we should get in my car,” he said. “Get out of here. They could attack the house any minute.”

Marie turned back to him and shook her head. “I don’t think so. I don’t think they can leave the fog. I think we’re safe in here for now. Safer than we’d be outside, anyway.”

Tom thought about it. “Do you know what’s happening?” he asked her. “Is it happening all over? I haven’t seen anyone else. No one human, anyway.”

Marie turned back to him and shook her head. The tears still shone in her eyes. “I’m not sure . . .”

“I called my mom. I reached her, but she couldn’t hear me.”

“I know. I talked to my father,” said Marie. “We didn’t have a good connection, but I could make out some of what he was saying. He was the one who sent me here. He said you were the only person who could help us.”

“Me? I don’t even know what’s going on. Those monsters out there—it’s like—it’s like we’re in a zombie apocalypse.”

Marie gave a weak laugh. “I don’t think that’s what it is.”

Tom himself managed a small laugh at the idea. “Right. Probably not.”

He suddenly felt exhausted. He moved to one of the chairs by the round table and sank down into it. He stared out the window without really seeing anything. He was thinking about that thing—that thing with the hideous
face—its claws snatching at him from the fog, nearly grabbing him before he even saw it.

What was it?

He shook his head. “You know what it is like, though?” he said softly, almost as if he were speaking to himself, working it out in his mind. “It’s like one of those movies or TV shows where strange things keep happening and after a while, you start to realize that none of it is real. You know? It’s too weird. It can’t be real. It has to be a dream or something. Or maybe the lead character is really dead or he’s gone crazy or somebody slipped him some kind of drug and he’s having a hallucination. You know what I mean? You think that’s what this is: a dream or a hallucination? Or do you think we’re actually dead?”

He glanced over at her. He took comfort from the warmth and sympathy in her gaze. She stepped forward and put her hand gently on his shoulder. “I’m pretty sure we’re not dead,” she said. “Not yet, anyway.”

He nodded slowly. “But then what?” he said. “What’s happening, Marie? There has to be a reasonable explanation. Doesn’t there?”

Marie now sat down in the chair in front of him. She took his two hands in her hands. He found her cool touch soothing. They sat facing each other. He looked deep into her eyes. Even now—still haunted by the memory of those creatures
ranging through the fog—by that clawed hand reaching for him—by that deformed and hideous face looming in front of him—even now, the sight of Marie, the sweet beauty of her, made his heart swell. He could not remember a time when he hadn’t longed to be with her.

“Do you remember the monastery in the woods?” she asked him.

The question was so unexpected, so odd, that it was a moment before he could take it in, a moment before he could answer. “Sure,” he said uncertainly. “The Catholic one. The retreat. The one that burned down. St. Mary or something . . .”

“Santa Maria,” said Marie.

“Yeah, that’s it.”

The Santa Maria Monastery Retreat had been a compound of Spanish-style buildings set around a pretty chapel deep in the forest up on Cold Water Mountain. It was gone now. The so-called Independence Fire that had scorched the hills last July—that had consumed acres and acres of woods up there and destroyed more than a hundred houses—had reduced Santa Maria’s stately buildings, valuable antiques, and tranquil gardens to charred ruins.

“What about it?” said Tom. “What’s the monastery got to do with anything?”

“My father says you have to go up there. He says that’s
where the answers are and where you’re supposed to be right now. He says if you can get to Santa Maria, you can bring all this craziness to an end.”

Tom stared at her. “But why?” he said. It made no sense. Tom would do just about anything to get answers, to find out the truth about all this, but . . . go back outside? Out into the fog where those—those things were? And up into the woods on Cold Water Mountain? To the ruins of the monastery? “How can that possibly help?”

Holding his hands firmly in hers, Marie shook her head. “I’m not sure. Like I said, our connection wasn’t that good. But Daddy said it was important. Urgent, even. He said once you get to the monastery, you’ll know what you have to do to bring this to an end.”

As Tom went on staring at her, thoughts raced through his mind.
Why the monastery? Why the mountain?
He was trying to make sense of it. Was it possible that what was happening here was some sort of supernatural, spiritual event? Were those creatures in the fog some kind of demons? Did he have to get up to Santa Maria to call on the power of God to fight them or to call on the angels or something? But why the monastery? And why him? His family had always gone to Hope Church around the corner. It was nondenominational. They weren’t even Catholic!

“I don’t get it,” he was about to say—but before he could,
his phone rang in his pocket. The guitar riff: “The Fightin’ Side of Me.”

Tom tried to reach for the phone, but Marie gripped his hands even tighter. He saw her eyes flash to his pocket, to the place where the phone was singing.

“Don’t answer that!” she said, her voice a frightened whisper.

Confused, he worked one hand free. “What do you mean? I have to answer it. It might be my mom.”

He reached into his pocket. He felt the phone vibrating there.

Marie looked at him urgently. “It’s not,” she said. “It’s not your mom. I know it! Don’t answer, Tom. I mean it. Just do what Daddy said. Just get to the woods, get to the monastery. That’s where the answers are! That’s what you want, isn’t it? Answers. That’s what you’re always . . .”

Tom pulled the phone out. He checked the readout:
Number blocked
.

“I’m serious,” said Marie. “Don’t.”

The urgency of her tone made him hesitate a second. But finally he said, “I have to. It really might be my mom.”

Marie let go of his other hand. She dropped back against the chair and let out a long breath, giving up.

Tom answered the phone. “Hello?”

There was a silent pause. And then—Tom’s heart sped
up as he heard the static—that same odd, distant static he’d heard first thing this morning when the phone woke him. Again, it sounded like it was coming from somewhere far away, some alien place, some frightening place he could not imagine. And again, as he listened, he heard that voice, that woman’s voice, trying to reach him through the noise.

“I need to talk to you. It’s so important. I need . . .”

Tom leaned forward, gripping the phone hard in his sweating fingers. He knew that voice—he knew it! It was that woman. The woman in the white blouse who had been standing down at the base of the driveway. The woman who had gazed at him with that peculiarly blank, dead expression—and then vanished into the fog. He didn’t know how he knew it was her, but he knew. Why couldn’t he remember her name?

“What do you want?” Tom said to her, nearly shouting over the static. “I can barely hear you. What do you want?”