White Space (14 page)

“Emma,” she said.

“Hey,” Chad said around macaroni and cheese. His face was narrow, his nose no more than a blade, and he was pretty twitchy, kind of wired. To Eric, he looked a bit like a small and very anxious rat. Chad swallowed, said, “So what’s going on? You guys broke down?” His nose wrinkled. “Man, what’d you guys do, take a bath in gas or something?” To Emma:
“What are you wearing? You look like a baked potato.”

“Space blanket,” she said.

“What?” Bode and Chad tossed a glance, and then Bode said to Emma, “You mean, like one of those souvenir Apollo things? From Cape Kennedy?”

“What?” she asked. “You mean, Canaveral?”

“Naw,” Chad said. “They changed it. That’s the old name.”

“Say, can we come in?” Eric interrupted. “It’s really cold.”

“Ah sure, yeah, jeez.” Then Bode glanced past Eric’s shoulder. “Hey, look at that. It stopped snowing.”

“What?” Five seconds before, the blowing snow had been thick and driving. Now, no snow fell at all, not even the occasional solitary flake.
Like someone turned it off
. Eric stuck his hand beyond the porch railing.
No snow. What—

A static burst, followed by a staccato buzz, sounded from his left-hand pocket, and he jumped. The walkie-talkie; Eric had forgotten about it.

“It can’t be them,” Emma said. “We’re too far away.”

“Those your friends?” Bode asked.

“Might be, but she’s right. They’re fifteen miles back,” Eric said.

“Radios sometimes travel better at night,” Bode said.

“Yeah.” The handset’s oversize antennae caught on the inside fabric of his pocket, and Eric fought to work it free. A hash of static and broken words crackled from the unit’s mechanical throat:
mur … danger … bodies …

“Hey,” Bode said. “Sounds like you snagged the same police channel we—”

He broke off as Eric got the handset out just in time for them all to hear the scream.

TONY LOST THE
Camry after ten yards, although Casey’s flashlight and the brighter crimson penumbras from the three flares were still visible. After five more yards, the snow swallowed the third and farthest flare; at twenty-five, more or less, the second disappeared. Casey’s flashlight dimmed, but Tony could still pick it out. As an experiment, he waved his flashlight over his head in a big arc. A few moments later, Casey’s light bobbed a reply. So far, so good.

He walked for what seemed like a very long time and until his face ached with cold. Clots of snow had gathered on his chest and shoulders, and his eyelashes dripped iced tears. Wow, had the van been this far? He didn’t think so. He turned to look back. Casey’s flashlight was gone, but the flare nearest the Camry still flickered, the pinprick of light as fuzzy as a red cotton ball.

Okay, relax. So long as you see the flare, you’re still okay
. But where was that stupid van? Fifteen more steps and he would call it—

His boot came down with a splash. Gasping, he jumped back as the smell came rolling up.
Gas
. Was that right? He aimed his flashlight, and frowned. Gas pooled over the snow. He lifted a careful heel, eyeing how the gas slopped and rippled around his boots.
Deep. This can’t be right; no car holds this much gasoline. You’d need a tanker truck for it to have leaked this much
.

Even so, that the gas was still liquid was wrong, too. Shouldn’t the gas have seeped into the snow, or …

Wait a minute
. He shuffled, felt his boots skate and slide as the ripples expanded in ever-wider circles. That wasn’t snow under the gas. It was
ice
, as smooth and featureless as silvered glass. Beneath his feet, his face wavered and swam, his reflection so perfect that he could see the swirl of snow haloing his head.
It’s a mirror
.

“That is too weird,” he said, just to hear himself. His heart was suddenly thumping. “This has to be an optical illusion or something. You can’t make a mirror out of ice. It’s just … I don’t know … compacted snow and gasoline and …” He stopped. Never a whiz at chemistry or science, even he knew that made no sense.

Yeah, but then what is this?
Flexing his knees, he pushed off on his toes with a little hop. His boots
splished
, the gasoline sloshed, but the mirror-ice didn’t give or crack. He’d stirred something up, though. As he watched, a gelid veil smoked from the pool in thick, white tongues. Mystified, he swept a hand through the mist, watched as his palm cleaved the suddenly nacreous air. Where his hand touched, there was a slight give, a webby stickiness that reminded him of pushing through musty cobwebs down cellar.

This wasn’t right. A creeping uneasiness slithered up his
spine. The curtain of fog was rising, not lifting from the ice so much as growing. He aimed the spear of his flashlight straight up. The light didn’t penetrate more than a few feet before the smoking mist swallowed it whole. The beam’s color was off, too: not blue-white but a ruddy orange, like old blood. Yet he saw enough.

The fog was moving: not dissipating or being swept away by the wind but weaving and knitting itself together over his head. The fog was walling him in.

Oh boy
. His mouth went desert-dry. He should … yeah, he should really get out of here. The fumes were thickening, dragging over his face in cloying fingers that worked into his nose and down to his throat to worm into his lungs.

Which way? He turned a wild circle, but the fog gobbled up his light. The air was getting worse, too. He tried pulling in thin sips, but the tickle at the back of his throat became an itch, then a scratch, and then he was coughing and couldn’t stop. He felt his throat closing even as his mouth filled with spit. Something squirmed in his throat, like maybe there was an animal with furry legs and sharp claws crawling around in there.

Crazy, that’s cra—

Something ripped behind his ribs, as if the blade of a hot knife had suddenly sliced through muscle and bone. Grunting, he clutched at his chest, felt the boil of something clenching, bunching. God, there
was
something inside him! This was like his mother, the way she clawed at her chest.

Can’t … can’t breathe
. His fingers raked his throat, scored his flesh.
No air … can’t … got to get out, get out, get—

A hand slid onto his shoulder.

“CASEY, IT WAS
fifteen minutes a half hour ago,” Rima said.

“Tell you what,” Casey said. “You’re so worried, you go.”

“We should
both
go.”

“Why? So we can
all
get lost and freeze to death? Tony might have gone around to the other side of the van. That would block the flashlight. He could be turned around, facing the other way. We wouldn’t see the flashlight then either.”

“But he signaled us every couple of minutes before you lost him.”

“I didn’t lose him.”

“God, would you
stop
? I’m not blaming you. All I’m saying is there’s been nothing for a long time. We should see him coming back at least.”

This was probably true. Maybe too much glare? Casey thumbed off his flashlight, then pressed his face against the icy slab of window glass. Nothing to see. He chewed on his lower lip. Maybe they
should
go. “Do you remember if Tony
had a rope or extension cord or, I don’t know, something we can tie off to the car?”

“He wouldn’t have anything long enough to reach the van.”

“I know that,” Casey said, impatiently. “But if we can extend our reach, get away from the car a good fifty feet or so, then one of us can keep going with the flashlight, right? The other one hangs back and yells.”

“Oh, right,” she said. “Sorry. That’s a good idea, Casey.”

He knew that. “So was there anything?”

“I don’t remember. Maybe we should check your sled?”

He should’ve thought of that. He was pretty sure he had chains and a couple bungee cords. Popping his door, he flicked on his flashlight, almost climbed out, but then remembered those stupid locks. Reaching over the front seat, he yanked the keys, pocketed them—and frowned. Ducking out of the car again, he sniffed. “You smell that?”

“Yeah.” She was looking at him across the Camry’s snow-silted roof. “That’s—”

“Gas.” He faced the direction where the van lay. “I didn’t smell it before.”

“Maybe the wind changed direction?”

“No, I—” And that’s when it hit him. “It’s stopped snowing. There’s no wind.”

Rima turned her face to the black, featureless bowl of night sky. “Can that happen? I mean, all of a sudden like that?”

How should he know? Did he look like he worked for The Weather Channel?
But she’s right; this
is
creepy
. No wind, no snow. Like someone hit a switch or turned off the spigot. If
anything, the air was much colder now, and heavier somehow. “Come on,” he said, then stopped as his boot came down with a small
splish
. “Hey, what …”

Whatever else he would’ve said died right then and there.

Because from the darkness came a scream.

TONY WHIRLED, THE
flashlight tumbling from his hand to fly into the fog. The night came slamming down as he backpedaled, his feet slipping, his balance finally going. He went down like a rock. The impact was like wiping out on an ice rink: a solid, bone-rattling blow that drove the air from his lungs. Gasoline sheeted over his body; cold fuel slapped his face. His throat closed on a mouthful of gasoline, and then he was choking, his vision starting to speckle with black filaments. Ropy drool poured from his open mouth. His thoughts swirled in a swoon:
Passing … out …

At the last possible second, the knotted muscles of his throat relaxed, and he pulled in a great, wrenching gasp. His chest throbbed; something inside there seemed to
push
. There was still gas in his mouth, too, and the fumes got him coughing again.

Someone out here. On the ice.
With
him. “Whooo?” The word rode on a breathy shriek. “Who’s … who’s th-there?”

No answer.

“C-C-Casey?”

No answer.

Oh God, oh God, I’m in so much trouble
. With his flashlight gone, the night was inky and close. He couldn’t seem to pull in enough air. The fog’s webby fingers threaded up his nose and steamed into his brain, and then he was gasping as the fog squirmed into the space behind his eyes. His head went swimmy. The thinking part of his mind knew he was hyperventilating and only making things much worse, but he couldn’t help it. If he didn’t get out of this, if he couldn’t find his way back, he was going to faint, or freeze, or both.

He pushed to his feet and stood a moment, swaying, his pulse rabbiting through his veins. The fog was thick, but the flares showed through the storm, right? So, it stood to reason that if he could just get a little closer to his car, he ought to pick one out. From there, it was a cakewalk. All he had to do was get himself pointed the right way. Put the van at his back, and he was set.

He shuffled forward, pushing through the fog, the gasoline slopping and gurgling around his boots. After twenty steps, he still hadn’t found the van and panic started to bleed into his chest again.
Where could it—

Bam!
A bomb went off in his face, right between his eyes, and he screamed with pain. Blood flooded his mouth, then spurted from his broken nose in a great spume, and he simply dropped in a sodden heap. He couldn’t get up. Everything hurt, even his hair. Blindly, he put out a gloved hand, felt an upside-down door handle. In his terror, he’d run right into the van. Which side? He slid his hand down a bit then felt his glove sink into something soft and flaccid.
“Ahhh,”
he said,
the sound coming out as a thick half-moan, half-scream. He must be at the passenger’s side window and that dead girl. Then his brain caught up to what his hands, even through gloves, had already registered.

There was the coat, yes. But …

No
. He thought back to that slithering touch, and a swell of terror flooded his chest.
No, no, she has to be here; she’s dead, she’s dead, she—

Over the thunder of his heart, Tony heard something new.

A single …

lonely …

splash
.

TONY FROZE
.

Behind him. Someone there. Not Casey or Rima; he knew that. They would’ve called out. Even with the fog, he ought to see a little light, but—

Splash
.

God, what was that? He felt the scream boiling on his tongue. That wasn’t an animal. No animal in its right mind would be out here, in the cold and dark, just hanging around, waiting for a dumb, stupid kid to bumble—

Splash
.

Get up
. Every hair on his head stood on end.
Get up, or you’re dead. Get up, or it will find you. Get up, run, do something, get up!

But he did not get up. He couldn’t. Instead, Tony shrank, shivering, against the van, his nose still dripping blood, which was beginning to freeze to his chin.

Splash
. Pause.
Slosh
.

The handset. He had the walkie-talkie. He could call for help. Call
someone
.

Slosh
.

Eric can’t help. He’s probably too far away. I’m all alone out here and—
Another
splish
, and now the lake of gasoline rippled and broke against his legs.
Getting closer, coming right for me
. He had to do something, do
something
.

Slosh. Splish
.

He eased the handset from his pocket.

Splash
. Pause.
Splash-splash
.

He brought the handset to his mouth.

Sploosh
.

“Help.” His voice was so low, so small, there was almost no sound at all. “Help, help me.”

Splash-splash …

“Help,” he said, louder now. “Help me. Somebody, help!”