The Lighthouse

She ran along the cape road, her tennis shoes slapping against its bumpy surface. The chill air tore at the membranes of her mouth and nose, seemed to pierce her lungs. The pain in her back where she’d hurt it falling in the well was nothing compared to the searing that had started up in her left side.

A deep rut threw her stride off. She stumbled, went to one knee, felt the rocks scrape through her jeans. Got up, kept running. Her breath came in loud gasps; her lungs ached; blood pounded in her head in counterpoint to the wild beating of her heart. She couldn’t have run more than half a mile, and already she was winded.

She drew her flailing hands in toward her upper body, the way she’d seen runners do. Help was a long way off; she had to conserve energy, eliminate unnecessary motion. She was in good condition from her aerobics at home. It was just a matter of pacing herself.

Her feet took up a ragged rhythm. Gradually her breathing came under control. The road cut through a stand of trees, and when she got in among them she couldn’t see anything; she slowed to a walk, bent over, peering at the ground to keep from stepping into a pothole, spraining an ankle or worse.

When she came out of the trees, fog blew around her like snow. She could see the road surfaces better here, and once more she started to run. Surprisingly, her fear had subsided. Or maybe she was just becoming numb Sound behind her, a deep-throated rumbling.

Motor sound.

Car coming from the lighthouse.

She twisted her upper body, trying to see back along the road without slackening her pace. No headlights were visible, but the trees screened her vision. The growl of the car engine was louder now, coming fast.

Fear rekindled inside her, flared high. One or more of them must have seen her escape, were coming after her. In a matter of seconds the car would be clear of the trees…

She veered sharply to her left, plunged off the road, all but flung herself over a wooden fence. Fell, got up. And ran headlong across the open field beyond.

Mitch Novotny

Bonner kept yelling, “Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch!” and beating on the trapdoor with that ax handle he’d found. He sounded wild, out of his head. Like Adam. Like all of them.

Adam… why wasn’t he here? Disappeared all of a sudden, ran downstairs a while ago and never came back. Where was he?

“Son of a bitch!”

“Shut up, Seth, will you shut up! Quit beating on that door!”

Bonner stopped his hammering. From up in the tower, then, Mitch could hear noises-scraping sounds, as if something heavy were being dragged across the floor; hard footfalls on the stairs.

“Listen to that,” Bonner said. “They’re up to something. We got to get up there, Mitch.”

“How? That trap’s made of solid oak.”

“Get a tool, crowbar or something. Might be able to wedge a bar up in there and snap the lock.”

“We haven’t got a crowbar… ”

“One in Adam’s van,” Bonner said. He was so excited, spit came spraying out with every word. “I seen it, Mitch. I’ll run down and get it.”

Adam’s van. Adam. Where the hell was he?

“No,” Mitch said, “I’ll go. You stay here.”

Up in the tower, there was a loud thumping. Then a sliding, dragging, slithering sound-something heavy and loose being hauled up the stairs.

“No telling what them damn people are up to. We got to get up there, Mitch!”

Mitch turned his body in the cramped space, started down the stairs. He was almost to the bottom when Bonner yelled, “Son of a bitch!” again and beat another tattoo on the trap with that fucking ax handle.

Alix

She ran through the night in a haze of terror.

Staggering, stumbling, losing her balance and falling sometimes because the terrain was rough and there was no light of any kind except for the bloody glow of the flames that stained the fog-streaked sky far behind her. The muscles in her legs were knotted so tightly that each new step brought a slash of pain. Her breath came in ragged, explosive pants; the thunder of blood in her ears obliterated the moaning cry of the wind. She could no longer feel the cold through the bulky sweater she wore, was no longer aware of the numbness in her face and hands. She felt only the terror, was aware only of the need to run and keep on running.

He was still behind her. Somewhere close behind her.

On foot now, just as she was; he had left the car some time ago, back when she had started across the long sloping meadow. There had been nowhere else for her to go then, no place to conceal herself: the meadow was barren, treeless. She’d looked back, seen the car skid to a stop, and he’d gotten out and raced toward her. He had almost caught her then. Almost caught her another time, too, when she’d had to climb one of the fences and a leg of her Levi’s had got hung up on a rail splinter.

If he caught her, she was sure he would kill her.