Andrew Klavan - Nightmare City

It’s not so bad really , Tom told the eyes. Maybe I’ll get to see you in heaven .

But when the eyes spoke again, the voice sounded more like Lisa’s voice than Burt’s.

The road to heaven isn’t death, Tommy. It’s life .

Tom peered up at the eyes through the darkness. His consciousness fading, he thought he saw the whole painting restored in its frame: Christ crucified, the rivulets of blood streaming down from under his crown of thorns.

But you died , Tom said to him. You died and went to heaven .

No , the eyes answered, sounding more like Burt again. I lived. That’s the whole point. I lived . And now you have to live, Tom .

Tom did not think there was any energy left inside him, any strength with which he could feel anything. But at the words that came down to him from the painting on the wall, he felt something inside him tremble and break open. He felt something rush out of his center and spread through the rest of him, something dark and heavy that he had been keeping inside, keeping secret, secret even from himself, for a long time.

I can’t live! he confessed to the painting. That’s the truth.

I don’t know how to live anymore! He gazed up desperately into the compassionate eyes and his whole soul cried out to them: I don’t know how to live! I’m so sad! I lost my brother! I’ve lost all my friends! I’ve lost my girl! My heart is broken! I don’t care if I die! I want to die! I don’t know how to live anymore!

Tom thought the eyes would grow stern and angry now. He thought they would flash like lightning. What a horrible thing to think, after all. I want to die . What an awful thing.

But the eyes, gazing back at him with all his own pain inside them, said only, Remember the Warrior. Play the bigger game . Tom did not know whose voice this was anymore. Lisa’s or Burt’s or some other’s or all of them together. That’s what I was trying to tell you , it went on . That’s your mission. Live. And don’t just live. Live in joy. Even in your sorrow, Tom, live in joy. That’s what I made you for. Remember the Warrior. Play the bigger game .

As he grew weaker, Tom’s eyes sank shut again. But strangely, he felt relieved. He felt better. He had told the eyes the worst thing in his heart, and the eyes had not condemned him. Not at all. And really, he knew they were right. Deep down, he did want to live. Even with Burt gone, even with everything that had happened, he wanted to feel joy again. It was just that he was so weak, so tired…

Something touched his face. Something cold. Wet.

He’s crying for me , Tom thought hazily.

But it was the rain. It had started again. It spilled down lightly out of the evening sky through the chapel roof and washed over his cheeks, refreshing him a little, giving him a little strength.

Maybe I can still do something , he thought. Maybe I can reach my phone, anyway. Maybe I can call for help .

He felt awfully bad, awfully tired. But he might be able to do that. Just get his phone out of his pocket. Just dial 911. That couldn’t be so hard , he thought.

He was wrong, though. It was hard. It was fantastically, amazingly, unbelievably hard. Moving his arm even a little bit required an effort of will greater than any he had ever made. He had to focus every bit of his energy on getting his hand to lift off the floor. Using all his strength, he lifted it—lifted it—then dropped it onto his waist. Now, slowly, slowly, he began to push the hand down toward his pants pocket. The work made him cough weakly. He felt the blood boil and gurgle in his chest. He thought for sure he would collapse and die before he managed actually to reach into the pocket, to get a grip on the edge of his phone. But he did it. He caught the slippery little rectangle of plastic between the tips of his fingers. He began to draw the phone out—and then he lost his hold on it. It slipped from his grasp.

He let out a noise of frustration. He gazed up into the eyes watching him. The rain pattered down on him gently. He gathered his strength again and willed his hand back down into his pocket. He willed his fingers to pincer the phone again. To work the phone—slowly, ever so slowly—out onto his belt buckle…

He had to rest a moment after that. He lay on the floor in the pool of his own blood, gasping and coughing. The eyes watched him sorrowfully from the frame on the wall.

I know, I know , he told them. My mission. Right. Live .

He went back to work. He willed his hand to his phone again. He picked it up off his shirtfront. He lifted it until he could see it there in his hand. He pressed the numbers for the police: 9… 1… 1…

And the readout said: No service .

Tom lost what little breath he had and his hand fell back onto his belly, the phone still grasped in his fingers.

No service .

Sure, of course. He was in the middle of the woods. No cell tower nearby. Trees all around him. The chapel walls around him. No way to get a signal here unless he…

Tom nearly laughed in despair at the thought. Yes, he might get a signal if he could move out of the chapel, if he could make it out to that jutting ledge of rock at the edge of the monastery, that natural balcony overlooking the town below. He might get a signal out on the ledge, but how was he supposed to get there? Fly? He could barely move his hand to his pocket.

He cast an appeal at the eyes looking down on him. The eyes were silent now. It didn’t matter. He didn’t need the eyes to tell him what he had to do. He already knew. He had to try.

He gathered himself for the attempt. If moving his hand had been hard, how much harder was it going to be to get his whole body moving? Another moment of focus, and then, grunting with the explosive effort, he rolled onto his stomach, blood spilling over his lips as he coughed and gasped for air.

He managed to lift his head, to lift his eyes and look out ahead of him. It was hard to see. Harder than ever. It was getting darker. And he was fading. And there was something else, too. What was that? Tom squinted. Stared.

Fog. Yes. Thick fog just beyond the edge of the chapel. The marine layer seemed to have moved in as he was lying there. The cottony white mass had pushed up across the mountain, swallowing the stunted, fire-charred trees until they were nothing but twisted black figures in the depths of the mist. It seemed to Tom the fog was full of such figures, and that they were almost more like hunched, hulking human shapes than like trees. It seemed to him these creatures hunkered in the depths of the fog were waiting for him to come toward them, pacing like zombies and waiting until they could get their claws on him and devour him. And the look of them, their eyes. They were so… so…

… malevolent , he thought.

He shook his head trying to clear it, but the fog—and the creatures hulking in the fog—remained. Sweat poured down into his eyes, making them sting. The rain made his hair feel heavy and damp.

He was losing strength fast. If he was going to move, he had to move now. Whatever was in that fog—trees or creatures—whatever—he was going to have to face them, get past them, get to that balcony of rock.

He started crawling. Well, crawling was too nice a word for it. Clutching his phone in his hand, he started dragging himself over the chapel floor, elbow and knee forward—drag—the other elbow and knee forward—drag. The effort made him cough again. The cough brought more blood up into his mouth. The blood spilled out, dripping down his chin.

He dragged himself elbow over elbow, inch by inch, toward the edge of the chapel floor. He tumbled off the edge into the dirt, and even though it was hardly any distance at all, he felt like he had fallen off a ten-story building. The landing jolted him and made him cough again. He spit blood, staining the earth.