Rick Burroughs - Alan Wake

“And these two are the Anderson brothers, Odin and Tor,” said Hartman. “They had a heavy metal band in the seventies and eighties, called Old Gods of Asgard. They even adopted new first names to complete the image of Viking gods. After the band broke up, they moved to a farm nearby.”

Wake waved to the brothers. “Nice to see you two again.”

“My rheumatism’s killing me,” said Odin, oddly dapper with his eye patch, his bright blue eye glaring at Wake. “There’s a storm coming. A big -ass storm.”

“I remember you,” Tor said to Wake, plucking at his white beard. He beat on the table with a toy plastic hammer, the thing squeaking every time it hit the surface. “You played the coconut song for us.”

“The brothers are in advanced stages of dementia,” said Hartman. “They are well cared for, but there’s nothing more that can be done. I’m afraid that the rock-and-roll lifestyle has left its mark.”

Thunder rumbled the windows, the storm dark and threatening, closer now.

“Toldja!” Odin called to them. “A big-ass storm!”

Tor beat on the table with the plastic hammer. “I bring the thunder!”

The lights went out for a moment and then flickered back on.

Hartman looked around, worried.

Lightning crashed.

“What’s wrong?” Wake said.

Hartman acted as though he hadn’t heard him. “I’m… I’m so sorry to cut this short, Alan, but the power has been acting up. I’d better go check on it. Meanwhile, when you feel up to it, return to your room and try to write. It really is for the best.”

Wake watched Hartman scurry off. Noticed that Birch had stayed behind, blocking the doorway.

“I’d like to bash nursie’s head in with a hammer,” said Tor, pounding the table, squeak, squeak, squeak . He looked at Wake. “He’d love to fish out our secrets, but he has no clue. He’s not crazy enough, not crazy like us, sonny.” He jumped up, did a jerky little dance. He was well over six feet tall.

“Being crazy’s a requirement, sonny,” said Odin, peering at Wake. “Who else could understand the world when it’s like this? It takes crazy to know crazy.”

Wake nodded. “That’s the sanest thing I’ve heard in a while.”

Tor slapped Wake’s back. “Zane! You’re all right, Tom. Hey, we like him, don’t we, bro? He’s gotta go to the farm.”

They thought Wake was Thomas Zane, confusing one writer with another one. He went along with it. Tor was strong for an old man; his slap on the back almost knocked the wind out of Wake.

“The Anderson Farm!” grunted Odin. “Valhalla!”

“We wrote it all down lest we’d forget,” Tor whispered to Wake. He glanced over at Birch. “A crash course. All you need to know to get your head right. You need to find the message.”

Odin reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Here, sonny,” he said, handing it to Wake. “Here’s something for you. Gave me a rash, but I kept it safe from these bastards.”

Wake unfolded the piece of paper. It was a manuscript page. One of his manuscript pages. He looked into Odin’s bright blue eye.

Tor nodded. “Don’t let Hartman find it.” He leaned closer to Wake. “Hey, Tom, you got any booze on you?”

Wake shook his head. “Wish I did. Does Hartman—?”

“You’re in luck, Tom,” said Odin. “We have a stash of the special stuff at the farm. Our own formula. Local ingredients. Medicine. Clears your head right up… makes you remember, like… moonbeams, on the brain…”

Tor flicked the leather patches on Wake’s sport coat. “Leather patches on the elbows? That’s not very rock and roll,” he grumbled.

“Tom’s just lost, is all,” said Odin. “Baba Yaga got to him too, the damn witch!”

Wake looked from one to the other. “Baba Yaga? The woman in black.”

Odin spat on the floor. “Barbara Jagger, that’s her.”

“She took my thunder, the witch,” said Tor. “She took something from you too, didn’t she?”

“Yeah,” said Wake. “She did.”

“This place, the lake, it gives you power,” said Odin. “If you’re an artist!” His face darkened. “Musician, writer, poet, painter, she doesn’t care. But she makes sure everything you create comes out twisted and wrong. Just ask the Lamp Lady. She knows what happened to that other writer.”

Tor glared at Wake. “She’s been using you, boy. And you let her. You went and opened the door for her, didn’t you?”

“No, I didn’t,” said Wake.

“Now, now,” said Odin, “it was already open a crack.”

“What door?” said Wake.

“Doesn’t mean he had to open it all the way, goddammit!” Tor said to his brother.

“What exactly are you talking about?” demanded Wake.

“We… we built the farm close to the lake,” said Odin, beating on the table again with the toy hammer. “A place of power. That’s what we wanted.”

“The parties we had there, man,” said Tor, raking his fingers through his wispy white beard. “You… you should go there. Have a party of your own.”

“See you later,” said Wake.

“I’m serious ,” said Tor. “You should go there.”

He could hear the Anderson brothers shouting behind him, bellowing at each other, but he kept walking. Wake needed to get into the Staff Only wing. Hartman had the manuscript pages that Wake had collected. They would be in his office. Wake just needed a key.

Lightning crashed outside.

Birch intercepted him by the door. “You going to give the writing a shot, Wake? The typewriter’s in your room.”

A female nurse walked over, a thickset woman with wiry brown hair and big hands. Her nametag read: Sinclair. “Hey, Birch,” she said. “We may need to put a lid on the Anderson brothers. You know how storms send them off the edge.”

Lightning flashed again, froze the room for an instant with hot light.

Odin howled.

Tor joined him.

Birch looked past Wake toward the brothers. “You stay here, Wake. We got to take care of this.”

Wake looked back, saw the two nurses moving quickly toward the brothers.

“Children of the Elder God!” cheered Odin. “Scourge of light upon the dark!”

“Everybody calm down,” said Sinclair. “You boys need to go to your rooms.”

“Do it, fellas,” ordered Birch.

“Children of the Elder God!” shouted Tor, bringing the hammer down. A chunk of wood flew off the table.

Wake stared, moved closer, not believing what he had seen.

Outside the storm was rising, the lake a sea of whitecaps, the wind shaking the windows of the hall.

“Put the hammer down, Tor,” said Sinclair.

“Why don’t you come here and take it from me?” said Tor, hefting the hammer. It wasn’t a plastic hammer anymore. It was a small sledge with a wooden handle. “Come on, what are you waiting for?”

“Where the hell did he get a damn hammer?” demanded Birch.

“I don’t know… Mister Anderson, would you please put down the hammer before someone gets hurt?” said Sinclair.

Tor waved the hammer. “Oh, it’s Mister Anderson now.”

“Put it down,” ordered Sinclair. “I’ve had enough of your foolishness.”

“Oh, I’ll put it down, all right,” said Tor, shaking the hammer at her head.

“Afraid of the crazy brothers, are ya?” shouted Odin, capering wildly around the table as the lightning crackled.

Tor slammed the table again with the hammer. “Rock and roll!”

“Tor, you put that thing down right now or I’m gonna beat your wrinkly adult-diapered ass,” said Birch.

“Give him a shot,” said Sinclair.

“A shot?” said Tor. “Here’s a friendly poke from Mjöllnir, wench!” He suddenly jumped forward and bashed Sinclair in the head. Wake winced at the sound it made.