Rick Burroughs - Alan Wake

“It was a mistake ,” blubbered the kidnapper, tears streaming down his face. “We didn’t mean anything by it! It was a mistake!”

“Hey!” shouted Wake. Neither the kidnapper nor the woman in the black veil reacted. It was as if he wasn’t there. “Hey!”

A dark wind rose off the lake, swirling around all three of them. The kidnapper’s cap was torn off his head, tumbled end over end in the air.

“We don’t have his wife, if that’s what you’re worried about!” the kidnapper said to the woman in black. “We don’t know where she is! We just told Wake we had her so he’d agree to write for us.” He fell to his knees, sobbing, clutching at the hem of her dress. “It’s over! We won’t have anything more to do with Wake! You can have him!”

Wake reached the edge of the platform, his jacket flapping as the dark wind buffeted him. He felt himself lifted off the deck, grabbed out for the railing and lost his grip on the flashlight. The light rolled slowly across the platform and dropped off the edge, turning as it fell. Wake cried out as though a part of himself had splashed into those black depths. He dug his fingers into the railing, trying to hang on as the wind grew stronger. Out in the lake he could see the tiny red light getting closer; it had left where Diver’s Isle had been, and was now making its way toward him across the water.

“Please!” screamed the kidnapper.

The woman in black’s laugh cut through the storm, as clear as though she and Wake were in the same quiet room.

The boat was closer now. A small boat with a man at the wheel. The boat had covered the distance across the lake in an impossibly short period of time, heading right toward him, its red light blinking.

Maybe it was the Diver. The man who had saved him in his dreams, the first time on the ferry, then again in Rose’s trailer. The Diver had come to help, to offer him a way out.

Wake put the gun away, reached into his pocket for the last flare. Light was the best weapon against the darkness. Besides, he needed to signal to the man in the boat.

The woman in black looked over at Wake, her eyes glittering in a way that made Wake think of things that slithered in the dark, waiting for a chance to strike. The wind surged around her, blotting out the moon and stars. Her dress snapped around her in the storm as Wake watched in horror, her black veil elongating, growing longer and longer as it wrapped around her, mummy wrappings for the dead. The kidnapper screamed as he was jerked off the platform, spinning round and round until he was enveloped by the shadows, his cries trailing into silence. The storm roared, reveling in its power, and Wake was thrown back hard against the railing; he tried to hold on, but his fingers were torn free as he was carried aloft into the night. He managed to twist the flare, igniting it as he was hurled into Cauldron Lake.

He fell for an eternity through the black night, as though the darkness was taunting him, toying with him, and when he finally crashed into the water he didn’t even hear the splash. The icy water entered his mouth, and he felt himself reunited with the darkness he had escaped. The flare drifted away, still burning brightly as they both sank into the depths. He heard the sputtering of an engine, but the darkness was all around him, closing in.

There… down below, at the very limit of the light from the flare… it was Alice, reaching up to him, but the woman in black was there beside her, pulling her deeper, ever deeper. Alice fought back, tearing the woman in black’s veil off. Her face was a leering skull, stark white in the dimness.

Wake tried to reach Alice, to help her, but the flare had died. There was only darkness now. Alone in the dark, he slipped down farther and farther into the cold, watery night.

Wake had no idea how long he fell through total blackness, but suddenly there was a light, an unearthly light that drove back the darkness. Wake turned his head, looked up, and saw a man, glowing with light, his hand outstretched.

It’s 1976. Madness reigns at the Anderson farm. Contrary to all logic, the headiest ingredient of their moonshine is unfiltered water from Cauldron Lake. The Andersons feel like gods. Odin can’t stop laughing. He contemplates cutting his eye out. Tor runs across the field, naked, shrieking, hammer in his hand, trying to catch lightning. Their songs have power; something ancient is stirring in the depths, coming back.

TIME MOVED SLOWLY, like honey running uphill. Wake was losing ground, losing time, falling behind on some terribly important mission. If only… if only he could remember what it was.

Wake lay in bed, trying to force his eyes open, but his lids were too heavy, impossible to lift.

Don’t stop now , he told himself. Y ou stop, anything can happen and usually something you don’t want . He twisted on the sheets, pried his eyes open with sheer willpower.

Alice stood next to the bed. She leaned over and smiled softly at him.

Wake said her name, but the word came out distorted and unrecognizable.

“Shhh, baby,” said Alice. “You were just having a nightmare.”

“Alice…” Wake said her name like a man in a desert saying the word water . “I… I’ve missed you so much.” Alice melted away as Wake reached for her, became Dr. Hartman, the psychiatrist expressionless.

Hartman looked dapper in cuffed slacks and an open-necked shirt, standing there plucking at the leather buttons on his cashmere cardigan. With his smooth, bland face, he could have been an Ivy League professor or a successful attorney on vacation, but the Band-Aid taped across his nose ruined the effect. He smiled at Wake, but there was no humor in it, merely a cool appraisal. “Feeling better now, are we?”

Wake was tightly tucked into a hospital bed, his hands folded on the covers. He looked around. A small room, very clean. An electric typewriter on a table, a stack of paper beside it. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminated a few random dust motes. It took an effort for Wake not to let the sparkling motes distract him. Another man stood just inside the doorway, a stolid brute built like a wrestler wearing crisp blue pants and a white jacket.

“Nurse Birch had to restrain you,” Hartman said, nodding at the man. “You were having another one of your episodes.” He idly touched the Band-Aid on his nose. “I was forced to give you a sedative.”

“W-what?” said Wake, still groggy.

“Just stay calm,” soothed Hartman. “I’m Dr. Hartman. You’re a patient at my clinic, Mr. Wake. You’ve been here a while now. The shock of your wife’s death triggered a total psychotic break.”

Wake shook his head. “You’re lying.”

“Alas, it’s true,” said Hartman. “You have my deepest sympathies.”

“Alas, I doubt that.” Wake was drifting again; he fought to stay awake.

“It’s okay, Alan. Just…” said Hartman.

“…let it go,” said Alice. “Rest.”

Wake stopped struggling and gave in to the darkness.

There was thunder in the darkness, thunder so loud that it woke Wake up. He was still in bed, but the room was darker now. He sat up, hanging on to consciousness until the dizziness passed. He was wearing his own clothes: black hooded sweatshirt under a sports coat, and black slacks. He carefully got out of bed, stood there, unable to feel his toes.

Whatever Hartman had pumped in him was making him numb. He couldn’t think, couldn’t focus. Wake staggered over to the typewriter. There were only empty sheets of paper, no manuscript pages.