The Paladin Prophecy (23 page)

A window
, Will thought.
A window in the fabric of the air
.

“That’s where the monsters come from,” whispered Dave.

Through the membrane, Will could make out a blasted alien landscape of crimson and ash. Black skies streaked with poisonous shades of lavender and green arced above a desolate, volcanic wasteland. Fires raged along the far horizon. A stink of sulfur and festering rot issued from it in blinding waves.

“That’s the Never-Was,” said Dave.

Will saw movement through the membrane. Something came around a cracked pile of rock and lurched toward the window. It looked like a tall woman, severely beautiful, naked as far as he could tell, her shapely breasts hidden by her long gleaming black hair. She reached the glowing circle and raised her hands to the membrane. Her eyes found Will.

“Uh-oh,” said Dave. “That’s not good.”

The creature’s hands pushed at the membrane, stretching it until they finally broke through. Other limbs, dark and slippery like tentacles, tore the remnants of the membrane away. The creature’s head and upper body slipped through, and Will saw now that her hair was as wet and ragged as seaweed. Her black eyes flickered and twitched, lids clacking, lit up with pitiless hunger. A foul odor reached him; Will felt sickness wash his guts.

“Run, damn it!” Dave roared.

Terror pulled rank on paralysis. Will slammed the door shut and sprinted headlong back down the corridor. Running in the dark, he heard the door behind him burst open and then the dry rattling slither of something sliding across the concrete after him.

Dave appeared ahead of him in the corridor and drew his hybrid gun. As he opened fire, Will glanced over his shoulder. The corridor was strobing with blasts of hot white light. Will saw the creature closing on him, her spidery limbs reaching for him, her head tilted back, jaws hinged wide open, hideous fangs—

“Don’t look at it!” shouted Dave. Standing his ground, Dave fanned the hammer of his gun, firing an explosive barrage of light at the thing. As Will sprinted past him, Dave called, “That’s three!”

Howling shrieks echoed down the corridor. Will ran through the stygian darkness for what felt like forever. As he finally turned the corner, he heard yelling and footsteps behind him, human voices—the group he’d seen when he’d first opened the door.

Will stumbled up the stairs, desperately feeling his way along the wall. Hissing filled his ears. He fumbled open the door to the locker room and scrambled through it, spikes skidding on the concrete as he turned a corner.

Two strong hands yanked him back into an alcove. A steel cage door closed silently behind him. He saw brooms, a mop and bucket, cleaning supplies.

And his roommate, Nick McLeish, in sweats, crouching beside him inside the door, holding a finger to his lips. Moments later, his pursuers burst through the door into the locker room and rushed by their hiding place. There were at least ten of them, moving so fast it was impossible to tell who they were.

The last person in the group came to a halt just outside their door. Through the gaps in the mesh, Will saw a pair of Adidas running shoes, black with three red stripes on the instep. He looked up and saw a hand reach for the doorknob. Nick silently pushed the lock button just as the knob began to turn. Whoever was outside rattled the knob, then moved off. The voices and footsteps faded. Nick covered his mouth with one hand, trying to keep from laughing.

“What’s so funny?” whispered Will.

“Dude, the look on your face. When you skidded around that corner, rocking the full Scooby-Doo windmill? Oh my freakin’ God, I nearly lost it.”

“They were freakin’
chasing
me, Nick.”

“I know, I know—”

“Who was it? Did you see?”

“No, bro. I’m at my locker, you go flying past, and I hear them coming, so I pulled you in here. What the h-e-double-hockey-sticks did you do, man?”

H-e-double-hockey-sticks indeed
. Will hesitated, then remembered Elise’s advice: If he was going to make it, he needed
all
his roommates’ help.

“I don’t know,” said Will, his entire body shaking. “I opened a door. And saw something I wasn’t supposed to see.”

“Well, give it up. What was it?”

“I don’t even know how to describe it.”

“Awesome. Which door? Come on, you got to show me, man.”

“No way. No
freaking
way, Nick.” Will buried his face in his hands.

Nick paused, then patted him on the back. “Okay, chillax, slackasaurus. Don’t drop a litter of kitties about it. We better slip you out of here. Before the townsfolk come back with torches and pitchforks.”

SUICIDE HILL

Will followed Nick as they snuck out of the broom closet to an undersized door hidden between two rows of lockers. Down a dark flight of stairs, along a low, narrow corridor, up another flight of stairs, out another door, and they were outside the field house, on the side facing away from campus toward the thick leading edge of the woods.

Will gulped in deep breaths of cold air, hands on his head as he walked off the stress and tried to make sense of what he’d seen.

A window in the air … like the one in the hills behind my house! A window into the Never-Was … That’s where the monsters come from and that’s how they get here … burbelangs and gremlins and whatever the hell that last horror was
.

Nick watched him the whole time, arms folded, leaning against a tree, rolling a toothpick around in his mouth. “What’cha doing at the Barn anywho, dawg?”

“I’m supposed to hook up with the cross-country team and Coach Jericho.”

“Jericho? Aw, man, that is tragic,” said Nick, shaking his head.

“Why, what’s the matter with him?”

“Ira Jericho’s a classic death-dealing crush-your-spinal-column hard-ass. And by the way, about said dude? He’s watching you right now.”

Will turned. A tall, rail-thin man in formfitting dark blue sweats stood forty yards away, where a dirt path from the field house entered the woods. Jericho wore his long thick black hair in a ponytail. His face was so bronzed it almost looked carved. He had severe cheekbones and a thin severe mouth. His dark eyes stared intensely at Will. He inserted two fingers in his mouth and let out a shrill, piercing whistle. He pointed a finger at Will, then at his feet:
You. Right here, right now
.

#88: ALWAYS LISTEN TO THE PERSON WITH THE WHISTLE.

Will waved to him. He glanced back and saw that Nick hadn’t budged from his spot against the tree.

“Aren’t you coming?” asked Will.

“Meh.”

“Why?”

“Dude, I’m a
gymnast
. Jericho’s got no authority over us
jumpy-springy
types.”

“Come on, Nick, give me some cover here. I’ll pay it back.”

Nick calculated. “Show me that freaky room you found—tonight—and I’m in.”

“Okay, okay.”

Nick pushed off and joined him. The two jogged to where Coach Jericho waited by the woods. Arms folded across his chest, motionless as stone, the man towered over them; Jericho had to be at least six foot five. Everything about him was pared clean to the bone. Not an ounce given to waste on his body or being.

“West,” said Coach Jericho.

“That’s me,” said Will, raising his hand slightly.

“That’s him,” said Nick, pointing.

“That’s helpful,” said Jericho. He still hadn’t moved. “Are you two clowns awake?”

“Yes, sir,” said Will.

“I don’t understand the question,” said Nick.

“My practices start at one forty-five,” said Jericho. “Sharp.”

Will looked at his watch: 1:40.

“O-kay,” said Will.

“That means
ready
and
at your marks
at one forty-five,” said Jericho.

“I warmed him up, Coach,” said Nick. “He’s good to go.”

Jericho stared at Nick. Nick tried one of his charming smiles.

“Well, aren’t you Susie Citizen. Our greenhorn needs someone to show him the trail, McLeish. We’re running a five-K. You’re going with him.”

Nick’s smile went ker-splat. “But—”

“Wait, don’t tell me: You have practice now. With the
gymnasts
.”

“Why, yes, Coach, as a matter of fact, I do—”

“That’s a crock of spit. I know the schedule. You want to go for ten K instead, candy cane?”

“Five K sounds good,” said Nick.

“My squad gathers at the Riven Oak,” said Jericho. “That’s our rally point, outbound and inbound. Rain, sleet, snow, or shine. Show him, McLeish.”

“Can do, Coach,” said Nick. He tugged Will’s arm, eager to get away. But Jericho stopped them.

“West: You’re a sophomore and a scrub. Scratch that: You’re what a scrub scrapes off his spikes in a cow pasture. Don’t get in our way. Trip up any of my frontline guys and I’ll bury you in these woods. Stay on the trail. I don’t want to waste a search party. Drag your sorry butts back here, if you can manage, before dark.”

“Come on, Will—”

Will shook him off. Jericho’s tone irked him. “I’ll do better than that, Coach,” said Will.

For the first time, Jericho looked at him with something other than steel-eyed contempt. “Is that a fact? You think you can compete with my team?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Not with this screwball as your wingman.”

Nick laughed, and then stopped abruptly when Jericho beamed his death-ray stare at him again.

“I can do better than compete,” said Will. “I can win.”

Jericho gave Will one last almost-interested look. “Move it, McLeish.”

“Showing him now, Coach.”

Nick ran away, fast, and Will sprinted to catch him. They followed a cinder trail until it crested a slight rise. Down below, looming over a clearing on the edge of the forest, stood the massive, towering sprawl of an ancient and ghostly white oak. Its branches formed a canopy that spanned fifty yards. In its center, the heart of the trunk had to be at least fifteen feet thick. Some ancient injury had badly damaged it; a gap ran through its belly from front to back wide enough to drive a motorcycle through.

The Center’s cross-country team waited at the base of the tree. They didn’t look anything like boys. A dozen ripped, wiry, impossibly fit young men, hardly the slight, greyhound body mass prototype of the distance runner. Only a few were Will’s height. The rest stood taller and outweighed him by at least twenty pounds. None wore the heavy fleece-lined sweats that Will had put on. They were stripped down to singlets and shorts, socks, and shoes. Their exposed arms and legs were flushed by the numbing cold, but they seemed immune to it. They were warmed up and restless, kicking out excess energy like Thoroughbreds at the starting gate. Sharp snorts of vaporized breath trailed away all around them.

The Paladins. Eyes lit by the same competitive fire as the logo. Road warriors.

As Will joined them, they sized him up, in that aloof, disdainful way runners throw down before a race. Dismissing him:
Just another scrub
. In the mix at the front, Will saw Todd Hodak staring at him. Will checked the squad’s body language, the way they conceded space to Todd, deferring to him.

He’s their leader
.

Will glanced down at Todd’s shoes: black Adidas with three red stripes. The shoes he’d seen outside the closet minutes ago. When Will looked up, he saw something else color Todd’s look: an alarm that he just as quickly tried to still.

Is this the group I stumbled on in that weird room? The ones who
chased me back into the locker room?
He’d seen Lyle go through the door to that corridor, too.
What the hell was going on?

The team turned away, as if drawing a curtain over the idea. The sharp crack of a starter’s gun shattered the silence. Jericho stood back on the rise, smoke circling from the pistol he held in the air.

With Todd Hodak in front, the team thundered single-file through the hole in the oak and uphill toward the woods. Jostling for position, they reached cruising speed on the cinder track in less than fifty yards. Will and Nick were slower to react and by the time they found their stride, the pack had opened up a lead of fifty yards. At the top of the hill, they passed by Coach Jericho.

“That all you got, scrub?” said Jericho, looking at a stopwatch.

Nick pulled next to Will when the path widened as they approached the woods. “Yo, Will-the-Thrill … you forgot to tell me you were Dumpster-dog crazy.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You just told Jericho you were gonna win this race.”

“I guess I kind of did.”

“Lame. Well, lots of easier sports to choose from, after Coach Buzz-kill bounces you out on your hein-dorf … volleyball, water polo, golf—”

“Not for me.”

“Dude, trust me, you’d be doing yourself a favor. I’d rather inflate myself with helium and start a sumo wrestling team … than this.” Nick spit into the woods.

“What’s Jericho’s deal? Why’s he such a hard-ass?”

“Dude’s full-blood Oglala Lakota, man,” said Nick. “Back in the day, this whole part of the state belonged to his peeps. Think he’s still cheesed off about it. There’s a rumor he’s a direct descendant from Crazy Horse.”

“Really?”

“So if that’s true … dude’s great-great-great granddaddy killed Custer.”

“Holy crap,” said Will, slowing so Nick could keep up with him.

“They say he inherited some whacked-out warrior-shaman skills from his bloodline … like he gets visions, talks to the Great Spirit.”

“Is that why he makes his team run through the oak?” asked Will.

Nick shook his head. “His ancestors kicked off buffalo hunts riding through that old split tree … so Jericho starts and ends every race that way.”

That was cool, but Will thought of a more practical explanation: There was only room for one runner through there at a time, which set the stage for last-minute heroics and built competitive instincts. There’d be no photo finishes on this course. Whoever made it to that finish line had to win flat-out.

“But first you have to survive Suicide Hill,” said Nick.

“What’s that?”