Authors: T. Michael Martin
You can feel,
his brain hissed now,
like maybe the Game Master doesn’t know what he’s talking about—
Man
.
No. Don’t even think that.
A young Asian boy wearing shredded tuxedo pajamas, his cheek-skin gone, staggered
past the end of the alley Michael could see down. Then the snow sealed up the view
again. Bellows lurched aimlessly in the roads, like dumb undead drones without a queen,
but it was still only the dozen or so Bellows he’d heard earlier. Better than last
night. So there’s that.
But that doesn’t mean you don’t have to be sharp. You still have to feel your blood.
Because if you don’t, you’ll think too much; you’ll get your hopes up. Like today,
how you thought you were going to get yourself and Patrick to soldiers. And to the
Safe Zone.
And to Mom.
Michael stood up, roughing his hands through his hair, blowing air out over his lips,
trying to push down his frustration. Somewhere out in the snowing night came a whipcrack
of lightning, not much more than a flashbulb, but it fleetingly silhouetted the shapes
of two Bellows moaning past. And here was the thing Michael couldn’t help but think:
the Bellows were the ones remaking the world in their own images. The Game Master,
not so much.
That can’t be true, though,
he tried to reason. Okay, yeah yeah yeah, things were frustrating now. But, true
or false: the Game Master had brought them this far—safely.
True.
True or false: the Game Master had materialized in the dark of the night just before
Halloween, and told Michael where to go, told him how to save Patrick.
True.
And the Game Master had told him how the Bellows were not as fast as he was, how
the monsters were only mindless pawns scattered in the night. The Game Master had
told Michael that he was going to gain the Safe Zone and finally find a place for
Patrick to sleep that didn’t have screams or need locked doors. The Game Master had
given them The Game, which was a joy, and a miracle . . . and . . . and . . .
And God, but I’m just so freaking tired.
Those Bellows last night in the woods, though, Michael . . . they almost got you
. They almost
hurt
you.
And what do you think will happen to Patrick, if it turns out Bellows really
can
hurt you two? What do you think will happen to him,
inside
?
Michael sat back down
.
And his mind whispered:
three Atipax left.
The Game Master won’t come until you’re quiet.
Michael stood up again, trying to lighten himself up, deciding to keep himself busy.
Well, maybe he should hurry, ’cause some of us have class in the morning, ha-ha-ha.
Michael rooted through the business desk, finding an ancient cell phone in the top
drawer.
Too bad reception ain’t happening in the backwoods mountains of good ol’ West “By
God” Virginia
. Anyhow, he doubted that he’d be able to reach anything except the constant Safe
Zone advisory recordings that you got on the landlines, no matter what number you
dialed. When Michael pressed the
ON
button, though, he was sort of amazed to watch the screen light up and show a blinking
half-bar of charge left. The 9 button had an image of a little cassette tape on it.
Voice recorder. Could be useful. He turned it off to save the battery.
Newspapers in the trash can in the corner, but they were all pre-Halloween.
Headlines about the war in Iran; a guy in Pittsburgh who won the Powerball; that awful,
doesn’t-help-West-Virginia’s-public-image story about the little boy, Cady Gibson,
who had snuck into a mine and been killed when he accidentally fell and hit his head—in
Coalmount, actually.
MOUNTAIN STATE IN MOURNING
the headline said. Photos showed the entrance to the mine, and the kid himself: a
blond boy, maybe a third grader, with crookedly cut bangs that might have been cute
if they hadn’t made Michael realize that Cady’s family probably just couldn’t afford
a real haircut.
Sounds kinda familiar.
In another drawer, alongside a can of nuts, was a plastic, bright-orange pistol. Michael
laughed, picking up the surprisingly heavy toy from the otherwise I-am-a-serious-businessman
desk.
Man, Bub would love this
.
Michael went back over to check on Patrick again, the Bellows moaning outside in the
shapeless night.
But he hardly heard. Because Patrick—legs twisted, blond hair shagging his brow—looked
so small, so sweet, that Michael thought, not for the first or final time, that he
would shoot all the monsters in the world he had to, he would do anything to reach
the Safe Zone in the capital city of Charleston, to win The Game for Patrick. And
when breath came like cotton through Patrick’s tiny, chapped lips and he snorted,
kind of hilariously, Michael felt he
could
decorate the floors of the world with Bellow brains. He felt it in his breath and
blood. Yes, he could.
Yes-yes,
he would.
’Cause you, Bub, are the best half brother I’ve got—
—and right then, Michael thought he heard something speak, and looked up.
Through the gaps in the boarded window on this western side of the building, the snowstorm
had momentarily cleared, allowing a view of the steeple of the church next door.
It had been small and paint-chipped in the daylight. But at night the spire had become
a great arrow arcing for the stars. For some reason, it gave Michael a breath of joy.
Things have worked out so far. It’s like . . . sometimes it’s like there’s someone
helping us. Besides the Game Master.
Michael smiled a little, gazing at the eerily moving building—
The moon sailed out from behind the clouds.
Michael’s heart leapt to his throat, and he forced himself not to gasp.
Eyes had flashed in the shattered windows across the alleyway: eyes, in the black
of the church.
People,
Michael thought.
He took a shaky step away from Patrick. For a second, his blood whamming, he stood
unmoving in the streams of new moonlight. Then he moved to his window, peeking out
through the gap between the boards.
No. You don’t know it was people,
he cautioned himself.
Could just be Bellows
.
But Bellows’ eyes are black! Those were
bright
!
The snow was falling, and the moon had retreated—but he thought he saw silhouettes
in the church.
Big
silhouettes.
People!
He almost shouted it.
But, no. Don’t wake Patrick and get him excited, not if this was a false alarm. And
if the Bellows heard him and realized there were humans inside . . .
But he felt a frighteningly powerful burst of longing.
Michael went to the door and loosened the chain; it tumbled quietly. Snow spurled
inside. Down the alley between the office and the church, Bellows roared and staggered.
Wait a second before you go,
he thought, looking back at Patrick.
Just a freaking
second
. Feel your bl—
Except Michael had already left the threshold of the Southern West Virginia Coal office,
shutting the door behind him and traveling toward the side entrance of the church.
“Hey,”
he whispered.
Michael lay his fingers on the church doorknob: he hadn’t been in a church in years,
not since it had been one of Ron’s this-will-definitely-fix-my-life ideas.
He crossed the threshold, rifle in his hand.
“Hell—” he said, and the green smell hit the back of his mouth.
Ahhhh no.
The first thing he saw: the Bellow. A man, dead-eyed, wearing a blue coal-mining jumpsuit
and gas mask and utility belt, secured by a rope to the raised wooden altar of the
tiny house of worship. Michael stopped a couple feet outside of the Bellow’s reach,
then whirled.
People were clustered in the pews, watching the Bellow, as if awaiting the announcement
of its deadly sermon.
Michael immediately felt his blood, but before he could stop his thoughts:
Why are these people looking at this?
Because they weren’t people.
The “people” stood utterly still, without breath, without flinch. The worshippers
were mannequins. Their arms, reaching for the sky, were posed. In the eye sockets,
shards of mirror glimmered and flashed: they looked like disciples eternally paused
in the brilliance of an epiphany.
The imitation of life, of
safety
, was somehow hideous—like biting into a hamburger that was fine on the outside, but
in the crescent of your bite, maggots squirmed.
“Stupid,” he said. His own voice sounded shaky.
Fine—it’s fine,
he told himself.
Things are still going well. Hope is just getting some good laughs at me today, that’s
all.
“Stttuuuuupiiiiiddd!”
said the muffled, bound Bellow.
And out of the corner of his eye, Michael saw the Bellow lunge. For one incredible
moment, the enormous altar the Bellow was tethered to tilted forward; the nails anchoring
it to the ground screamed.
The Bellow’s clawed fingers flew out and scraped the side of Michael’s neck.
Michael recoiled at the frozen touch. He staggered back, nearly falling over a pew.
He felt a sting that was mostly surprise. His hand went to his neck. The skin was
tender, hot, and wet.
Freaking thing scratched me
, Michael thought, in something like wonder.
I
let
it scratch me.
He gulped twice, trying to regain control of himself, to push away the coppery adrenaline.
He looked into the eyes of the Bellow that was attempting to lunge again from the
moonlit altar—
actually, just “eye,”
he corrected himself. One eye was the normal all-black, but from the other socket,
an eye hung from its stalk like a deflated water balloon.
“STUUUUUUUPIIII—”
And redness surged through Michael’s head.
He raised his rifle . . . and swung the stock of it at the Bellow, cracking the creature
in the side of the skull. A sound like a sweet spot–hit baseball. Its brain ruined,
the Bellow collapsed.
Didn’t ask you,
Michael thought.
Not bothering to shut the church up behind him, he went back to the office, chained
the door.
Michael felt shaky. Frakking hell, you know what “something” would help him? Getting
out of this crap-hole in the morning.
He thought of waking Patrick, just to tell jokes or something.
He crouched down, reaching out to touch Patrick’s shoulder. But he stopped his hand.
Brain-crud coated his fingers: his whole sleeve, in fact.
Can’t even hug my brother,
he thought.
You know what, Game? Sometimes I am so sick of you. Sometimes I just want to qui—
But don’t think about that.
Michael sat in his hard chair, feeling his blood slam in his temples.
The Game Master arrived immediately.
“There’s someone outside.”
Michael twitched, murmuring. He turned onto his other hip, pulling the sleeping bag
up to his armpits. Good Lordy, did the cold suck: his bones felt hard and thick, like
the cement floor underneath him. He swam slowly out from under sleep, his closed eyelids
glowing a soft red.
Day twenty-two, plus one day, equals—
“Michael, there’s someone outside.”
Michael’s eyes burst open.
The burn of daylight through the semi-boarded windows hid his brother’s expression.
Michael automatically locked his own emotions down, too.
“Huh?”
Michael whispered back calmly.
It’s probably not
people
,
he told himself
. Probably Bellows who couldn’t find someplace to hide when the sun came up
.
Bub’s just confused.
Michael remembered another confusing wake-up, the one that had come only a couple
days before Halloween. Patrick had shaken Michael awake, saying,
What’s a “impatient picnic”?
The fist-sized bruises on Michael’s arms were still spectacular that morning: even
in the confusion of waking, he hid them under the cover from Patrick. Patrick continued:
Daddy came back. He said, “Patrick’s goin’ back to the impatient picnic this weekend.
They have a openin’ first of November.” Mom’s sad. She’s cryin’ in the garage. Why’s
she
cryin’
?
Patrick said, but from the gathering dread on his face, Michael thought a part of
Patrick already knew. And the truth shimmered up to Michael, too, like something hideous
breaching in a nightmare.
“Inpatient clinic,”
Michael thought.
Even after everything he did, Mom let Ron come back. And she’s letting him take Patrick
back to the psych hospital.
But, now?
Now: Michael didn’t hear
any
Bellows
.
If someone’s out there, they can take us to the Safe Zone.
“I was making dinner,”
Patrick whispered.
Dinner? What the hell time
is
it? Did I sleep
all day
?
“I didn’t wake you up. You snored loud. I . . . I was trying to be a good Gamer.”
In his hands, Patrick held their crappy multi-tool can opener and a can of tomato
soup. The top of the can was gnawed and frayed.
And when Patrick pointed out the mostly boarded window, on the far wall maybe twenty
feet away, Michael had to bite the meat of his cheek to make himself not shout in
joy. Because in the daylight outside that window, for the first time in three weeks,
he saw a living human, not his brother, walk past.