David Morrell - The Shimmer

Her fist struck his mouth. His head jerked back, but as he tasted blood, he kept his feet in place, preparing himself for what he knew would be another blow.

She drew back her fist again. Then darkness made her disappear. The next time lightning flashed, Page saw her staring at him in shock.

Her shoulders heaved. Some of the drops streaming down her face weren’t rain, he suspected, but tears. Her mouth opened, releasing a wail of anguish. When she clutched him, pressing herself against him, she did so with the force of a blow. Her arms clung to him tightly. With her head pressed against his chest, she sobbed uncontrollably.

“Scared,” she moaned.

He could barely hear her in the roar of the wind and the rain.

“I’m scared, too. But it’s going to be all right,” he promised, tasting the blood from his swelling lip. “I’ll do anything for you. Please, let me help.”

“I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

“I don’t know what’s happening to me, either,” Page said close to her cheek. “But believe me, we’re going to find out.”

With his arm around her, he waited for the next crack of lightning. It split the sky so close to them that he flinched, but its blaze allowed him to orient himself. Behind him, he briefly saw the shape of the observation area and began to recognize the faint illumination of headlights and flashing emergency lights.

Tori must have seen them as well. As thunder coincided with renewed darkness, she plodded forward through the gusting rain. Page took her hand and moved next to her. If the lightning didn’t provide more visual bearings, they risked going in circles in the field.

The ground became muddy, their sneakers sinking into it.

“Cold,” Tori murmured.

“Think of a hot bath,” Page told her. “Dry clothes. Steaming coffee. Warm covers in bed.”

“Lost,” Tori said.

“Then we’re lost together.”

Lightning fractured the sky.

Tori pointed. “The fence.”

Their shoes were weighed down by mud. They slipped in it, holding each other up.

When they reached the fence, Page shouted to be heard above the wind. “I’ll pull the strands of wire apart! Try to squeeze through the gap!”

As he used both hands to yank a middle strand up while pressing down on a lower one with his muddy sneaker, he feared that lightning would strike the fence, rush along the wires, and fry both of them.

“I’m through!” Tori yelled.

Page climbed the post and jumped to the ground, where he skidded in the mud, falling to his right knee. Lightning cracked close enough for him to smell it.

“Are you okay?” Tori asked.

“I will be in a minute.” Page came to his feet.

Down the road, headlights glared, revealing the row of cars and people hurrying for shelter. Gusts of rain buffeted them. Some wore ripped clothes and held themselves as if injured.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” Tori shouted.

“Better than the way they look,” Page answered. He and Tori ran along the line of cars until they reached the Saturn.

Inside, Tori already had the keys from her pocket. She turned on the engine and started the heater, but the rush of air was cold, and she quickly shut it off.

As rain lashed the windshield, Page shivered.

Tori’s teeth clicked together. Her red hair was stuck to her head. Water dripped from her blouse, her muddy clothes clinging to her.

Behind them, more headlights blazed as cars pulled out of the line, retreating to Rostov. Thunder shook the car.

Tori wiped blood from his mouth.

“I’m so sorry,” she told him.

Page touched her hand. “It wasn’t really you who hit me.”

“The past few days, I feel like I stepped out of my life. I don’t understand myself any longer. What the hell is happening?”

“Whatever it is, it’s happening to both of us.” Page held her, grateful that she let him. He loved her so much that he could barely speak. “We’ll find out together.”

Chilled by his drenched clothes, Brent stood at the back window of the broadcast truck and stared into the murky rain. Behind him, Anita and Luther Hamilton slumped against a wall, sipping tepid coffee from plastic cups.

The news producer watched as a technician and a cameraman finished stowing the equipment. “Time to head back to the motel.”

Lightning flashed, showing Brent the last of the crowd hurrying desperately through the rain toward their cars. Several limped or held themselves in pain.

“I wish we could get a shot of that.”

“I’m not sending any camera operator out in that lightning,” the producer said. “The storm’s predicted to last several hours. Nothing else is going to happen here tonight. It’s time to get some sleep.”

“Who needs sleep when there’s a story this big?”

“And who needs a reporter who passes out from exhaustion?”

“Where’s Sharon?” Brent asked with suspicion.

“Back at the motel. She’s resting so she can anchor the morning broadcast from here.”

“No way. I’ll coanchor with her.”

“Not unless you get some rest. I know you want to show viewers how hard you’re working, but you’re starting to look scary.”

When the truck started, making the floor unsteady, Brent sat next to Anita and fastened his seat belt. “Are you hurt?”

“Bruised.”

“You did good work today.”

“And last night,” Anita emphasized. Something flashed in her dark eyes.

“And last night,” Brent acknowledged. “Tomorrow morning, are you ready to do more?”

“My car still needs repairs.” Anita’s face was pinched with fatigue. She peered up from under her baseball cap toward the producer. “Am I still getting overtime?”

“You bet. CNN is underwriting our expenses.”

The truck bumped as the driver steered onto the road.

“But I don’t know what else is left in the story,” the producer said. “After what happened tonight, the police say they’re shutting down the viewing area. Nobody’ll be allowed there tomorrow night. Maybe not for a long time to come.”

“The police can try, but after what we transmitted just now, there’ll be plenty more curiosity seekers here tomorrow,” Brent said. “It’ll be Saturday. People will make a weekend of it. They won’t like coming a long way and not getting a chance to see the lights. Cops, barricades, an angry crowd-all that makes for great television.”

“Tomorrow night,” the producer agreed. “But what about in the meantime?”

“Lots of angles. I need to track down the woman who killed the shooter. Also, somebody told me there’s a radio observatory around here. I bet I can tie that in somehow-extraterrestrials or whatever. And I want to find out more about that airbase from World War II. Maybe we can get a shot of where that kid got himself blown up back in 1980.”

“Johnny,” Hamilton murmured.

“What?”

“His name was Johnny.”

“Right.”

The producer said, “Brent, if you start wandering around that air- field, you’re liable to get blown up, too.” He looked thoughtful. “You know, that would make a great story.”

Raleigh heard the faint rumble of thunder, but apart from some water trickling down a wall, the area beneath the abandoned airbase remained secure. In the cold glare of the overhead lights, he watched his men finish unpacking the last of the wooden crates.

“Sergeant Lockhart, reassemble the team.”

“Yes, sir.”

Within seconds, they again stood before him in a line.

“Gentlemen, through the door behind you, you’ll find latrines and your sleeping quarters, although you won’t spend much time in the latter. There’s a kitchen, but it isn’t stocked. For now, you’ll need to make do with the field rations you unpacked. When the next Black Hawk arrives at the observatory, it’ll bring steaks.