Feral (16 page)

“Gordon.” Charles' voice conveyed a depth of solemnity that sounded strange coming from the normally lighthearted man.
 
Gordon thought he knew what was happening, and though it made him uncomfortable, he understood.

“Yes.”

“If we find her tonight, I'm done.”
 
Guilt was clear in his voice; he usually didn't call a job finished until all the loose ends were either tied up or snipped off, but this was not his usual job.
 
“I can't protect her from whatever ghosts and Bogey Men are chasing her.
 
That's your job.
 
I can only pray for you.”

“I understand, Charles.”
 
And Gordon did understand.
 
Charles had stuck with him these three years when most would not have.
 
He couldn't blame the man for being spooked.
 
He hoped he would change his mind though.
 
He didn't think he would, but hope is a helpless, stupid thing that knows no reason.
 
It is also a tenacious thing that dies hard.

Gordon saw the once entrance to the park, blocked off but still enough space to park a car.
 
“Here we are, Charles.”

Charles slowed and pulled in parallel to the blockade.
 
Gordon watched as he pulled his revolver from its holster, and it appeared at that moment a ritual akin to meditation or prayer.
 
It was his way of crossing himself before rushing into some unknown battle.

They locked the Caddy up and stepped high over the barricade, Gordon noting the sign that said
Feral Park is closed to the public—Enter at own risk
with some apprehension.

Why don't they just tear it down
? Gordon wondered.
 
He had a sudden image of a bulldozer and men in hard-hats milling around the park.
 
The 'dozer advances on the playground, but dies before reaching the barred wall, sabotaged by unseen hands.
 
He could see the workmen confused and scared as incorporeal voices taunt them.

“Let's wait down there, the bench by the trees.”

“Your call, boss,” Charles said.
 
Not
Old Friend
, just
boss
.

In that one word, Gordon heard their three-year friendship coming to an end.

C
harity walked for almost an hour but it felt like longer.
 
Her legs hurt, her back hurt, her head hurt, and she was scared.
 
What if she didn't make it in time?
 
She held the larger flashlight tightly.
 
She wanted to turn it on but didn't.
 
Even though the batteries were new, she didn't want to waste any of their energy.

Above and to the west the sun turned violet red.
 
She could see it glowing, a tired light behind the clouds as it touched, then melted into the horizon.
 
In another hour it would be gone and she would be defenseless.

She watched for any landmarks that might tell her how close, or far, she was to Feral Park, but it was futile.
 
She had cowered on the floorboard of Shannon's car leaving town, and had not seen much.

She kept running.

The sun dipped farther into the horizon; full dark would come soon.
 
Then she saw the sign, Riverside 2 Miles, and felt her heart leap.
 
She could run the two miles in time, she knew she could.

As she neared town, she saw the slope on the other side of the guardrail flatten out.
 
The trees there were sparse enough to move through quickly.
 
She slowed, hopped the rail, and took cover in the trees as she ran.
 
Ahead, the trees thickened and she had to weave and duck as she passed through them.
 
Beyond was the almost solid green wall of lush, hanging willows.
 
Beyond them, Feral Park.

S
hannon awoke from restless dreams and felt the soft pressure of a familiar object in her hand.

“Alicia . . . Charity?”
 
In her mind, at that moment, her daughter and the strange girl had become one in the same.
 
“Charity,” she called again, but heard no answer.
 
Charity had run.

Asleep at my post
, she thought, and left the couch in a panicked leap.
 
The locket fell to the hardwood floor and slid next to the little table.
 
She stopped dead, looked at it, and for a second could not breathe.
 
It lay face up, a tiny heart of gold, laced with a fine chain.
 
It glowed softly under the lamplight.
 
She bent slowly, feeling numb, and picked it up.
 
For a second she thought she heard Charity's voice.

Goodbye
.

Then the numbness departed, and she felt cold.
 
She ran up the old warped steps and out into the open.
 
The backyard was deserted.
 
She ran around to the front, called out to Charity again, but there was no answer.
 
She was gone.

Shannon sprinted back to the Chevelle and drove as fast as she could toward Feral Park.

G
ordon waited as the sun set, the uncomfortable silence between he and Charles distracting him.
 
The only sounds in the hazy red afternoon were the chirping of crickets and slow rush of the Snake River.
 
As the sun slipped away behind them another sound came into play, a phantom noise at first, barely audible, gaining volume until it drowned out everything else.
 
Rock music, coming from the empty park.

“What the hell?” Gordon said, more to himself than Charles.

Charles only shook his head, brow furrowed in concentration as the sound of laughter drifted up to them.
 
They searched in vain for the source of these new sounds, and their confusion grew to fear.
 
Other than the phantom sounds, there was no sign of life in the playground below.
 
Nothing stirred.

“Ten minutes,” Charles whispered, “and I'm out of here.”

“Fine,” Gordon said.
 
He didn't care anymore.
 
Charles could drive back to fucking New York tonight and he wouldn't care.
 
He was willing to go it alone if he had to.

Then the sun
 
set, the last sliver of red melted into nothing, and it was like a veil pulled from their eyes.
 
The sounds of music and play grew louder, and the haunted playground was a frenzy of activity.
 
Kids appeared from the shadows, a dozen or more of them.
 
Filthy waifs, some very small, very young, a few that looked in their pre-teens.
  
Most were fully clothed, some dressed in rags.

The children took up perches on the posts of rope bridges and crow's nest
 
towers.
 
They swung in the swings, sat on seesaws.
 
Three of them stepped out through the playground's exit and into the wild lawn, a girl in bib overalls and two older boys, one armed with what appeared to be a long broom handle sharpened into a spear, the other with a short length of board.

It was the girl who had thrown the dead cat at them, the ghost who had warned them away.
 
If she was a ghost, and she did appear brighter somehow than the boys that flanked her, she was the only one.
 
The other children were as real as Gordon and Charles.

The three approached the wall of overgrown willows that separated Feral Park from the wild beyond and waited, perhaps for Charity.
 
Gordon could only hope at this point.
 
If the past three years had been a kind of waking nightmare to him, the last few days had been nothing short of insane.
 
He just didn't know what would happen next.

Behind them the screech of tires and the crunch of metal broke the surreal daze they found themselves in.
 
Below, several of the wild children took notice, but none spoke, none left their playground refuge.
 
The three stood waiting before the wall of green, oblivious to the commotion from above.

“Stay,” Charles ordered and ran back toward his Caddy.
 
A second later his voice rose in surprise, he spoke the name that had frustrated them the long day past. “Shannon?”

“Let me go, damnit!”

Gordon ran toward the commotion, praying his daughter would be with her.
 
She was not.

“Calm down,” Charles said, holding her by the arms, straining to keep hold as she struggled against him.
 
“Shannon, calm down.
 
I've been looking for you.
 
I'm here to help!”

“Let me go, bastard!” she shrieked.
 
She freed one arm, and struck at Charles with more force than her trim frame suggested.
 
Charles stumbled back, lost his hold on her, and she broke free.
 
She ran toward the park and stopped just short of running into Gordon.

“Where's Charity?” he demanded.
 
“Where's my girl?”

“Who are you?” she said, and stepped back from him.
 
There was recognition in her eyes.
 
He thought she could see the resemblance, but had trouble believing it.

Charles stayed back, watching the unfolding drama, ready to move.

“I'm Gordon Chambers, Charity's father,” he said.

The transformation was instant, her tight fearful features melted into wonder, then relief.
 
She stumbled forward and fell against him.
  
He caught her clumsily, and held her.

She clung to him, not crying, not laughing, but something between the two, some painful hybrid of joy and terror gripped her.
 
“You came for her,” she said. “Thank God you came.”

Gordon held her for a second then pushed her away, forcing her to stand on her own.
 
“Where is Charity?”

“I tried to stop her,” Shannon said.
 
“I wanted to protect her from him until we could find you, but she got away.”

“Where?” he interrupted.

“Down there,” she said, pointing to the park.
 
“She ran away to Feral Park.
 
We have to stop her before she gets into the playground.
 
It's not safe.”

Gordon turned and ran toward the park.
 
Shannon and Charles followed.
 
As he broke through the cover into the park he saw her, his Charity, emerge from the hanging willow limbs on the other side of the park.
 
The three children met her, enfolded her in a protective triangle, and walked her toward the playground.

“
Charity
,” Gordon screamed.

H
e can't get you in Feral Park
, Jenny told Charity, only her mouth didn't move when she spoke.
 
Her voice, cold, confident, comforting, spoke in Charity's head, accompanied by the image of him, standing alone at the playground's threshold, unable to see or hear anything within.

“He can't follow you in there,” one of the boys said, a tall wiry kid with spiked black hair.
 
He was maybe a year older than Charity.

“We have the power here,” the other boy, shorter, plumper, and blond, said.
 
“He'll never find you inside.”

“Never?” Charity asked.
 
She knew it was true, sensed it was, but needed to hear it.

“Ever,” the three said in tandem.

Welcome, Charity
.

Then they moved around her in a triangle of which Jenny was the tip, and moved toward the playground, their Neverland.
 
Charity let herself move with them.
 
She heard the crash above, broken glass and protesting metal, but the sound of the music swallowed it and the party continued.

“Wild, isn't it?” the blond boy said.
 
“Anthrax kicks ass!”

“What's Anthrax?” Charity asked.

“It's life,” he said with a grin.

“Forget him,” the tall boy said.
 
“Danzig is life.”

“Hey, girl,” someone said from the wooden turret that overlooked the playground.
 
It was a young voice, high-pitched and sexless, its owner hidden in shadow.

“Rock on!”
 
A teenage boy on a swing shouted, his deepening voice cracking on the last syllable, drawing snickers from all around.

“
Charity
!”
 
The owner of that voice was distant, familiar but unimportant, a voice from another world.