Feral (35 page)

“He's coming for the rest of me,” she said.
 
“We have to go now.”

Shannon felt the girl's calm take her, like a dose of mental painkiller.
 
The rising panic, the terror, and grief for Gordon that tore at her, faded into that dark corner of her mind where her Alicia's voice would always live.
 
She knew those things would come back, every grief she could handle and more, but for now they were gone and she was in control.

Or is it Charity in control
? she wondered, locking away her pain and shutting down all but the vital functions while the girl worked her as nimbly as a puppet master.

“Yes,” Shannon agreed numbly.
 
“Time to go.”
 
Operating on pure motor memory she pulled away from the curb.
 
Her feet worked the pedals independent of her will, her hands worked the wheel without consulting her, turning right at the intersection, bringing the car on a familiar path.

Feral Park.

“Where are we going?”
 
But Shannon knew where they were going, a place of destiny, both cursed and blessed, because even if her waking nightmare that dreadful night had heralded the greater horrors to come, she had found something good there:
 
Charity, a girl who Shannon, after only four days, thought of as a daughter.
 
She knew where they were going; the real question was
why
?

Charity did not answer.
 
She didn't need to.
 
The answer, both terrible and awesome in its implications, was plain.
 
It was where it had started, for her anyway, and for good or bad, it would end there tonight.

“Turn the light on,” Charity said, pointing toward the dome light as she opened the glove box.
 
The glow from the open glove box was feeble, but it filled her transparent form like a bright smoke.

Shannon turned on the dome light, and jerked her hand down, cringing as something large struck the hood.
 
The cab flooded with that fever heat, thick and sickly as clear pus.
 
Something, a darker shape in the darkness above,
him
, flew past them holding a small rag doll form in its arms.
 
Then it flew up, away from the twin cones of halogen light.
 
It turned in the air above them and circled the car.

“You loved my daddy,” Charity said, not a question, but an observation.

“Yes,” Shannon said, and felt the cool touch of unreality leave her, running away from her like water.
 
Those hidden things, the undead grief and horrors in the back shadows of her mind came forward.
 
Not hateful, hurtful things, she now realized, but lost things, scared things, needing only direction.

He passed overhead again, close enough this time for Shannon to clearly see Charity's limp body hanging from one hooked arm.
 
He howled in triumph, teased again by touching down on the car, jolting it, nearly making her run off the road.

“
I'm back, my little Charity
!”

“Do you love me?” Charity asked Shannon, and this time there was just a hint of emotion in her words.

“Yes, I do,” Shannon said, and smiled.
 
“I love you very much.”

The ghostly image returned the smile, then faded.
 
“I'll see you soon then,” she said.
 
“You know where to find me.”

“I'll come for you,” Shannon said, but she was alone again.
 
Charity was gone; the dark thing in the sky was gone.

G
et ready
, Jenny said from the shadows of the park.
 
Anger edged her voice like blood on teeth.

She's coming
.

F
eral Park sat empty, a place on the edge of two worlds, the civilized and the wild, a wasteland of thistles and refuse.
 
No laughter, no music, no playing.
 
There was no movement but the shifting of shadows in the playground, a swing tossed by a light breeze, the rhythmic rocking of the rope bridges.
 
Those shadows seemed things full of rage.

The children were pissed.

Charity felt them very near, seeing her and moving toward her in this place between worlds.
 
She stood just outside the playground with her back to the entrance, feeling them behind her, feeling him but not yet seeing him as he drew near to her.
 
One nightmare behind, ahead another.
 
Soon they would meet with her in the middle.
 
If she could not escape, there was always the final escape of death.
 
She could simply refuse her body the life it needed, then slip away as it died.

Why are you teasing me
?
 
It was Toni.
 
She gave no reply, aloud or silent.
 
Only waited.

Why did you come back
?
 
It was Jenny, she was angry.
 
It was the first time Charity had sensed any emotion in the ghostly child.
 
Stay or go, but do it quick
.
 
I won't save you from them
.

There were shouts of approval from the others, angry sounds that weren't quite words.

Charity faced forward, silent, ignoring them.
 
Waiting.

As one they rose up behind her, she felt them; it was a hot, violent aura like the Bogey Man's.

Then with a collective gasp of shock, they vanished.

He fell from the sky and came for her, his sandpaper laughter breaking the silence.
 
Eyes that burned like black suns promised pain; his razorblade smile pledged submission if not death.

“Run Charity, run, as fast as you can.
 
You'll never get away from the Bogey Man.”

“You're not all that scary,” she said flippantly, favoring him with a sly smile, and when he rushed her she fell back from him, into the playground.

He tossed her dying body to the ground and followed her inside.

O
nce inside, he could not see her, could not even feel her presence.

“Come to Daddy, you little bitch.
 
If you don't come to me this instant, I'll make you suffer far worse than your mom or dad.”
 
He walked deeper into the playground, feeling odd and somehow weak.
 
There was something about this place he didn't understand or like, but he would not leave until he found her.

“When I catch you, I'll do things to you can't imagine, and I'll make you live through them.
 
You will suffer like no other has suffered before, and then I'll take you, ready or not.”

Still nothing.
 
If she was here, her fear was somehow masked.
 
Or perhaps she wasn't afraid of him at all.

Impossible
!

Behind him, a rusty swing squeaked, as if nudged by the wind or an unseen hand.
 
To his left, old wood groaned.
 
Something moved before him.
 
A shadow that hadn't been there seconds earlier snaked across the wood-chip covered ground toward him.
 
Deep, primal fear, an emotion he had never felt in his long life, drove him back from it.

Hey mister
!
 
A soft young voice, faint but clear, as if someone had come unnoticed behind him and whispered in his ear.

He spun around, the razor edge of his weapon slicing the air, finding nothing
but
air.

Something touched his ankle, wrapped around it like a tentacle.

Then the night exploded inside his head, a raucous noise, laughter and music, the kind of wild stuff the kids seemed to like these days.
 
He sometimes heard it in his head like this as he devoured them, but never this loud, and never this frightening.
 
He turned and faced a boy, something only half flesh.

Boo
! The boy shouted in his head, then laughed at him.

The Bogey Man roared and stabbed at the boy, but the boy became shadow once again, and when his weapon pierced that shadow the scissors were pulled away.
 
He drew his arm back with a cry of pain; there was a bloody stump where his hand should have been.

Blood
!

A long broom handle spear jabbed at him, pierced his leg, and withdrew.
 
His howl of pain became surprise as the shadow tentacle tightened on his leg and yanked his feet from under him.

Then he saw them, standing in a circle around him, staring down with death in their eyes.
 
Charity stood among them watching smugly, lips pressed tight in a grimace of satisfaction.

“Here he is … King of the Bogeys.”

Then they were gone again, and in their place the shadows, moving liquidly, merging, growing.
 
As he struggled away on legs that didn't want to hold him, it rushed like a great black river.

The King
! someone shouted.

Catch the Bogey
!

Kill the Bogey
!

Then it was on him, oozing over him with excruciating slowness, and the horrible brats devoured every fiber of him.

“No!”
 
He dug in with the palm of his left hand and the stump of his right, pushed himself an inch closer to the exit.
 
“Let me go, you little bastards!”

Shut the fuck up
!

A hand reached from the living shadow, a small, prissy hand, and honked his nose.

Arooga
,
arooga
!

Laughter.
 
Mocking laughter.

A lone shape stepped from the shadow, stared down at him: Charity.
 
In her hands was his weapon, still dripping with her father's blood.
 
She fell to her knees and drew the scissors over her head with a howl of rage, then plunged them into his face.

Something was terribly wrong; he felt the pain as the blades broke through bone and pushed into the soft stuff beyond.
 
Something had turned the laws of his world inside out and given his power to the sheep, and they were slaughtering him.

S
hannon approached the playground.
 
The sound of the kids chanting was huge.
 
It filled the park, actual physical voices, as well as the ones in her head.

The King is dead
!
 
The King is dead
!

They ignored her as she approached the entrance.
 
Inside the playground, all was still, no movement, no activity, but the voices and the chanting never stopped.
 
Music played, the wild stuff that Jared used to love, but it was a low background drone, overpowered by the Feral Kid's gleeful song.

The King is dead
!

She found Charity exactly as she had before, a still, collapsed form lying in the dust and wood chips at the playground's arched entrance.

The Playground Of Dreams
.

Feral Park
.

Gray skin stretched thin over a gaunt face, lit by an apologetic moon.
 
Listless.
 
There was no sign of movement under her parchment eyelids, no gentle rise and fall of the chest, and when she picked up Charity's too light body, there was no heat.

Shannon cried silently, as not to disturb the wild ones—
the King is dead
—and carried Charity away from Feral Park.

S
hannon heard her name called softly in the night and rose to answer it.
 
She was still somewhere between dream and reality, and in her mind it was Alicia's voice.
 
She was always fearful upon opening her eyes on the almost perfect blackness her shade provided, but when she pulled it from her eyes the light flooded in and filled her with comfort.
 
Inside her bedroom all the lights burned brightly, the overhead fixture, two bedside lamps.
 
The lively glare of the television, silently proclaiming the virtue of
Ginsu
Knives.
 
The infomercials didn't bother her like they used to; the secret to not letting them bother you, she had discovered, was to keep the sound off.
 
They provided that much more light, that much more life.

She made her way into the hall.
 
Her belly preceded her by several inches.
 
She was seven months pregnant, and walking had become a chore akin to weightlifting.