Bentley Little: The Walking

"And that's what happened.

"She called them back after they passed on, all of the people who'd had a part in disposing of her body, who had been living in Wolf Canyon at that time. And, from what

we could figure out, she fed off them, using their energies to right her way back. She was strong enough thirty years ago to reach out to me all the way over on the East Coast, and she's been getting stronger ever since. Her power has been growing with each passing year as the children of Wolf Canyon die off and she consumes their energy. Miles nodded. "And when she was strong enough, she reached out to the men who had worked on the dam and killed them, too. Only I don't see why, if they were just doing what she wanted done anyway."

"Because maybe they beat her to the punch. Maybe she's angry that they did what she was not yet strong enough to do. Or maybe not. Who knows? Sometimes there just isn't an explanation."

"Where do you fit in?" Miles asked.

May smiled. "She killed a baby. Back in the town's early days. She thought the population had reached some magic number, and she didn't want it changed: no new people, no one leaving. So when a couple had a baby, she killed it. Her, I should say, not it. The baby was a girl.

The parents left, took off in the middle of the night to escape Isabella's tyranny. Years later, they had another daughter. That baby was my mother. And her parents taught her and she taught me about the town--and what went on there. Your father knew, too. He was born in Wolf Canyon, and he lived there until he was ten or so, until his parents moved to Los Angeles. That was long after Isabella, but long before the lake. I met him at the dam after I'd come out from New Jersey. I walked the shoreline.." and I found your father. I think he'd been called, too. He was here to make sure that Isabella hadn't escaped and was still down there." She nodded toward Garden. "John Hawks, your grandfather, had never left. He'd left the town, but he'd built him a house on top of the plateau." She pointed behind them at a flattened rocky bluff. "He's the one who told us about the

people in town who didn't leave, who couldn't get out, and we all figured it was her, keeping them there so they would be drowned. There were several of us, and we kept in touch for a while. We knew the stories, and we waited to see if she would return. But the years passed, and she didn't, and we drifted apart, drifted into other lives."

"I remember you," Garden said. "We almost told you when Grampa died, but. but we didn't for some reason, and then you were gone."

Claire looked at the old lady. It was as if she'd gotten all the craziness out of her system on the trip over, because she appeared completely lucid.

May shook her head. "Now you say she's come out of the lake. With all of the others." She squinted at Miles. "How many would you say?

"Dozens. A hundred, maybe." He shrugged. Maybe more.

I didn't count."

"You were called, too," May said. She looked intently at Miles.

"So what's the plan?" Garden asked. "What do we do now?"

May turned to face the young man. "We will hunt her down," she said.

Claire felt peach fuzz hairs prickle at the back of her

And we' will kill her once and for all."

Miles stared at the homeless woman, who had suddenly stopped talking and was twirling around with her arms out and her eyes closed, like a little girl trying to make herself dizzy. From where he stood, the immobile FBI agent was directly in front of her, and the sight of the two together hit

May began screaming crazily, looking up at the dark sky and shouting out non sequiturs.

"I was surprised she held out for as long as she did," Hal whispered.

"In the car, she couldn't go two minutes without spouting off some loony nonsense."

Claire gave Miles' hand a small squeeze, then let go and moved forward, trying to quiet May and calm her down.

May.

Lizabeth May.

He remembered the whispers in the night and wondered who had been telling him that name. And why.

He had heard his father's name whispered, and his father had died.

Hal turned to face him. "You should've brought me in earlier, man.

Tran, too. We could've helped you on this. I thought your dad was just missing, I didn't know all this... shit was going on."

"Would you have believed it?"

"Not at first, probably. But I go where the facts take me. You know that." He leaned in, lowered his voice. "And I'd feel a lot better with Tran here than Claire and these other civilians."

Miles had to agree with that.

Except... Except this felt right, and once more he was confronted with the unfamiliar sensation of trusting his feelings rather than facts.

Although, under the circumstances, it didn't seem quite so strange.

"Isabella, huh?" Hal shook his head.

"Yeah."

"Does this super witch have a last name?"

"Would it matter if she did?"

"I guess not." Hal looked over at Rossiter, sighed. "You know, I can't help thinking about the fact that this bitch con trois an army of zombies and turned an FBI agent into a

brain-dead lobster within a matter of minutes. I don't like the odds here." He quickly held up his hands. "But I'm in,

I'm m, I am not complaining. You are just scared. Damn right I'm scared. Vales grmed. "Wuss boy."

"Not ashamed to admit it. And you're glad I'm here, aren't you?"

"Yeah," Miles admitted. "I am."

"That's a start, bud. That's a start." May was suddenly silent.

Claire was standing before her, holding the old woman's arms at her sides, when she pulled away, blinking as if she'd just emerged from a trance. "How long ago did Isabella leave?" she asked.

Miles looked at Garden, at Janet.

"I don't know," Garden said. "Fifteen minutes." 'Ten or fifteen,"

Janet said. vales nodded in agreement.

"She's far enough away, then." May mumbled something to herself before looking up again. "Talismans, spell casters, potions. Your families were witches, they all had the makings. Did you bring them? Do you have materials with you?"

Miles nodded dumbly. He wasn't sure how he felt about relinquishing authority to a woman who obviously had severe mental problems, but crazy as she was, she'd been involved in this longer than any of them.

He had no choice but to listen to her. 'there a box in the car from Janet's uncle's house."

I'll get it." Obviously happy to have something to do, Janet headed over to the rental car to fetch her uncle's witchcraft paraphernalia.

"May told me to bring your stuff, too," Claire said. "Thank God you didn't put it back in that safety deposit box or

there's no way I would, have been able to get it out. It's in the trunk."

"I have the keys," Hal said. go. May turned to look at Garden.

He shrugged. "I never saw those things. I only heard about them. I don't know what happened to them."

The old lady frowned, mumbled something to herself. Hal and Janet returned with the materials. Miles took his father's stuff from Hal, who then offered to carry Janet's box. Janet shook her head, held on to the carton, and following May's lead, they all walked down the slope to the water's edge, leaving the unmoving Rossiter behind.

By this time the strange sky looked downright fierce. The clouds were not stormy gray but black, deep black, like the water. Though it was difficult to detect movement in so much darkness, shapes seemed to be forming and un forming and reforming in the roiling currents of air.

Feeling his chest tighten, Miles put the box down on the sand, Janet following suit. May crouched down, quickly sorted through the jumble of items and, smiling as if she'd found some long-lost treasure, drew out a rusty spoon. The spoon from his dream.

The tightness in his chest increased.

She picked out a large covered jar, a porcelain doll with painted breasts and pubic hair, a kerosene lamp.