Feral (26 page)

As he neared, Gordon saw beyond the shadow of his face for the first time since the fevered nightmares of his childhood.
 
He looked into the demon eyes, and couldn't move.
 
He was stuck, frozen in place, could only watch helplessly and prepare to die.

“No!” Shannon shouted, standing at the end of her row.

The Bogey Man stopped and faced her.

Gordon felt the hold on him loosen as the Bogey Man focused on Shannon.

“
You bitch, you took her from me
!”
 
There was a sick squelching sound as he walked through the dead man's guts and started down the row toward Shannon.
 
“
I'll tear your guts out through your thieving cunt
!”

“
Stop
!” Gordon screamed, but the monster didn't stop.
 
He walked toward Shannon with slow and deadly deliberation.
 
Gordon stepped over the stinking mound of guts, almost slipping in the spreading runoff of blood, and chased the monster down the row of folding seats.

Gordon leapt at the Bogey Man, hooked a meaty arm around his throat, trying to drag or slow him down, but was only dragged along.
 
Before they closed the distance to Shannon the lights came on, and the Bogey Man melted into the air with a howl.

Gordon thumped painfully to the floor, and a second later Shannon was next to him, kneeling down and giving him a shake.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he said, though he was still gasping for breath. “You?”

“Fine,” she said.
 
“Let's get out of here.”
 
They were alone in the theatre now, but not for long.

Shannon helped Gordon up and they ran toward the center aisle, avoiding what remained of the cop as best they could.
 
When they reached the aisle, three uniformed men, Marquee uniforms instead of police, pushed through the door.
 
They saw the splattered, hollowed remains on the floor in front of them and stopped.
 
One ran back out of the theatre screaming, another lurched over, as if punched in the gut, and puked a mixture of popcorn and candy onto his feet.
 
The third looked up at Gordon and Shannon, pointed an accusing finger, and said, “Stop right where you are.”
 
He was almost as big as the other two put together, probably outweighed Gordon by fifty pounds, all muscle.

Lying beside the bloody mound of guts and cop was Mr. Plain Clothes' service pistol.
 
Gordon bent quickly and scooped it up, bringing the sight up to the center of the Usher's massive chest.
 
A second later the big usher was gone.

Gordon dropped the gun and ran toward the fire exit.
 
He hit the door without slowing, bumping the release bar inward with his hands.
 
The sound of the fire alarm chased them out into the back alley.

They didn't run to the car; there wasn't time.
 
They didn't run toward the hotel room. By the time they made it there the cops would be waiting.
 
They ran without thinking and made it several blocks through the stretch of downtown alleys and into the industrial area before they realized they were most of the way to Feral Park.

D
irty Dave heard them coming and pushed the dumpster lid up just enough to see who it was.
 
He thought it might be the cops again, trying to find the ones who had beaten him and run afoul of the kids at Feral Park.
 
It wasn't. The cops were still gone and he was safe for now.
 
They passed within feet of his hiding place, and the afternoon still held enough light for him to recognize them.
 
These people had come before, separate and together.
 
These two knew about the park and the kids in the playground.
 
Their girl was one of them.

Most of the kids here were abused or unwanted, and beyond the initial searches and obligatory public outpouring of sympathy, nothing was ever done.
 
Nobody really even knew they were here.
 
People did know that Feral Park was not a good place to be, especially after dark, that weird things happened here.
 
Dangerous things. And sometimes it wasn't only kids who vanished when they came here alone.
 
No one but him had known about the kids though.
 
This was the first time he had ever seen someone come back for their child.

These people were different; they wanted her back.
 
They cared.

“Hey . . . you!”
 
His voice sounded alien to him. He didn't use it often, and never above the level of mumble or whisper.
 
The sound of it startled him.
 
The two stopped, turned back and saw him staring above the lip of the dumpster.
 
They traded questioning glances and started toward him.
 
As they neared him, his sense of curiosity fled and the voice of self-preservation, his best friend all those lonely years, told him to hide.
 
He let the lid drop back and burrowed deeper into the refuse.
 
He whimpered when the father, a large man, pounded on the side of the metal box and said to come out.
 
The lid opened all the way, pausing for a second as it stood vertical, then fell with a wham against the back of the dumpster.

“Hey.”
 
The woman's voice was soft, gentle, easier on the panicked creature he was becoming.
 
“We won't hurt you,” she said.
 
“I promise, we just want to talk.”
 
Then with a motherly tone that gave him a brief, powerful sense of déja vù, she said, “I promise it will be fine.”

It had been so long since he'd heard a woman's voice, longer since he'd heard one speaking to him, and nearly a lifetime ago since his own mother's voice had given that kind of blind, unquestionable comfort, like a drug.

He pushed the debris away from his face so he could see her, and when the beautiful woman with the kind but worried face put her hand into the dumpster, he took it.

She helped him to his feet.
  
“Did you call to us?”

Dave nodded.
 
He tried to say ‘yes ma'am,' but it came out as a grunt.
 
He kept a wary eye on the man until the woman, still holding his grubby hand, beckoned him back a step.
 
This made Dave more at ease, and he was able to focus again on what she was saying.

“Why did you call to us?”

With his free hand he reached over her shoulder and pointed a grubby finger toward the park.
 
“The kids,” he managed, but his throat closed up again, denying him speech.
 
He waggled his finger in the air for some kind of emphasis, squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on speaking past the lump in his throat.

“You know about them?”
 
She sounded surprised, hopeful.

He nodded eagerly, almost bouncing in frustration at his stupid mouth, which had decided for the moment not to cooperate.

“What do you know about them?”
 
She sounded urgent now.
 
Her hold on his hand tightened painfully, but he didn't mind.
 
Her skin felt good.

His finger shook more emphatically.
 
She was starting to look worried—both of them were.
 
The man standing behind her stepped up closer, and Dave thought if he didn't get the words out soon he would lose his chance.
 
When they did come out, it was in a gush.
 
“Don't go in there—they'll kill you!”

For a few seconds they said nothing.
 
Their blank stares brought on the old crawling paranoia: a voice in his head that said they wouldn't listen to him—not because his words were insignificant, but because he was.

“My girl is in there.”
 
The man stepped closer as he spoke. The failing light made his face look incredibly long, tired.
 
“I have to go back for her.”

“We have to try,” the woman said, and Dirty Dave knew he was right about these two.
 
They were different from the parents of the other Feral Park kids.
 
They would die trying to save a girl who was now probably beyond saving.

Beyond the industrial area a siren blatted, it lasted a second, just long enough to warn traffic away as it approached an intersection.
 
Dave knew that in a few seconds he would see the nerve-freezing strobe-like flashes of blue and red, just like the night before after the commotion from whatever madness had woken him in his den.
 
He saw the fearful looks on the stranger's faces and knew he had to help.

“Help me out,” he said, and was happy with how his voice sounded that time.
 
Not the half-man grunt he had greeted them with, but something closer to the real Dave.

They didn't move. For a few seconds their collective gaze shifted between Dave and the direction of the siren.
 
Another blast of the siren sounded, closer this time.
 
There was no doubt about where it was headed.

“Help me out,” he said again, this time with more force.
 
“There's a place we can hide but we have to go quick!”

The woman tightened her grip on him, the man grasped his other hand, and they helped him from the dumpster.
 
He hit the pavement running, beckoning them to follow, and after another uncertain pause, they did.

He ran parallel with the park, up the slope to the top of the dike, and dropped down the other side to the tricky stone shoreline.
 
He led them along the shore away from Feral Park, away from the sound of screeching tires in the parking lot and the spooky red/blue flash of cruiser's lights.
 
They fell behind, unfamiliar with the terrain he crossed with the ease of practice; this had been his home for years, and he could run it in his sleep.
 
He slowed for them, and they caught up.

“Where are we going?” the woman asked, winded, the man only slightly less so, and for a second Dave felt a fierce pride.
 
At least in some ways he was superior to these
normal
people, whom he thought of as pets of the easy life.

“Almost there . . . follow!”
 
He pulled ahead of them again, purposefully.

He knew one of the reasons they kept slowing down was to look down the shore behind them and along the dike above, to see if they were being chased.
 
Dave knew they weren't.
 
If the cops had known they were down here they would have caught them by now.

Ahead was a chunk of large gray stone blocking the path.
 
To get around they would have to drop into the water and wade around it.

In the failing light, and from a distance, the rock appeared natural, but when they got closer they saw it for what it was—the leaning and busted concrete wall of an old flood culvert.
 
Up close, however, there was no mistaking the rusted twists of rebar that poked out in places.
 
The culvert still worked on the few occasions when Riverside had enough rain to worry about flooding.
 
The leaning wall lay at an angle against its counterpart, so there was no real danger of further collapse.

There was an arched opening near the spot where stone met water.
 
Dave dropped as he ran, like an animal running on all fours, and scurried inside.
 
A few seconds later, the woman and man scrambled in clumsily behind him, and he led them on.

Inside was near-perfect darkness.
 
It would take a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the radiant light coming from the entrance, but he didn't need light to see where he was going.
 
The others were close behind him, their heavy breathing very loud.
 
More than exertion now
, he thought.

Are they afraid of the dark
? he wondered.

It didn't matter.
 
His eyes adjusted just enough to see the path ahead for a few feet.
 
He stopped next to an adjoining culvert, this one much smaller and narrower.
 
He had to crawl on his hands and knees.
 
He reached inside, feeling around for a second, and found what he was looking for.

He turned the flashlight on—the ray was feeble, the batteries weak, but it was enough.

“Almost there,” he said, turning toward them.
 
When he saw their faces, raw panic turning to relief, he knew he was right.
 
They
were
afraid of the dark.

I'll be damned
, he thought.
 
Look like a couple of lost kids themselves
.