Rick Burroughs - Alan Wake

“I really thought the note was going to be here,” Wake said sadly.

“Yeah,” said Barry, “if you can’t trust a couple of senile, burned-out rock stars, who can you trust?”

Wake sat on the couch beside Barry, passed him the moonshine.

Barry flicked on the television with the remote. The logo for the show Night Springs appeared, a spooky shot of a town at midnight, a full moon overhead. “Hey, Night Springs . Wow, that brings back memories. Hey, remember when I got you that gig? Your first real writing job.”

“I didn’t even get a full writing credit,” said Wake. “It was a start, though.”

“You got paid, didn’t you?” said Barry, passing back the moonshine.

“I got paid,” said Wake.

“You’re welcome,” said Barry. “Hey, is this one of your episodes?”

The narrator announced the name of the episode.

“No,” said Wake.

“Too bad,” said Barry, switching off the TV. “I’ll make sure you get your residuals. I’m not about to let one of my… my cliumps get screwed.”

“Your cliumps ?” said Wake.

“CLI-ENTS,” said Barry, enunciating carefully. “Don’t make fun of me, Al, you’re at least four drinks behind.”

Wake took the jar of moonshine back, tilted it, and let clear liquid flow down his throat.

“I’m… I’m still scared,” said Barry, looking straight ahead.

“Me too,” said Wake.

“Glad… to… hear it,” said Barry. “I hate being the scaredy cat of the duo.”

“The duo ?” Wake laughed. “What are we, superheroes?”

“I wish we were,” said Barry, slopping moonshine down his shirt. “Superheroes got it made.”

“They have to wear stupid costumes, though,” said Wake.

“Tights,” said Barry. “You don’t want to see me in tights. A cape though… I bet I’d look good with a cape.”

Wake looked him over. “I don’t think so.”

Barry stood up, unsteady. He pulled the cashmere afghan off the back of the sofa, tied it around his neck, and ran around the room, the afghan fluttering behind him.

“I take it back,” said Wake. “You look great with a cape. Of course, I’m drunk, so you might have to get a second opinion.”

Barry staggered to the stereo, out of breath. “Wouldn’t matter if I was a superhero. Rather jump in a shark tank with a raw steak in my mouth than walk in the woods at night.” He looked down at the turntable. “Look Al, a record. Real vinyl.”

“Why would they tell me they left me a note?” said Wake.

Barry switched on the turntable, dropped the stylus onto the record. He sat back on the couch as the needle veered across the record, stopped halfway across, and stuck.

Find the lady of the light, gone mad with the night, find the lady of the light, gone mad with the night .

“Oh, that’s catchy,” said Wake, reaching for the moonshine.

Find the lady of the light, gone mad with the night .

“They didn’t say they left you a note,” said Barry, head lolling on the back of the couch.

“They did ,” said Wake.

“In the car…” Barry burped. “In the car you said they left you a message.”

“What’s the difference?” said Wake.

Find the lady of the light, gone mad with the night .

Wake sat up, squeezed Barry’s arm. “You’re a genius!”

“About time you realized that.” Barry took another drink, stared bleary-eyed at Wake. “What… what exactly did I do?”

Wake pointed at the turntable.

Find the lady of the light, gone mad with the night .

“Okay,” said Barry. “I thought… thought you didn’t like their music.”

“The lyrics , Barry. The Andersons are telling us to find the lady of the light. The Lamp Lady, Cynthia Weaver. She was in love with Thomas Zane. She knows about the Dark Presence and what it did to him. Maybe she can tell us how to defeat it.”

Barry nodded. “I am a genius.”

“We should go find her.” Wake stood up, wobbled, and sat down hard. “Maybe later.”

Wake’s fall onto the couch sent the stylus skipping forward, where it caught again.

“Much later,” said Barry.

“Do you hear that?” said Wake.

“Daylight,” said Barry. “We should wait for daylight.”

“Cynthia Weaver has the key to the cabin,” said Wake. “She knows how I can get Alice. The Andersons left us a message, just like they said.”

“To the Andersons!” Barry took another swallow of moonshine, passed the jar over.

“To the Andersons,” agreed Wake. He took a drink, passed it back.

“Stay in the light,” said Barry, passing the jar back.

Wake took a drink. “Stay in the light.”

Barry yawned. “Kind of a catchy tune.”

“It does… kind of grow… grow on you,” said Wake.

Barry took another drink. Wake took the jar back.

“I miss her,” Wake said softly. “I miss her so bad my stomach hurts.”

“Badly,” said Barry.

“I should have been better to her,” said Wake. “Not so angry all the time.”

“I wish I was a rock star,” said Barry. “Must be… must be so cool.”

“I’m going to make it up to her,” said Wake. “Things will be different.”

“Probably too late for me to be a rock star. And with this body, who am I kidding?” said Barry.

Wake stared at the turntable, watching the record go round and round. He didn’t know how long he sat there staring, but it seemed like a very long time. Not that he was complaining. It was like riding a merry-go-round… with music.

Al? Al? ”

“I’m right here.”

“Al… next time, can I use the shotgun? I want to blast them.”

“Sure, Barry, you can use the shotgun.”

“You’re a hero, Al. I wish we had video of you onstage blasting away…”

“I’m… I’m no hero,” mumbled Wake. “I’m a writer.”

Barry yawned. “I’m going to take a little nap. Is that okay?”

“No such thing as writer’s block,” said Wake, nodding to himself. “I bet… I bet I could write ten novels in a year. At least ten. And they… they’d all be bestsellers.”

Barry closed his eyes.”You do that, Bestseller. And keep watch while you’re at it.”

Wake’s chin dropped onto his chest. He opened his eyes. The record still went round and round on the turntable, the room safe and bright, very bright and very safe.

Barry snored next to him.

“I’ll keep watch… no problem,” sighed Wake, closing his eyes again.

Rose didn’t know how the strange old lady got in her trailer. And she looked… wrong, somehow. The woman showed her teeth in an approximation of a smile and traced a finger down Rose’s cheek. “Pretty girl,” she said. Rose felt as if she was falling asleep, but her knees didn’t buckle. The crone spoke in a whisper, her words ice-cold and dark in Rose’s ear.

Rose was lost in a dreamland where everything was drawn in black and gray crayons. The old lady had promised her that all her wishes would come true. She would be Alan Wake’s muse. She was smiling so hard it hurt her face. She crushed a bottleful of sleeping pills into the coffee. Deep down inside, she was screaming in terror.