Rick Burroughs - Alan Wake

Wake walked through the open door. The station was empty. He started to turn on the lights, then thought better of it. No sense advertising his presence here.

A pair of binoculars hung from a hook, a ranger’s hat beside it. There was warm coffee in the automatic percolator. He poured himself a cup, rummaged through the small refrigerator in the corner. Half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. An apple. Five oatmeal cookies. A container of pulp-free orange juice. Wake tore into the food, ravenously hungry.

The radio on the desk was humming with voices. Wake turned it up. Pat Maine’s night owl show was on.

“I just stepped outside to catch a breath of fresh air, and let me tell you, nights like this make me especially glad I’m here talking to you, and not home in bed. Once the weather takes a turn like this, I can’t sleep at all; it’s all… angled bed sheets and dark thoughts, punctuated by the occasional nightmare. Is it just me? I don’t think so, because from what I’ve heard, there was some wild doings at the trailer park a few hours ago. Got reports from the neighbors of gunshots. Hope nobody’s celebrating Deerfest a little early. So let’s be careful out there, Bright Falls. Live and let live. Anyway, I hope I can make the night a little bit easier to get through. Caller, you’re on KBF-FM.”

Wake started on the oatmeal cookies, listening carefully and trying not to eat too fast.

“Hey, Pat, it’s Walt Snyder.”

“What’s on your mind, Walt?”

Wake chewed slowly, listening to the caller’s heavy breathing.

“I don’t know nothing about that business at the trailer park, but I can’t sleep either, Pat. I’ve been just staring out of the window here, trying to make sense of it all. I ain’t been drinking, either, you know, I just…”

“You sound like a man with a problem, Walt.”

“There’s just something in the air, you know? Like something’s about to happen.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, Pat, it’s just a feeling. Like something’s wrong around here, and there’s nothing we can do about it except… I gotta go, Pat. I know what I must sound like.”

“No apology needed. Good luck to you, Walt, hang in there,” said Pat Maine. “Strange days and stranger nights, folks, and Walt’s not the only one with a case of the yips. Just something in the air, like I said. Anyway, let’s take a little break, and when we come back, we’ll talk about what’s your favorite part of Deerfest. I know for me, it’s the blackberry pie eating contest.” Maine cut to a commercial for the hardware store, and their special on chain-saw sharpening.

Wake searched through the ranger tower, found a flare gun and flares. He tucked them into his jacket. Then he left a note detailing what he had eaten, what he had taken, signed his name, and included his phone number in New York. No sense giving Nightingale something to use against him.

The police band radio on the far wall crackled to life.

“Team one, come in, over. Team one, this is Sheriff Breaker, report, over.”

Wake picked up the receiver, then quietly returned it to its cradle.

“Team two, come in. I need a report, over.” Breaker sounded tired and frustrated. “Come on guys, talk to me. Come in, please. Over.”

“Sheriff Breaker, this is Agent Nightingale. I’ve lost contact with most of the men I commandeered last night. What kind of incompetents—”

Wake switched off the radio. He hung his head, exhausted, still hearing the deputies’ screams, their pleas for help as they tried to understand what was happening to them, why their bullets were useless. Then he went to the sink and washed his face. He barely recognized himself in the mirror.

Wake found a map in the desk, which gave him a clear picture of where he was, and what route he needed to take to get to the coal mine. It was mostly back roads and hiking trails, but once it got lighter, he wouldn’t have to be constantly looking over his shoulder.

He checked his watch, folded the map, and put it in his pocket. He had time, even if he had to walk all the way. His feet were tired and blistered, but he’d make it there by noon. He’d make it if he had to crawl there on his belly.

He touched the 9mm tucked away in his jacket. He didn’t have a manuscript for the kidnapper, just the few pages he had found scattered around Bright Falls. It didn’t matter. The kidnapper wasn’t going to get away without handing over Alice. Not this time.

Wake started down the stair of the tower. He hung on to the railing as he descended, his legs wobbly. The sun was coming up.

Bill rocked on the porch of his cabin as the last of the light faded, listening to his stomach growl. When his little brother, Timmy, disappeared playing hide and seek, at least Bill got dinner. Folks traded tales of screams in the night, and nothing but a smear of blood left behind, but Bill had insisted the brat must have gotten lost or fallen down a well. Timmy was always careless. Always sticking his nose in places it didn’t belong.

Clara was the same way. Bill’s wife. Clara never liked the cabin, always worried about being so far from other folks, always seeing things in the trees, always asking him dumb questions. Now, Clara had disappeared too. Snatched away an hour ago leaving a pan of meat loaf fixings on the table.

The night deepened, but Bill maintained the same unhurried rocking. He liked the gathering darkness, the way the shadows piled up on each other. All these years and he never missed his little brother and he wouldn’t miss Clara either. He would miss her meat loaf though.

THE BRIGHT FALLS Power Co. pickup ran out of gas within sight of the coal mining camp, a cluster of broken-down wooden buildings at the top of a hill. The truck started to roll backwards, but Wake put on the emergency brake. He tried to turn the engine over, but just ground the starter.

He had found the truck about ten miles back, found it in the weeds beside a dirt logging road and looked around for the owner without success. The keys were in the ignition, as though the driver had stepped out for a leisurely piss in the tall grass and never came back. He had waited around for fifteen minutes, resting, but the owner never showed. Wake drove off toward the coal mine. He was tired of walking, exhausted from lack of sleep, and at this point, a car theft charge was the least of his worries.

Wake sat in the front seat, restless, lightly tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. He had over an hour before the kidnapper was supposed to show so he spent some of it searching the truck. He found a more powerful light behind the passenger seat, a searchlight with what seemed to be fresh batteries. He hoped he wouldn’t need it, hoped he would have Alice back before the sun went down.

In an hour, Wake was going to meet the kidnapper, and the man was going to return Alice. He flicked the safety of the 9mm off and on, off and on. One way or the other, the kidnapper was going to release her. Unharmed. Wake hefted the pistol. Eleven bullets in the magazine; more than enough. The man was going to do it, because Wake wasn’t going to give him a choice.

Little by little, without realizing it, Wake had come to believe that the story in the manuscript was coming true, the current of its narrative dragging him deeper and deeper into dark waters. Alice had been taken from him. Barry was probably in jail. Wake was a fugitive from the FBI. The Taken roamed the night, murderous and mindless, fearing only the light. It felt real, it was real… but to anyone on the outside, anyone who hadn’t seen what Wake had seen, done what he had done, it would be grounds for involuntary commitment.