Rick Burroughs - Alan Wake

“I don’t have to,” said Wake. “It’s on tape.” He held up the microcassette player.

Alan’s more out of control all the time, doctor , said Alice. The parties, he’s so angry all the time— Wake fast-forwarded the tape. Alan doesn’t really sleep, and the work… well, he’s not writing, at all. He sits there for hours and just gets more and more frustrated . He fast-forwarded it again. You need to be careful with him, doctor. Alan’s not just going to listen to you and cooperate. He’s the most stubborn man I’ve ever met . Wake stopped the tape.

Barry kept his eyes on the road. “Okay, so you’re not the Husband of the Year, what else is new? Still, what she said about you being stubborn, that’s a good thing. I mean, if you weren’t so thickheaded you would have given up looking for Alice a long time go. You would have listened to me and handed off the job to somebody with a badge. Then you could sit around drinking coffee, waiting for the phone to ring.” He looked over at Wake. “You’re here. You’re in the game. We both are. That’s what matters.”

“You’re right.” Wake listened to the rain beating steadily against the roof of the car, the sound soothing. They were almost at the turnoff to the Anderson farm. “I’m just tired—”

“Whoa!” Barry slammed on the brakes, his hands white on the wheel, as a mass of boulders rolled down a steep slope and cascaded onto the road. “Hang on!”

Wake grabbed hold of the door as the car hydroplaned across the rain-slick road, tires squealing. The car sideswiped the safety railing, spitting sparks, then crashed through as the supports for the railing gave way.

“Al!”

Wake felt himself violently tossed around the front seat as the car rolled down the ravine. He made sure the manuscript pages were safely tucked away into his jacket, felt around to make sure he still had the revolver and flashlight. He cried out as the car slammed broadside into a tree, the windshield cracking, the flashlight slipping from his grasp. The car kept rolling down the slope.

“Ow!” yelped Barry as they smacked against each other.

Wake’s door flew open, branches scraping against him, clawing at him as the car seemed to pick up speed. He grabbed the flashlight as it rolled across the floor. “Barry, jump!”

“Jump… where ?”

“Anywhere!” Wake felt the seat belt release, and the next instant he was tumbling out into the darkness, falling end over end through the bushes, finally coming to rest against the trunk of a tree. His face was in the mud. It felt like he had plowed his way down the ravine with his nose. He sat up, moved his fingers and toes. Rain trickled from his hair and down his neck. He could hear the car still falling, but the ringing in his head was louder still.

“Barry?”

No response.

Thunder rumbled across the valley.

Wake stood up slowly, winced. Everything hurt. “Barry?” He looked around as the storm beat against his face and soaked his clothes. “Barry? You here?”

Still no response.

Wake heard the sound of the car’s horn blaring. He walked to the edge of the ravine, pushed aside the branches. The trees were thick, but far below he could see the faint glow of the taillights. “Barry!”

The horn stopped beeping.

Toby knew the smell: it was the man, the nice man who always gave him treats and never got tired of playing with him. Toby wagged his tail, barking happily. Yip, yip, yip! Then there was another smell—a wrong smell—and it stopped Toby in his tracks. He growled deep in his throat. The wrong smell came from the nice man. Blind terror pierced the dog’s brain an instant before the axe crushed his skull.

WAKE CAREFULLY WORKED his way down the slope to the red taillights of the wrecked car. He was making pretty good progress when he slipped on some wet leaves, tobogganed down the ravine on his ass, banging off rocks and bushes before finally coming to a stop at the edge of a cliff. He sat up, spitting blood. His boots oozed mud and rainwater, his hair was crusted with muck, his ears filthy. It would make a perfect photo for his next book jacket, the rugged outdoorsman at play. The storm had slacked off, the moon and stars just starting to peek out.

“Al?”

“Barry! You’re alive!”

“Thank God!” Barry stood next to the red glow of the taillights. “Barry was worried. I heard you crashing down the mountain and thought you were a Taken coming to get Barry.”

“You refer to yourself in the third person again I’m going to strangle you.” Wake could see him at the bottom of the ravine. The wrecked car was nearby, front end down, lights in the dirt, steam escaping from the burst radiator. Barry was probably fifty feet below, but the cliff walls were steep and sheer. There was no way to reach him without breaking his neck.

“Are you okay, Al?”

“I’m alive.”

“Another close call, huh?” said Barry, sounding giddy now. “I’m starting to think the two of us are invulnerable.”

“Famous last words,” said Wake. “Right along with ‘Hey, look at this!’”

“Can you get down here?”

“Not a chance.” Wake picked dirt out of his ears. “You need protection, Barry. Go into the trunk of the car and look around. Rental cars usually carry road flares. Maybe there’s a flashlight.” He waited while Barry searched the trunk. Lightning flashed, and he could see the stark outline of the farm’s barn and silo in the distance, surrounded by flat fields.

“Found the flashlight!” shouted Barry, playing the beam across the trunk. “Jackpot!” He held something up.

“What is it?”

“A flare gun! Now we’re talking! Five flares and one in the chamber. The rental agency must figure that city slickers get lost in the back country and need to shoot up a signal flare for help.”

“That’s great.” Wake watched Barry caper around the car, going into various action-star poses with the flare gun. “Why don’t you turn off the flashlight? Save the batteries.”

Barry turned off the flashlight. “Now what?”

“Same plan as before,” said Wake. “The Anderson farm is due east.”

“What are you, Magellan?”

Wake laughed. Barry’s good humor was infectious.

“I see it, Al! It doesn’t look that far, but how are you going to get there?”

Wake looked around. There was a trail nearby that gradually wound down the ravine. He didn’t know how far it went, but there was no other way to work his way down to Barry.

“Al?”

“I’ll get there, don’t worry.”

“Who’s worried? Do I look worried?” Barry beat his chest. “I’m the king of the world!”

“Barry… did you hit your head, or something?”

“I hit my head, my arms, my legs—”

“I’m surprised you’re not scared,” said Wake. “You may have a concussion.”

“I just decided to quit worrying and enjoy the adventure,” called Barry. “You’re writing the story, remember? It’s like being in a dream. We’re the heroes. We can’t die.”

“Barry? Barry, I want you to listen to me. It’s not a dream, not the way you think. The Dark Presence changes everything. Neither of us are safe—”

“Hey! Is that you, Al?”

“Barry… I’m still up here.”

“Damn. Al… I take b-b-back what I said about not being scared.” Barry turned on the flashlight. “ Get back! ”

Far below, Wake could see a Taken edging away from the light, a Taken in jeans and a red hunting vest brandishing a tire iron.