Claire screams.
Ahead of her, in the middle of the road, Daniel and Stu turn, but the movement is not theirs. They are tied to stakes driven deep into the crumbling asphalt, their hands bound behind them, and when they turn, it is at the behest of the wind, as if they are little more than extravagant weathervanes. They are both naked. The skin has been removed from Daniel’s face; Stu’s head is gone, severed at the neck. And yet, somehow they continue to speak, permitted by the skewed logic of dreams to say what they once said in life.
We should have just driven, Stu says. Why the fuck would anyone want to walk in this heat?
You’re missing the point, man, Daniel tells him. Everybody drives everywhere. Unless you’re willing to spend a fortune on some goddamn guided trail in the Rockies, your options are limited. We got where we needed to go, had our fun, now it’s time to get back to nature, see things as people used to see them. It could be our last summer together, so why not draw it out a little?
You’re a fruit, you know that?
Maybe, but you’ll thank me later. We’re going to see things no tourist ever sees.
Claire looks away. The light fades. She is no longer on the road, but back in the woodshed that smells of waste matter, of blood and decay and sweat and oil. There is a window in the wall to her left that she does not recall ever seeing. Through the dirty glass Daniel stands there, once more dressed, his face returned to him but wearing a somber expression as he looks in her direction.
And, I’m losing him, she thinks, as she thought earlier that day. Things are changing. We both feel it. I’m losing him.
She opens her mouth to call out to him, to plead with him to save her, to save them both, but her words are obliterated by the filthy probing fingers that have found their way inside, forcing her to look away from the window and into the face of her nightmare.
Here she wakes, the smell of blood and dirt clinging to her, and she thrashes against it, against the arms that appear to hold her down, to tell her that everything will be okay, that she’s safe now.
But she isn’t, and she knows it. The killers may be gone, but they have planted something inside her with their fingers, their tongues, and their cocks. She feels it all the time now and its getting worse, drawing nourishment from her, waiting until she relaxes, believes those who are telling her there is nothing left to fear before it claws its way out of her to prove them wrong.
“Claire?”
“Yes.”
“Can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where you are?”
“Hospital.”
“That’s right. You know why?”
She nodded, slowly, but still refused to turn her myopic gaze on the man sitting in a chair to the left of the bed. With him came an air of importance, authority. Police, she suspected.
“Can you look at me, Claire?”
She ignored him.
“My name is Sheriff Todd. Marshall Todd. I’m with the state police.”
“Hi Sheriff Todd Marshall Todd,” she said, and the policeman laughed, but it was practiced laughter, a preprogrammed response, the slush left behind by the icebreaker. His voice sounded gritty, worn, and she guessed he wasn’t a young man.
“Let’s just keep it to Marshall then, okay?”
He was trying to be friendly with her, keeping his tone light, but behind it she could sense his impatience to unburden himself of something. Perhaps he wasn’t sure how much she knew, how much of the horror she had seen before she got away. And she wondered how much she could stand to hear. She knew a considerable amount of time had passed. It had felt like years, but the last time she’d been fully awake, the kindly patrician doctor had told her it had been over nine weeks. Countless times over that long stretch of terrible nights and days marked by pain, she’d imagined a convoy of police cruisers cars kicking up dirt, overseen by black helicopters, doors being thrust open, voices shouting as men wearing mirrored shades ran toward a sagging house, guns drawn. She imagined the media helicopters whirling above the organized calamity, flashing lights and camera lights as dirty men in overalls were led out in handcuffs squinting up, then out at a crowd of men and women who were eager to be at them for different reasons. Some just wanted the scoop; others to see the face of pure evil for themselves; and then there were those among them, the quieter ones, who wanted nothing more than ten minutes alone in a dark room with these depraved monsters.
And none of it would bring her friends back.
“How are you feelin’?” Marshall asked.
“Tired. Sore.”
“Doctor Newell says you might be able to check out by the weekend. I’ll bet you’re anxious to be home with your family again.”
“Yes,” she replied, but wasn’t entirely sure that was true. She dreaded the thought of what awaited her outside of this place—the reserves of energy she would be required to draw upon to satisfy the concern and curiosity of her well-wishers, the ill-concealed looks of resentment and accusation she expected to see in the eyes of the her friends’ parents, the ones who had no child to welcome home. She was safe from the men now, for however long, their power over her limited to dreams and the occasional waking nightmare, but little could protect her from the maelstrom of emotions that would come crashing down upon her as soon as she stepped foot outside this place. The mere thought of it exhausted her, made her want to cry.
“Well,” the Sheriff said. “Your Mom and sister are eager to see you. They’ve been stayin’ in a motel close by, checkin’ in on you often as they can.”
Claire exhaled. She recalled their visits, how relieved she had been to see her mother and Kara, the agony reflected in their faces, the uncertainty of not knowing for sure how much she had suffered, and unprepared to accept any of it. But she was alive, and in their eyes had glimmered the joy of that simple undeniable truth. She was alive, back with them, when so many others had perished.
“Is there anythin’ you need?”
“I’m fine.”
“Okay. I just wanted to have a little talk with you today, check on your progress, make sure you ain’t wantin’ for nothin’.”
She nodded slightly, her bandages chafing against the pillow. “Thank you.”
“And I wanted to let you know that the man who did this to you and your friends is dead. Not how we’d have wished for it to go, but I’m guessin’ he’s facin’ justice of another kind now.”
She started to respond, then stopped. Surely she’d misheard. The man who did this…
“What did you say?” she asked, and finally looked directly at him. She saw she’d been right; he was old, his hat resting on his lap, held there by thin wrinkled fingers. He had a generous head of gray hair, which the hat had all but tempered flat against his skull, and kind brown eyes, which seemed designed for sympathy. His face was lean, and deep wrinkles ran from the corners of his mouth down past his chin.