Dean Koontz - The Servants of Twilight

Biting her lip, repressing her concern for her son, Christine had finished stuffing provisions into her backpack, had made a pile of everything that ought to go into Charlie's pack, and had loaded the shotgun by the time he returned to the cabin. His face was flushed from the bitter air, and his eyebrows were white with snow, but for a moment his eyes were the coldest thing about him.

"What happened?" she asked as he came across the living room to the dining table, leaving clumps of melting snow in his wake.

"I blew them away. Like ducks in a barrel, for God's sake."

Helping him off with his backpack and spreading it on the table, she said, "All of them?"

"No. I either killed or badly wounded three men. And I might've nipped a fourth, but I doubt it."

She began frantically tucking things into the waterproof vinyl pack."

Spivey?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Maybe I hit her. I don't know."

"They're still coming?"

"They will be. We've got maybe a twenty minute head start."

The pack was half full. She paused, a can of matches in her hand.

Staring hard at him, she said." Charlie? What's wrong?"

He wiped at the melting snow trickling down from his eyebrows.

"I… I've never done anything like that. It was… slaughter. In the war, of course, but that was different. That was war.

"So is this."

"Yeah. I guess so. Except… when I was shooting them.

I liked it. And even in the war, I never liked it."

"Nothing wrong with that," she said, continuing to stuff things into the backpack." After what they've put us through, I'd like to shoot a few of them, too. God, would I ever!"

Charlie looked at Joey." Get your gloves and mask on, Skipper."

The boy didn't respond. He was standing by the table, his face expressionless, his eyes dead.

" Joey?" Charlie said.

The boy didn't react. He was staring at Christine's hands as she jammed various items into the second backpack, but he didn't really seem to be watching her.

"What's wrong with him?" Charlie asked.

"He. he just. went away," Christine said, fighting back the tears that she had only recently been able to overcome.

Charlie went to the boy, put a hand under his chin, lifted his head.

Joey looked up, toward Charlie but not at him, and Charlie spoke to him but without effect. The boy smiled vaguely, humotlessly, a ghastly smile, but even that wasn't meant for Charlie; it was for something he had seen or thought of in the world where he had gone, something that was light-years away. Tears shimmered in the corners of the boy's eyes, but the eerie smile didn't leave his face, and he didn't sob or make a sound.

"Damn," Charlie said softly.

He hugged the boy, but Joey didn't respond. Then Charlie picked up the first backpack, which was already full, and he put his arms through the straps, shrugged it into place, buckled it across his chest.

Christine finished with the second pack, made sure all the flaps were securely fastened, and took that burden upon herself.

Charlie put Joey's gloves and ski mask on for him. The boy offered little or no assistance.

Picking up the loaded shotgun, Christine followed Charlie, Joey, and Chewbacca out of the cabin. She looked back inside before she closed the door. A pile of logs blazed in the fireplace.

One of the brass lamps was on, casting a circle of soft amber light. The armchairs and sofas looked comfortable and enticing.

She wondered if she would ever sit in a chair again, ever see another electric light. Or would she die out there in the woods tonight, in a grave of drifted snow?

She closed the door and turned to face the gray, frigid fastness of the mountains.

Carrying Joey, Charlie led Christine around the cabin and into the forest behind it. Until they were into the screen of trees, he kept glancing around nervously at the open meadow behind them, expecting to see Spivey's people come into sight at the far end of it.

Chewbacca stayed a few yards ahead of them, anticipating their direction with some sixth sense. He struggled a bit with the snow until he reached the undrifted ground within the forest, and then he pranced ahead with an eager sprichtliness, unhindered by rock formations, fallen timber, or anything else.

There was some brush at the edge of the forest, but then the trees closed ranks and the brush died away. The land rose, and the earth became rocky and difficult, except for a shallow channel that, in spring, was probably filled with run-off from the melting snowpack, pouring down from higher elevations. They stayed in the channel, heading north and west, which was the direction they needed to go. Their snowshoes were strapped to their backpacks because, for the next few hours, they would be mostly under the huge trees, where the mantle of snow was not particularly deep. In fact, in places, the boughs of the densely grown evergreens were so tightly interlaced that the ground beneath them was bare or virtually so.

Nevertheless, there was sufficient snow for them to leave a clear trail.

He could have stopped and tried brushing away their tracks, but he didn't bother. Waste of time. The signs he would leave by trying to eradicate their footprints would be just as obvious as the footprints themselves, for the wind couldn't gain much force in the deepest part of the forest, at least not down here at floor level, and it would not soften and obliterate the brush marks. They could only press on, keep moving, and hope to outrun their pursuers. Perhaps later, if and when they crossed any stretches of open land, the increasing wind might be strong enough to help them out, obscure their passage.

if.

If they ever made it through this part of the woods and onto a stretch of open ground.

If they weren't brought down by Spivey's hounds in the next half hour or forty-five minutes.

if.

The woods were shadowy, and they soon found that the narrow eye holes of the ski masks limited their vision even further.

They tripped and stumbled because they didn't see everything in their path, and at last they had to take the masks off. The subzero air nipped at them, but they would just have to endure it.

Charlie became acutely aware that their lead on Spivey's people was dwindling. They had been at the cabin almost five minutes. So they were now just fifteen minutes ahead of the pack, maybe even less. And because he couldn't move as fast as he wanted while carrying Joey, Charlie had little doubt that their lead was narrowing dangerously, minute by minute.

The land rose more steeply; he began to breathe harder, and he beard Christine panting behind him. His calves and thighs were knotted, beginning to ache already, and his arms were weary with the burden of the boy. The convenient channel began to curve eastward, which wasn't the way they needed to go. It was still heading more north than east, so they could continue to follow it for a short while, but soon he would have to put the boy down in order to make his way overconsiderably less hospitable terrain. If they were going to escape, Joey would have to walk on his own.

But what if he wouldn't walk? What if he just stood there, staring, empty-eyed?

Grace crouched within the snowmobile, staying down out of the line of fire, though her old bones protested against her cramped position.

It was a black day in the spirit world. This morning, discovering this disturbing development, she thought she would not be able to dress in harmony with the spectral energies. She had no black clothes. There had never been a black day prior to this.

Never. Fortunately, Laura Panken, one of her disciples, had a black ski suit, and they were nearly the same size, so Grace swapped her gray suit for Laura's black outfit.

But now she almost wished she weren't in contact with the saints and with the souls of the dead. The spectral energies radiating from them were uniformly unsettling, tinged with fear.