“God, would you stop? I’m not blaming you. All I’m saying is there’s been nothing for a long time. We should see him coming back at least.”
This was probably true. Maybe too much glare? Casey thumbed off his flashlight, then pressed his face against the icy slab of window glass. Nothing to see. He chewed on his lower lip. Maybe they should go. “Do you remember if Tony had a rope or extension cord or, I don’t know, something we can tie off to the car?”
“He wouldn’t have anything long enough to reach the van.”
“I know that,” Casey said, impatiently. “But if we can extend our reach, get away from the car a good fifty feet or so, then one of us can keep going with the flashlight, right? The other one hangs back and yells.”
“Oh, right,” she said. “Sorry. That’s a good idea, Casey.”
He knew that. “So was there anything?”
“I don’t remember. Maybe we should check your sled?”
He should’ve thought of that. He was pretty sure he had chains and a couple bungee cords. Popping his door, he flicked on his flashlight, almost climbed out, but then remembered those stupid locks. Reaching over the front seat, he yanked the keys, pocketed them—and frowned. Ducking out of the car again, he sniffed. “You smell that?”
“Yeah.” She was looking at him across the Camry’s snow-silted roof. “That’s—”
“Gas.” He faced the direction where the van lay. “I didn’t smell it before.”
“Maybe the wind changed direction?”
“No, I—” And that’s when it hit him. “It’s stopped snowing. There’s no wind.”
Rima turned her face to the black, featureless bowl of night sky. “Can that happen? I mean, all of a sudden like that?”
How should he know? Did he look like he worked for The Weather Channel? But she’s right; this is creepy. No wind, no snow. Like someone hit a switch or turned off the spigot. If anything, the air was much colder now, and heavier somehow. “Come on,” he said, then stopped as his boot came down with a small splish. “Hey, what …”
Whatever else he would’ve said died right then and there.
Because from the darkness came a scream.
TONY
She Has to Be Here
TONY WHIRLED, THE flashlight tumbling from his hand to fly into the fog. The night came slamming down as he backpedaled, his feet slipping, his balance finally going. He went down like a rock. The impact was like wiping out on an ice rink: a solid, bone-rattling blow that drove the air from his lungs. Gasoline sheeted over his body; cold fuel slapped his face. His throat closed on a mouthful of gasoline, and then he was choking, his vision starting to speckle with black filaments. Ropy drool poured from his open mouth. His thoughts swirled in a swoon: Passing … out …
At the last possible second, the knotted muscles of his throat relaxed, and he pulled in a great, wrenching gasp. His chest throbbed; something inside there seemed to push. There was still gas in his mouth, too, and the fumes got him coughing again.
Someone out here. On the ice. With him. “Whooo?” The word rode on a breathy shriek. “Who’s … who’s th-there?”
No answer.
“C-C-Casey?”
No answer.
Oh God, oh God, I’m in so much trouble. With his flashlight gone, the night was inky and close. He couldn’t seem to pull in enough air. The fog’s webby fingers threaded up his nose and steamed into his brain, and then he was gasping as the fog squirmed into the space behind his eyes. His head went swimmy. The thinking part of his mind knew he was hyperventilating and only making things much worse, but he couldn’t help it. If he didn’t get out of this, if he couldn’t find his way back, he was going to faint, or freeze, or both.
He pushed to his feet and stood a moment, swaying, his pulse rabbiting through his veins. The fog was thick, but the flares showed through the storm, right? So, it stood to reason that if he could just get a little closer to his car, he ought to pick one out. From there, it was a cakewalk. All he had to do was get himself pointed the right way. Put the van at his back, and he was set.
He shuffled forward, pushing through the fog, the gasoline slopping and gurgling around his boots. After twenty steps, he still hadn’t found the van and panic started to bleed into his chest again. Where could it—
Bam! A bomb went off in his face, right between his eyes, and he screamed with pain. Blood flooded his mouth, then spurted from his broken nose in a great spume, and he simply dropped in a sodden heap. He couldn’t get up. Everything hurt, even his hair. Blindly, he put out a gloved hand, felt an upside-down door handle. In his terror, he’d run right into the van. Which side? He slid his hand down a bit then felt his glove sink into something soft and flaccid. “Ahhh,” he said, the sound coming out as a thick half-moan, half-scream. He must be at the passenger’s side window and that dead girl. Then his brain caught up to what his hands, even through gloves, had already registered.
There was the coat, yes. But …
No. He thought back to that slithering touch, and a swell of terror flooded his chest. No, no, she has to be here; she’s dead, she’s dead, she—
Over the thunder of his heart, Tony heard something new.
A single …
lonely …
splash.
TONY
Get Up, or You’re Dead
TONY FROZE.
Behind him. Someone there. Not Casey or Rima; he knew that. They would’ve called out. Even with the fog, he ought to see a little light, but—
Splash.
God, what was that? He felt the scream boiling on his tongue. That wasn’t an animal. No animal in its right mind would be out here, in the cold and dark, just hanging around, waiting for a dumb, stupid kid to bumble—
Splash.
Get up. Every hair on his head stood on end. Get up, or you’re dead. Get up, or it will find you. Get up, run, do something, get up!
But he did not get up. He couldn’t. Instead, Tony shrank, shivering, against the van, his nose still dripping blood, which was beginning to freeze to his chin.
Splash. Pause. Slosh.
The handset. He had the walkie-talkie. He could call for help. Call someone.
Slosh.
Eric can’t help. He’s probably too far away. I’m all alone out here and— Another splish, and now the lake of gasoline rippled and broke against his legs. Getting closer, coming right for me. He had to do something, do something.
Slosh. Splish.
He eased the handset from his pocket.