If I let go. Not exactly a thought. More like a last gasp. All at once, he stopped pushing and let his shoulders sag, his neck stretch. He felt her knees stutter as she began to slide, her center of gravity shifting. Off-balance, she rocked forward.
“AAHH!!” He shrieked it, unaware that the scream was even in his mouth until it wasn’t, and then he was surging up, his right arm suddenly free, the hand hooking into her parka. He yanked her down as quickly and viciously as he could. At the same time, he whipped his head up. There was a loud kunk as the dense bone of his forehead smashed into the delicate ridge just above her left eye. He knew the hit was good the instant he felt her socket cave, the second her whole body unlimbered from the shock.
The Chucky didn’t wail or scream. She had no time, or breath, for it. Stunned, she pitched right, and he went with her, using her weight as a fulcrum. Even then—bloody, a wound in her belly, blind in one eye, and probably in ferocious pain—she sensed what he meant to do. Somehow, she got her hands up, fingers clawed, and flailed, wildly, trying to snag something: his parka, an arm, anything. Yet, to his relief, she had no knife, and the advantage was his now.
They spooned, her back against his chest. In a novel, he’d have broken her neck. A quick snap, the crackle, done deal. But that kind of move, what they showed on TV or in a movie like it was no big deal . . . it’s make-believe. The neck is much stronger than you think.
Instead, he hooked his right arm under her chin. Ramming his left hand against the back of her head, he grabbed his left arm with his right hand, the better to hang on to the blood choke—
And felt something that did not belong. In a classic figure-four choke hold, eight to ten seconds of pressure on the carotids—thirteen at the max—and an opponent, even that burly, double-wide guy with the neck of an ox, slides into unconscious.
Unless that guy is smart enough to protect his neck somehow. Which, apparently, this Chucky was—because what circled her neck was a leather collar with a metal D-ring. Jesus, a dog collar? Frantic, Tom tried shifting his grip, working his arm higher to hook directly under her ears, but they were wallowing in snow and he was already tiring, his grip starting to weaken. Then his arm slipped.
Her reaction was instantaneous. Bucking, she threw her left arm up and back, her fingers aiming for his eyes. He jerked his head right, a reflex he knew, too late, was a mistake and exactly what she was counting on. Cocking her right elbow, she thrust back, fast, jamming the bony point into his ribs. Pain sheeted his vision and he gagged. Dimly, he felt her twisting, knew he no longer had the advantage. Get up, get out from under, get to the Bravo! Going for the weapon was another mistake, because it meant turning his back on her, but he simply didn’t see any other option. She was strong, and he couldn’t hang on forever. That she’d even thought to wear something to protect her neck was a whole other level of crazy, and he couldn’t wait and hope she might bleed to death, because a gut wound takes time, more than he had. Shoving her to the left, he let go, rolled right, spun onto his hands and knees.
That was as far as he got. She kicked him, high, at the small of his back. A red tidal wave of agony roared up his spine, and he let out a choking UNGH! The next thing he knew, he was on his belly, writhing, coughing against the snow, trying to worm away. Every nerve sputtered; his muscles sizzled. He felt as boneless as a jellyfish from the spinal shock. Blinking through sudden tears of pain, he made out his pack, the Bravo, but it was so far away! Then he spied something else, much closer, less than twelve inches from his nose . . .
There was a crunch of snow, the chatter of rock. The sun was behind him and he saw her shadow, black and inky, leaking over the snow, seeping onto his flesh as she came for him.
With a wild cry, he lunged, got his hand around the ski pole only a foot away, and then he was whipping onto his back, the pole whistling through the air; and now she wasn’t a black shadow but a white and red missile launching itself—
Just in time, he got his arms tucked. She saw what he was doing, tried twisting in midair, but she wasn’t a cat, just a crazy-ass and very smart Chucky, and she failed.
Shrieking, she slammed down, the metal tip of the ski pole punching through just beneath her breastbone. The force was so great his arms nearly buckled. By some miracle, the fiberglass pole didn’t snap in two but held as her arms and legs splayed in a weird star.
Yes! Still hanging on, he shoved, knocking her to one side, but he wouldn’t let go. This was one weapon he would not lose. How he got on his feet, he didn’t know, but then he was crouched, his thighs bunching, and she was still skewered, feet planted, her own hands wrapped around the pole to brace herself, as if they’d decided to play a strange game of tug-of-war. They stayed like that for a second that seemed a century.
In that moment, he finally saw what was wrong, how very strange her eyes were: not only fevered with a killing frenzy but jittery, the pupils so wide the irises were reduced to thin dark rims.
And there were no whites. At all. The whites of her eyes weren’t bloodshot; they were crimson, as if her eyeballs had been cored with a grapefruit spoon to leave mucky, blood-filled sockets.
My God. The sight chilled him to the bone. Where did you come from? What are you?
As if in answer, her lips skinned back in an orange grin.
“Jesus,” he said. “Just die.” Heaving with all his might, he flipped her to the snow the way a fisherman might jam a speared fish into sand, and then dropped his weight in a single, killing thrust.
And then it was done.
Almost. Spent, the adrenaline that had fueled him for just long enough now seeping out with his blood, Tom could feel his joints trying to buckle. Trembling, he staggered back until he felt a knob of stone at his back. He was going cold, all over, in an insidious black creep as fatigue and blood loss stole his strength. Propping his hands on his thighs, he struggled to stay upright and sucked air, trying to clear away the cobwebs, waiting for his mind to firm.
Got to get out of here, back to camp. He didn’t have a med kit, and it would be dark soon. With his blood perfuming the air, who knew when the next Chuckies would show? Strip out of as much of my stuff as I can and take hers. Those over-whites have her blood on them. So maybe they won’t smell me. But I have to be careful. Can’t lead Chuckies back to camp; got to protect the kids.
This was all so strange. A ton of dead people up at the lake, plenty to eat, but absolutely no Chuckies snacking on anyone. Lots of juicy kids at camp—an abandoned farmstead, out in the open, plenty of pasture—and no Chuckies there either, as if the camp existed under a dome, an invisible force field. Which he had always wondered about.
He stared down at the dead girl. He’d seen plenty of corpses. There was dead, something you knew just by looking, because death steals, especially from the eyes. Something evaporates. The eyes of the dead are the empty windows in a deserted house. But then there was battlefield juju, those few moments when a prickly spider walked the back of your neck; when the dread ate its way into your throat, crowding out fear. At those moments, you just couldn’t believe that the dead wouldn’t rise.
This Chucky was like that . Even in death, the Chucky’s vermillion stare, still so crazy and manic, was what stayed with you after a nightmare.
And I’ve seen your kind before. But where? What are you? A violent shiver made him gasp. Grabbing his arms, he hugged himself tight, now truly afraid. Where did you come from?
Then, jumping to the front of his mind in an involuntary tic: Who made you?
“You’re losing it, Tom.” His voice sounded strange but felt good. He needed to hear himself. “That’s crazy. Who could make Chuckies worse than they are? Why would anyone do that?” That made him laugh, a hacking sound harsh and far back in his throat, like the distant saw of those crows. “Jesus, listen to yourself. You were in the Army. Who doesn’t want a better killing machine, a soldier who doesn’t even know how to quit?”
And who, he wondered, wouldn’t train it?
The woods. That black blur. That glint. He dragged his binoculars from his parka, thankful that he hadn’t hung them around his neck. Good way to end up strangled.
“You don’t have time for this,” he said, glassing the trees. “You got ten seconds, Tom, and then you really need to get—”
But it didn’t take him ten seconds, or even seven.
All it took were three.
35
This was so bad. Cindi had known Tom was up to no good. Her gut taking in what her mom would’ve said: this really queasy sense that Tom would try something dumb.
Since that second day after the mine, Cindi went to see Tom early mornings before hoofing to her lookout post. (Which had been borrring before it turned terrible. Nothing to look at now but a gouged-out hill and that big blue-white eye of the lake for the longest time until the crows showed up, and then . . . well . . . she was twelve, but she wasn’t stupid.) Sometimes, Luke came with, but he was fourteen, the next oldest after Tom, and didn’t have tons of time. So, mostly, she went alone and brought food because Tom wasn’t eating enough to keep a tick alive. His eyes had dropped so far back into his skull it was like staring into deep, dark caves. You could get lost down there. She never pushed him and they didn’t talk much, but she wasn’t sure that was even important. Just be with him. That’s what her mom would’ve said. Remind him you’re still there, waiting for him to come back.
On the fourth day, tired of let’s give Tom space—Mellie’s go-to for the whole awful mess—Mellie decided, Hey, mind if I tag along? What could Cindi say? No, butt out, you old witch? Boy, if it was freezing in that tower before, the temperature went waaay below zero the second Tom’s eyes clicked to Mellie corkscrewing through that trapdoor. Everything human in Tom shriveled until there was only a husk that just happened to wear Tom’s face.
To Mellie’s credit, she did try. She did nice; she tried you can tell me; she touched on a tough buck up, soldier (but only Weller was any good at that). In desperation, Mellie even trotted out a whiny but we need you.
