The Lighthouse

When he set the compressor down he found himself looking at the Fresnel lens. And he felt twinges of both pain and reluctance. The vibration, even using the smallest possible volume of air, would be tremendous-enough to shatter every prism and bull’s-eye in the lens. Shatter all the glass in the lantern walls, too. And the noise, trapped in the confines of the tower… it might burst his eardrums as well as those of the men below. He had the cotton and the pillows and bedclothes for protection, but there was no guarantee he wouldn’t be deafened, or hurt by flying glass or in some other way. And what if all four weren’t inside the lighthouse when he was ready?

Too dangerous, he thought grimly. Too problematical. Keep waiting

… do it only if the situation becomes critical.

But suppose I don’t know it’s critical until too late?

Goddamn them, what are they up to?

And he thought again: Sooner or later I’m going to have to go through with it.

Mitch Novotny

Adam’s van was gone.

Mitch saw that as soon as he came out of the lighthouse, into the cold of the wind and the smoky heat of the fires. It made him angry and scared and sick to his stomach, all at the same time. Adam had run out on them, that was plain. But why? He’d been the one who’d shimmied up the pole to cut the telephone wires; he’d been doing all the shooting, giving most of the orders. And then all of a sudden he’d just up and quit on them. It didn’t make sense.

Mitch’s head was throbbing, and the oily smell of the smoke wasn’t helping it any; he couldn’t think straight. He looked over his shoulder at the lighthouse. One thing he knew-he wasn’t going back in there. Crazy Bonner yelling, pounding with his ax handle… he couldn’t take any more of it, the hell with Bonner, the hell with Ryerson. It was all crazy, none of it made any sense. And now Adam was gone… the hell with him too. And Hod, where was Hod? Gone with Adam?

I got to get out of here myself, he thought.

And all of a sudden the wind was like a hand shoving him, prodding him into a fast walk, a trot, a run-away from the lighthouse, through the gate, onto the road. He ran past the spot where Adam’s van had been, the wind pushing him into a stagger, and when he regained his balance he saw the dark shape in the grass, somebody lying there in the grass. He slowed, fighting the wind and his fear, and veered over there. He still had the six-cell flashlight in his hand, he realized then; he switched it on, shined it down.

It was Hod. Lying in the grass like a bundle of something that had been thrown away. At first, Mitch thought he was dead. But he wasn’t dead-just dead-drunk, passed out. He moaned when Mitch pulled him up by one arm, slapped his face.

“Hod, you hear me? Hod?”

No answer, just another groan.

“Come on, Hod, wake up, get on your feet. We got to get out of here!”

Hod just lay there, groaning, his eyes shut tight and his head rolling on his neck like it was busted. There was puke all over the front of him.

“Hod! I can’t carry you, goddamn it!”

Mitch slapped him again. Again. Again. It didn’t do any good. Hod wasn’t going to wake up, wouldn’t be able to walk if he did. He didn’t even know who he was.

Can’t just leave him here like this, Mitch thought. He’s my friend, been my friend a lot of years. Can’t leave him like Adam left me, that fucking Adam…

But the wind was pushing at him again, harder now, and the next thing it had him on his feet, it had him rushing down the road. Wouldn’t let him stop, wouldn’t let him look back, wouldn’t even let him think anymore.

Run, Mitch! it kept shrieking in his ears. Run, run, run!

Alix

She scrambled into the ditch beside the cape road, some fifty yards from its junction with the county road. Knelt there in the tall wet grass to catch her breath. When she could breathe without gasping she crawled back up to where she could look around. The county road, hazed in fog, was deserted in both directions: no help there. But nothing moved, either, back the way she’d come. She must have lost him. Where or when or how she wasn’t sure. One minute he’d been behind her as she’d fled, skirting high clumps of gorse; the next he’d been gone. But the realization brought no release of tension. He could reappear again any second-closer than he’d been before, close enough to use that rifle he was carrying.

She was sure it was Adam Reese who was after her. Back at the light, the handyman had been the one with the rifle; and twice during her flight she’d seen it cradled across her pursuer’s chest. He moved, too, in Reese’s peculiar, hopping gait. She would have been less terrified if it had been Novotny or one of the others. There was something evil about the little man. If he caught her…

But he wasn’t going to. He mustn’t.