The Sleepwalkers (35 page)

“We ain’t giving that girl a knife,” says Margie. “I’ll tell you that much. She’s one of them, I don’t know how much clearer it can be.”

“I’m not one of them,” says Christine, and she turns to Caleb. “Tell her, Billy!”

He looks at her for a moment, eyes veiled with conflicting emotion.

“Maybe we shouldn’t give you one,” he says finally, “just in case whatever they did to you comes back.”

“It’s only when I sleep,” she says. Then, appealing to her mother: “Mom?”

The witch is scuttling back and forth, eyeing the walls warily. For a second, her mouth almost twitches into a smile.

“Christine is a bad girl,” she says. “My Anna was always the sweet one.”

Christine tries one more look at Caleb, but he won’t meet her gaze.

She storms down the hall toward her room. A door slams shut.

Ron hands out the knives, one for each of them. “God be with us all,” he says.

From Christine’s room, a great hissing sound erupts.

Margie gives Caleb a look.

“I’ll check on her,” he says.

As he leaves, he hears Margie whispering to Ron: “I don’t trust that witch none either. You shouldn’ta given her no weapon . . . ”

Caleb tucks the knife into his belt and steps into Christine’s room. She sits Indian-style on the floor in front of a bookshelf stereo.

“Anna,” she says, “talk to me, please. What’s going on? Anna?”

And the static forms a reply, deep as thunder.

The voice is loud enough to make the picture on the walls rattle.

“Who are you?” says Christine.

“What did you do with Anna?” she says.

At first, there’s only the hiss of nothing, then:

The sound shakes everything in the room, knocks two pictures off the wall, and blows out the speakers. Only a soft, electric buzz remains.

From the living room, they hear Margie:

“There’s somebody out there!”

Christine and Caleb look at one another, then she gets up and starts to go down the hall. He grabs her arm and turns her toward him.

“I know you didn’t mean to hurt Ron,” he says. “Alright?”

“Billy,” she says, “you’ve always been my favorite person of all, and if Ron helped you like you said, I would never hurt him. I would never hurt anyone. I thought you of all people would know that.”

He can see the hurt in her eyes as she pulls away and disappears down the hall. He sighs, then follows.

In the living room, Ron is peering out the curtains. Margie and the witch seem to have taken up a defensive position behind the kitchen counter.

“The sheriff ’s out there,” Ron says. “And . . . what the hell?”

Caleb and Christine look out. In the half-light they can see the sheriff with his brown hat and uniform, and next to him . . . Next to him stands an inhuman-looking, white-faced figure with large, strange eyes, wearing a black suit. In his hand: what appears to be a length of rope.

“Who’s the other guy?” asks Ron.

“It’s the director,” says Caleb, but he doesn’t know how he knows it.

The sheriff pulls out a megaphone.

“THERE’S TWO WAYS TO DO THIS,” he says. “THE EASY WAY, OR THE FUN WAY.”

And in the director’s hands, a torch flares to life.

“WE WANT TO SEE ALL OF YOU OUT ON THE LAWN, NOW. YOU DON’T WANT TO COME OUT, THAT’S FINE. WE’LL BURN YOU OUT.”

The director leans over and appears to say something to him.

The megaphone belches to life again. “UH . . . THIS IS JUST A
TÊTE-À-TÊTE, THERE’S NO NEED TO BE AFRAID. THE FIGHT
COMES LATER.”

And the man with the torch, the director, starts walking toward them.

“What should we do?” Caleb asks. “Jump through the back window and make a break for the woods?”

“Uh, Billy,” Christine says, staring out the back window, “look at this.”

Out the back window, Caleb sees only an empty forest, at first. Then in the deep shadow he glimpses one white-gowned figure. Then another. Then another.

“We’re surrounded.”

“IF NOBODY COMES OUT BY THE TIME HE REACHES THE HOUSE, HE’S GONNA LIGHT IT UP.”

“I’ll go out,” Christine says. “They already had me once. I’m not scared.”

But her lips tremble as if with cold as she says the words.

“No,” Caleb says. “I’ll go.”

“I’ll go too,” says Ron.

“Don’t leave me in here!” says Margie, gesturing to the two Zikry women with her eyes.

“Believe me,” says the witch, smiling, “you got bigger things to worry about than us.”

For some reason, that makes everybody laugh, and the humor gives them all the courage they need.

Caleb steps over to Christine.

“I just wanted to let you know that I’ve missed you,” he says softly, “and that you were always one of my favorite people too. It’s just—”

“It’s okay,” she says, putting one shushing finger gently on his lips.

“He’s getting close,” says Ron.

“Lock the door behind us,” Caleb says. He kisses Christine on the cheek, turns, and steps out the screeching screen door behind Ron.

They both stop short at the top of the cement steps. The director stands only ten feet away—but he never should have been able to cover that distance in so little time. And beside him are two sleepwalkers that weren’t there before. Each of them holds a pistol aimed at the sky, like a couple of duelers.

The director smiles and brings the torch up a little. In the flickering illumination, Caleb sees why his face looked so strange before.

He’s wearing clown makeup. His skin is smooth and white, with black stars around his eyes and livid red paint emblazoned on his lips.

“Hello,” says the director, “hello, hello. This is a festive day. Do you know why?”

Ron and Caleb shake their heads.

“Today,” says the director, “the world ends. Or begins to end, anyway. And both of you have a wonderful part to play. That’s exciting, isn’t it?”

“We aren’t helping you,” says Caleb. He tries to sound defiant, but his voice wavers.

The director leans forward and whispers in a mock-confiding tone, “You’re helping me right now.”

Caleb can’t tell whether he’s really laughing, or whether the makeup just makes him look that way.

“Would you like me to explain, or should it be a surprise?”

“Explain,” says Ron.

“Well,” the director says, “I only need a few more souls in my little soul soup, and then my work here is done. So, I’m taking two of you. But
not
this one.”

He points to Caleb.

“Why not me?” says Caleb.

“Because,” says the director, “you have to be the hero. That’s how you will help me.
He,
” he points to Ron, “will help me by dying.”

“What if I don’t cooperate?” says Ron.

“Ron, have you ever watched a bullfight? The funny thing about a bullfight is the bull only thinks it’s fighting. Really, it’s just taking part in an elaborate, entertaining ritual culminating in its death. This is kind of like a bullfight.”

Ron remains still, silent.

“Now, Ron. Thinking of going for your knife?” the director gestures to the gowned figures on either side of him. “Just because their eyes aren’t open, do you think they can’t see?”

The sleepwalkers jerk their arms toward the dark sky and twin shots crack. An instant later, two bats fall at the foot of the stoop, shot out of the sky.

The director smiles. “That was well done. Even I’m impressed. But precious time is ticking past us. I’ll need the others to come out now.”

“What if they don’t?” says Caleb.

The director sighs. “Please, little Billy. You already know the answer. They will shoot each of you, then I will light the trailer on fire. Your friends will either run out and be caught, or they will sizzle inside. Now quit stalling. COME OUT!” he roars.

Caleb and Ron exchange helpless looks.

“Don’t come out!” Caleb yells over his shoulder.

“Oh, Billy,” sighs the director, “always the fighter. Tell me, have you read the paper these last few days? Do you know about the big earthquake in China? The tsunami in Indonesia? That probably breaks your big ol’ heart, doesn’t it? Over five hundred thousand people are already corpses. And the dead are still washing up on the beaches.

I bet you wish you could go help those people, don’t you? Just like you wanted to help those millions of poor colored folks dying by the truckload in Africa?”

“How did you know I was going to do that?”

“I know everything,” says the director. “From beginning to end, I know it all. Here’s a lesson: when you die, things are revealed. The dead tell me many things because I help them. And in turn, they help me. As you can see.” He gestures to the sleepwalkers.

“But my initial question regarding the mass carnage in South Asia is this: if you believe there is a heaven, then aren’t these people actually better off? Their suffering is relieved, their poverty and disease have been cleansed from them. It’s hypocritical to believe that good people who die go to heaven and yet still mourn death. Death is divine release. In the words of Shakespeare, ’Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.’”

“Every human life is precious,” says Ron. “We can rejoice when a spirit rejoins God, but when people are taken before their time, it is a tragedy.”

“Ah, words from the preacher who lost his faith. Bravo. But you have it wrong. It is life which is the tragedy. And it is the transcendence of life which should be celebrated. Therefore, you should rejoice in the opportunity to help two of your friends reunite with God in heaven. Now, SEND THEM OUT so the celebration can begin!”

The director is fidgeting with the loop of rope in his hand. His eyes, behind all that black makeup, appear dazzling, almost hypnotic, almost familiar.

“Your words wear a mask that looks like the truth. As the devil’s words often do,” says Ron. “And I didn’t lost my faith. I just misplaced it.”

The director smiles.

“My dear Mr. Bent, I am not the devil. The devil is sleeping now. But he’s rolling over in his sleep. He’s . . . stirring. You’ll hear his words for yourself soon enough, I assure you. When the sixty-six are sleeping in the cold with him, then you’ll hear his words like a trumpet. But for now, I ask once more that you BRING OUT YOUR FRIENDS.”

Ron shakes his head.

The clown face smiles.

All Caleb sees is a flick of the director’s wrist and a streak of brown, and the lasso is around Ron’s neck. The director snaps his end of the rope back as fast as a cobra striking, and Ron is yanked forward. His knees hit the steps hard and he slides down and lands face-first in the grass with a “thud” that shakes Caleb where he stands. The director keeps the rope taut and pulls Ron across the grass toward him. Ron arches his back and raises his head. His face is already a deep red and strings of spit hang from his mouth as he grabs at the rope, trying to relieve the pressure on his throat, trying to catch a breath. The director just jerks again, dragging him ahead faster now, dragging him across the grass on his belly, and Ron’s fingers slip off the lasso uselessly.

Caleb is leaping off the step, knife in hand, ready to cut Ron free, but before his feet even hit the ground, one of the sleepers strikes him in midair, slamming him in the head with the butt of its pistol. Caleb falls back on the steps. Before he can rise, the other sleepwalker is on him too. They each grab one of his arms. He tries to break free, but no matter how much he struggles, he can’t move even an inch. They pull his arms behind his back and pain shoots through his shoulders and his injured wrist. He winces, dizzy and out of breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the director working fast. In the next instant, he’s bound Ron’s hands with the same rope that’s looped around his neck, so that if Ron struggles with his arms, it automatically applies choking pressure on his throat.

From the edge of the woods comes the sound of applause, many hands clapping. The megaphone says: “THAT WAS FAN-TASTIC ROPIN’, COWPOKE. I’D LIKE TO SEE THAT ONE AGAIN IN SLO-MO.”

The director gives a gracious wave.

“That,” he says, “was the fun way. Now . . . ” He looks at the trailer’s darkened window.

“I know my beautiful little friend Christine is in there. Come out and bring your friends with you or—”

And the sleepers put their pistols to both Caleb’s temples. The director pulls on the length of rope running between Ron’s wrists and his throat, pulling it so tight he can’t even make a gurgling sound. His eyes are red with burst blood vessels.

“The easy way or the fun way, Christine. Everybody has to go sometime; all you can do is choose how. I want all three of you out here—now.”

And the door opens. Christine steps out, followed by the witch, followed by a reluctant Margie, who hangs back in the doorway.

“My sweet Christine,” says the director. “I’ve missed you ever so much.”

Over the director’s shoulder, Christine watches in horror as the sleepwalkers emerge from the line of trees. When she was in the hospital, it was impossible to gauge how many patients were there. They were all kept apart, fed in their rooms and let out only for therapy. Now she sees there are hundreds of them, filling the woods on all sides of the trailer. And they’re coming.

“I have one sacrifice here, this miserable wretch of a man, Mr. Ron Bent, so the good news is I only need one more,” says the director, smiling. Ron expels a spray of spit and gasps a rasping breath before the director jerks the rope taut again.

“So now it’s up to you, sweet Christine. Who do we take? Mommy? The old bag of a waitress? Or sweet little you?”

“I ain’t going nowhere,” murmurs Margie.

“Sweet little me,” says Christine. “You already took Anna, didn’t you? Why not take both sisters and have a matching set?”

“Yes, I did take Anna. She was the first. She was . . . a necessary ingredient in our little soul pie. And it’s very noble to offer yourself as the last. I’m proud of you.” He turns to the sleepers with their guns on Caleb’s head. “Shall we?”

The guns snap toward the steps in perfect unison.

“CHRISTINE,” yells Caleb, but his arms are still held in the sleepers’ iron grips.