David Morrell - Creepers

No response.

Rain poured through holes in the boardwalk.

"Help me drag Vinnie," Balenger said.

With the last of their energy, they pulled him into the trough.

"Lie down next to him," Balenger said.

"But-"

"I'll cover you. The beach'll seem flat. Maybe he won't see you."

"Our tracks."

"The rain's washing sand into them, hiding them."

"What about you?"

"I'll make him follow me in a different direction. Diane…"

"I'm not Diane."

"I love you."

"I wish I were Diane." She kissed his cheek.

He made her lie in the trough, then covered her and Vinnie with sand, just enough to hide them, a fake grave to prevent a real one.

He left their faces exposed.

"Cold," she said.

"I'll lead him away. Count to three hundred," Balenger said. "Then try to find help. If it isn't safe for you to crawl out by then, I failed, and it'll never be safe."

"Diane was lucky to have you."

"Was? I don't understand. You've still got me."

He turned, somehow mustering the resolve to go back the way he had come-toward the drain tunnel. The debris. The rats. The mummified bodies. The rain was indeed shifting sand into the footprints. He summoned all his will and stepped onto the beach, walking toward the violent waves. Lightning cracked, but he no longer flinched.

A few yards from the surf, he turned and faced the boardwalk. Beyond it, flames burst from the Paragon's upper stories. The fire and the storm struggled with each other. In this deserted area, at this late hour, with the storm hiding the fire from the rest of the city, it would take time for firefighters and police to be alerted and arrive. Balenger couldn't depend on anyone for help.

To the right, lightning silhouetted the skeleton of the abandoned condominium. He heard the clang of the sheet metal.

He unholstered his gun and stuck it behind his belt at his spine. Then he spread his arms, making himself as visible as he could. His aggressive posture said everything. Come for me, Ronnie. See if you can take me.

Thunder rumbled as Ronnie appeared at the top of the boardwalk. Flames silhouetted him, making it seem that he stepped from hell. He stood at the collapsed rail, staring down toward the surf. His night-vision goggles were like hatches over his soul, making him look monstrous. Slowly, steadily, he came down the stairs, his shotgun in his hands.

The thunder reminded Balenger of a giant's steps. Murderous resolve made tall, thin, fifty-seven-year-old Ronnie assume a Titan's stature. The darkness of his Kevlar vest was emblematic of the terrible power he exuded. He strode with the weight of robbed innocence and a stolen childhood, of a lifetime of pain and anger, of terror and death. As he neared Balenger, his blank face communicated an emptiness that could never be filled.

"I'm sorry for what was done to you, Ronnie!" Balenger knew that he couldn't be heard in the storm. He wanted to keep Ronnie coming nearer, to make Ronnie curious about what he yelled. "I hate you, but I'm sorry for that little boy!"

Ronnie kept approaching, relentless, implacable: an executioner.

"Is this where Carlisle died?" Balenger shouted, rain pelting him. Ronnie was probably still too far away to hear. That didn't matter. He wanted Ronnie to see his lips moving, to wonder what he was saying, to keep approaching.

Come closer! Balenger thought. Most gunfights occurred within five yards. Even then, adrenaline unsteadied the shooters' hands and often made them miss. Balenger's hands were shaking and numb from the cold. He couldn't possibly hope to shoot Ronnie from any distance. In contrast, Ronnie's shotgun could finish him at forty yards.

Closer!

"Is this where the old man blew his brainsout? After he realized the extent of what you did, he became more terrified of you than he was of going outside! He escaped from the hotel! Did he find your shotgun? Did he take it with him? He hoped to protect himself on the beach! But as he stood here shaking, as he saw you coming in the rain, he realized he was damned! So he shot himself!"

Silhouetted by lightning, Ronnie narrowed the distance between them.

"The shotgun in your hand! Is that the one Carlisle used to blow his brains out?"

Thirty yards away, Ronnie stopped.

No! I need you closer!

"Is this where it happened? Is this where he did it? The father you always wanted! 7s this where you scared him into killing himself?"

Thunder overwhelmed his words.

A flash of lightning paralyzed Ronnie for a moment. Then he stepped nearer, wanting to hear what Balenger said.

"What a wonderful son you were!" Balenger shouted. "He gave you a chance for a new life, and you paid him back by filling his life with terror!"

Twenty yards away, Ronnie stopped again. Evidently he was now close enough to have heard. "Sister Carrie," he shouted.

Balenger was startled by the incongruity of the statement. "What?"

"Dreiser's novel! When your friend talked about it, he said almost everything that matters! Our bodies and our surroundings doom us! He forgot to say that the past dooms us!"

"Not always! Not if you fight it! But that hellhole of a building sure can trick us into believing that!"

Lightning again paralyzed Ronnie. What's wrong with him? Balenger wondered. Why isn't he coming closer?

The goggles! Balenger realized. When the lightning flashes, the goggles need a moment to adjust! The lightning causes a flare that temporarily blinds him!

Ronnie lifted the shotgun to his shoulder.

As lightning cracked, again blinding Ronnie, Balenger pulled his gun from behind his back and charged. Ronnie came out of his paralysis and shifted his aim.

Balenger dove to the sand, shooting upward. Ronnie's shotgun blast hit behind him. Balenger fired toward Ronnie's face.

Then his pistol clicked on empty, its slide back. No more ammunition.

Did I hit him? Balenger rolled. A blast struck next to him, pellets hitting his calf.

He came to his feet, hobbling, trying to lead Ronnie away from the boardwalk.

A groan behind him made him turn. Lightning showed Ronnie sinking to his knees. His shoulder was bloody where one of Balenger's shots had hit him above the Kevlar vest. A raging figure stood behind him, swinging a two-by-four. Diane. Swinging. Shrieking. The shotgun went off, blasting into the sand, as Diane swung the board like a baseball bat. The flames in the hotel showed a chunk of bloody hair flying into the rain. In a Windbreaker, with only a nightgown covering her legs, both garments clinging to her, soaked, she swung the board again, whacking the rear of Ronnie's skull so hard that he dropped forward onto the beach. She stood over him, hitting, hitting, stopping only when the board snapped. Then she cursed and plunged the sharp end into his back.

Ronnie shuddered and lay still.

Amanda stood over him, sobbing. Balenger hobbled toward her.

"Is he dead?" she asked.

"Right now, he's entering hell."

They clung to each other, trying not to fall.

"He put a lot of others through it. Now it's his turn," she said.

"Because of something that wasn't his fault. A Fourth of July weekend a lifetime ago." Balenger was sickened.

Clang.

The wind whipped the flap of sheet metal.

Clang.

It tolled for Ronnie, for his victims, for the Paragon Hotel.

Clang.

Balenger watched the flames in the upper stories. "Diane," he said.

"I'm not Diane."

He stared at her. He touched her cheek.

"I know," he said, finally believing it. "God, how I wish."

"You were ready to die to save me."

"I lost Diane once. I couldn't bear to lose her twice. If I couldn't save you and Vinnie, I didn't want to live."