Feral (32 page)

The ghost girl stood next to Charity staring into the bushes with a look of calm hatred.
 
Charity could not see him where he stood, the cover was too thick, the interior too dark, but the other saw him clearly, could see the recognition in her eyes.

For a moment all was silent.

From above came the sound of the Chevelle's engine turning over, the mechanical roar as it came out of hiding, and the blinding glare of its headlights, pinning the stunned kids in place.
 
There was the grunt of metal on concrete as it jumped a barrier at the end of the parking lot and landed in the park, tires throwing dirt and dried grass in rooster tails.

The kids stood there as it rushed toward them, caught like deer in the glare.
 
Shannon turned the beams to bright and held the horn in a long, loud blast, and they finally broke.

The tall boy grabbed the shorter boy's arm and fled to the playground, their forms turning to shadow as they crossed the arched entrance.
 
The ghost girl (
Jenny, her name is Jenny, it's written in the book she left, when she warned you to stay away
) crossed her arms over her face and vanished with a surprised shriek.

Charity ran toward the trees, phone still clutched in hand and the surprised smile widening.
 
Gordon rushed through the veil and met her half way.

“Daddy!” she screamed.
 
“You came back!”
 
She leapt at him, Charles' phone falling from her hand as she threw her arms open.
 
Gordon fell to his knees in the dead grass and caught her.
 
As her arms closed around his neck, the screams of joy broke into sobs, an all out release of emotion that swallowed her whole.
 
His arms closed around her, and he cried too.

“I'll never lose you again.”
 
He closed his eyes and leaned into her, weakened by the release.
 
“Never, never again.
 
I promise!”
 
For a short time, seconds that felt like forever, they held each other, leaned on each other, supported each other in an embrace that denied the distance of time that had separated them, that defied a world full of monsters and circumstance that had tried to keep them apart.

It was Shannon's voice, its urgency a reminder of all that might separate them again, which brought him back to the moment.
 
He opened his eyes and saw Shannon standing by the open driver's door.
 
“Hurry.”
 
Her eyes, wide and fearful, turned toward the playground.

The kids were coming, they leapt over the edge of the blood-iron railing, poured like an angry, dirty river from the mouth of the playground.
 
Each held a weapon of some kind—crudely fashioned broom handle spears, great rusty butcher's knives, clubs.
 
The tall boy broke through and led them toward the Chevelle, his hands resting on the butts of twin guns belted to his hips.

“
Gordon, let's go
!” Shannon screamed, then slid back into her seat, locking the door behind her.

The kids, Wild Ones, Dave had called them, were almost halfway to the car.
 
Gordon staggered to his feet and carried Charity to the car in great clumsy strides, her arms still locked in a death grip around his neck.
 
Shannon pushed the passenger door open for him, and he slipped in.
 
Before he could close the door, Shannon stepped on the gas.
 
Dried grass and dirt flew behind them; a stream of childish curses and taunts, then a hail of sticks, rocks and knives followed them.
 
Stones bounced off the hood and trunk.
 
Some went through the shattered rear window and landed in the back seat.
 
Something large and hard hit the back of Gordon's seat hard enough to bounce him.

Then the boy with the guns opened fire.

C
harity had given up, but they had not.
 
They'd come back for her.

Charity sat in her father's lap, arms wrapped around his neck in a near chokehold.
 
His cheek, scratchy with days of unshaved stubble, warmed her skin.
 
He whispered little bits of nothing into her ear, disconnected words and sounds of comfort.

It was the gunshots that brought her back to reality.

Shannon cried out, almost lost control.

“Get down, baby,” Gordon whispered in her ear and gently removed her arms from his neck.
 
A second later she was sitting on the car floor, a familiar and comforting spot.
 
Her father slid down and to the side, providing less of a target.
 
She would have told him not to worry, she didn't think Toni could shoot well, but words failed her.
 
She only sat and watched him, trying not to blink lest he vanish the moment her eyes left him.

She winced as something pointy pressed her thigh.
 
She pulled the scissors from her belt and held them to her chest.

There were more shots as they left the screaming mob behind, and there was a startling
pow
and a sharp lurch to the left as a tire exploded.

“Shit!”
 
Shannon cried out in equal parts frustration and fear as their momentum slowed.

“We're almost there,” Gordon soothed, but he didn't sound hopeful.
 
“Just get us out of the park and maybe they'll let us go.”

Shannon stamped the gas pedal to the floor and grimaced at the sound the over-revved engine made.
 
Their speed picked up a little, but the rear end fishtailed, and she had to fight the wheel to keep it straight.

“Hold on!” Gordon shouted, then placed both hands against the dash, bracing himself.
 
A second later, Charity was jarred painfully as the car bounced over, then came to rest on some unseen obstacle.
 
The engine died, left them sitting at an odd angle.
 
After a few calm moments Charity climbed back to the seat and dared a look behind them.
 
The kids were gone.

They had made it out, barely.
 
The Chevelle sat half in, half out of Feral Park, high centered on a concrete parking barrier.

In the silence, Shannon's eyes found Charity.
 
She grabbed her, squeezed her in an embrace that was almost painful.
 
“Don't you ever run away again,” she scolded, though much of the force of her voice was lost in weeping.
 
“Don't ever do it again.”

“I'm sorry,” Charity said, then burst into tears again.
 
“I won't.”

Gordon's long reach found them both, held them as they held each other.

Just like a family
, Charity thought.
 
She let her eyes slip shut, and, dropping the Bogey Man's weapon to the seat, redoubled her grip on Shannon.

No, you're not
, whispered a dissenting voice in her head.
 
You won't live long enough to be a family
.
 
You may have gotten away, but they still have a piece of you down there
.
 
If you don't go back, they will kill you
.
 
Then, following that,
The Bogey Man's gonna get me, and he'll get them too
.

T
hey sat there for what seemed a long time, doors locked, dome light and headlights burning.
 
Shannon was afraid to try the ignition, afraid the Chevelle might not start, afraid it would start but not move.
 
She was also afraid of the battery running dry and leaving them defenseless in the dark.
 
She felt
Him
near, his sick heat that pulsed around them like something infected.

She felt him waiting.

At last, her fear of the dark won out and she did try.

The Chevelle started and lurched forward with an ugly sound, a grinding of metal against stone, and when she tried to move the car, it only rocked uselessly for a few nightmare moments.
 
Then the power wheels touched ground for long enough to grab.
 
The Chevelle's twisted frame groaned, then its tires found flat blacktop and the rough metal against stone sound ended.
  
They crept slowly toward the highway.

They wouldn't make it to Crazy Ernie's on the flat tire, but they didn't dare leave the safety of the lit cab until they were in a safer place.

As it happened, she didn't need to worry about the flat tire for long.
 
Sergeant Winter waited beyond the gate with backup.
 
Three city cruisers blocked the exit, but their lights were dark.
 
He recognized the car—Jared's car—immediately, and nodded to the officers behind him as he approached them, gun pointed skyward.

“Don't like being lied to, Gordon.”
 
He peered through the windshield, saw Charity sitting between them, and seemed to relax.
 
He even smiled a little.
 
He motioned for the others to come down and holstered his gun before trying the door.

“Open up,” he barked.
 
“Let's get you guys safe.”

A stone flew from the shaded grove to their left and smashed the driver's side window.
 
Shannon and Charity screamed as glass flew around them.
 
Gordon cursed and bent protectively over Charity.

“Turn on the lights,” he screamed, then ducked as another stone bounced off the Chevelle's grill.
 
A third followed, and one of the headlights shattered.
 
Shadows previously held at bay leapt out and reached for them, the sickening heat grew, blowing like a wind through the cab.
 
Laughter followed, and Charity sank into her seat, groaning.

“Turn on the lights,” Shannon and Gordon screamed.

Sergeant Winter and his officers ignored them.
 
Winter's gun was trained on the shadowy jungle to their left.
 
The officers inched toward it, their guns also leveled.

“Oh, my little Charity. My bad, bad little thing.”
 
It was the voice of the night, coming from nowhere and everywhere.
 
“I can't stand it when you run from me, my precious little Charity.
 
If only you knew how sad it makes me.”
 
The laughter that followed was cruel.
 
“Now I have to punish you.
 
Yes, I must punish you, and I think I'll start with her!”
 
Another stone flew though the missing window, striking the back of Shannon's head.
 
She cried out in pain then groaned as the world darkened for a moment.
 
She felt the back of her head and her fingers came away tacky with blood.

“No!”
 
Charity screamed and grabbed Shannon, holding her tight.
 
“I'm sorry!”

“Turn on your fucking lights,” Gordon screamed again, and this time Winter looked his way.

“It's not your fault,” Shannon whispered in her ear.
 
“Don't you ever think that!”

“Hit the lights!” Winter shouted.
 
Two of the officers halted their slow approach to the willow jungle, and then ran for the cruisers.
 
The third took a final step toward the shadows, and with a shriek of half shock and half pain, was pulled into darkness.

“Fuck!”
 
Winter took large strides around the front of the Chevelle.
  
“Adams!
 
You okay?”
 
There were no replies and no more screams, just a meaty tearing sound followed by a wet thud.

The officers stopped at the gate, guns leveled into the darkness again.

A shot rang out, and the Chevelle's last headlight exploded.

“Get the fucking lights!”

Shannon couldn't tell if it was Gordon or Winter that time, but a second later the lights came on.
 
Headlights pointed at odd angles down the slope and into the willows.
 
Emergency flashers filled the world with unnatural pulsations of red and blue.

The sound that followed, an inhuman squeal of frustration, was like needles in the ear.

Sergeant Winter stood silhouetted, his shadow frozen across the Chevelle's blue hood.
 
“My God,” he moaned, then lurched forward and aired his stomach with a great, groaning belch.

Shannon looked out her window, then turned away, eyes clenched shut.

When Winter stood upright again his face was pale and loose, sick with horror.
 
“How about some help down here,” he shouted at the two officers who only stood, staring at what was left of their partner.
 
All of the bluster had left his voice, though.