Michael just stares at Amber.
“These people are no good,” she says. “We can just go. This is our chance.”
Screwball continues to cry out and wrestle with the Wiley-Thing's grip.
“I can't leave him to this,” Michael says, and pulls his arm free.
The lights in the car flicker, and, briefly, Michael sees something completely inhuman standing in place of Stan's crazed friend; a tall, muscular, dark-skinned figure with eyes like a serpent and a mouth that's illuminated red. It flicks the tip of a long, black tongue across silvery, jagged teeth.
Stan must have caught sight of it, too, because he's shrieking like a little girl.
Michael hurries over to the Wiley-Thing and tries to pry its fingers from Screwball's throat.
The Wiley-Thing prepares to lash out at Michael with its other hand, but its attack is intercepted by Amber.
She seizes it by the wrist.
The Wiley-Thing looks at Amber, then addresses her in the voice of a young woman: “My name's Julie, and you let me die.”
Amber freezes.
“Don't listen to it,” Michael says.
The Wiley-Thing unexpectedly releases Screwball.
Screwball drops to the floor and clutches his throat. He scrambles away from the situation, coughing, then points at the Wiley-Thing. “He's the God damn Devil!”
Michael turns to Amber. Her hold on the Wiley-Thing has fallen away. She has the look of a woman haunted by the specters of past mistakes.
He shakes her. “
Amber
.”
The Wiley-Thing talks to Amber again. This time with the taunting voice of a man: “Bad girl, bad girl, watcha gonna do? Watcha gonna do when I come for you?”
“Shut up!” Michael shouts. He shakes Amber again - “Snap out of it" - but it's no use. She's in some sort of trance.
Michael strikes the Wiley-Thing in the face with his fist.
The Wiley-Thing barely registers the blow. It leers at Michael, then grabs him by the shoulders and begins to squeeze.
Michael cries out. His chest feels like it's going to cave in from the pressure being exerted on it. He tries to raise his arms, but they feel numb and heavy.
Amber turns, as if in a dream; turns and watches Brian from Interstate 10. He's running down the aisle, trying to catch up with Julie with the car trouble.
Death is trailing at his heels.
He's going to kill her again. Unless
...
Amber snaps to her senses in time to catch a glimpse of Screwball exiting the car. She can't allow him be alone with Wendy.
… But she can't leave Michael.
She makes for the nearest full-length handrail and pulls with both hands. It refuses to break loose of the sockets holding it in place. She glances back at Michael. He's struggling to keep his head upright and his knees are starting to buckle.
“Come on!” she yells, and pulls again at the rail. This time it breaks free. Without delay, she lifts a knee and brings the pole down over it. It dents. With it weakened in the middle, it doesn't take much effort to break it in two.
She discards one half and approaches the Wiley-Thing. “Here I come, fucker.”
The Wiley-Thing looks straight at her.
Amber grips the metal bar with both hands - “That's it, take a long, hard look” - then swings it to her right.
She lands a ferocious blow to the side of the Wiley-Thing's skull.
It releases Michael and stumbles to one side.
Staying within range of The Wiley-Thing, Amber then swings the bar in the opposite direction. This time she connects with its face.
The Wiley-Thing's head whips back and it falls to the floor.
Amber hastens to Michael's side and helps him to his feet. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he replies. “What took you so long? Another second and it was going to squeeze the pips right out of me.”
Normally, this would've raised a smile from Amber, but not this time. “Michael, you need to deal with this on your own.” She hands him the metal bar. “I have a bad feeling about Stan. I need to catch up to him.”
She turns to leave, but Michael takes hold of her arm.
“Hey,” he says, “promise me you won't get hurt.”
Amber pauses before responding. She knows promises can be hard to keep.
“I promise,” she replies.
And then she leaves.
Michael watches Amber until she disappears through the door at the other end of the aisle.
The lights in the car briefly flicker
.
The Jeff-thing begins to stir. Its face is a mess of black fluid.
“Okay,” Michael says, turning to the creature. He slaps the end of the bar against the palm of an open hand. “Let's get this over with.”
*
Amber rushes into the adjacent car. There's no sign of Stan or Wendy, but Barbara is there, sitting down and staring at the small white vase in her hand.
She looks at Amber - “He's at home now” - then opens the lid and empties the ashes before her feet.
“Barbara ...” Amber doesn't know what to say. Harold was at peace a long time ago, but Barbara seems a long way from joining him.
Barbara looks up. Fine dust particles drift past her pallid face. She opens her mouth to say something, but remains silent. Her eyes fill with tears.
Amber looks impatiently across the aisle. She wonders if Stan has caught up to Wendy yet. She really should be getting after them. “Barbara-”
“It was his heart that went,” Barbara says. “He was due for an operation, for a pacemaker, but he never held out.”
Amber remains quiet.
“We were high school sweethearts,” Barbara continues. “Almost fifty years together.” She stares at the vase. “He went so suddenly ... I wasn't ready.”
Amber realizes Barbara is beginning to mentally unravel, but doubts Wendy will last another hour - never mind fifty years - if she doesn't get a move on. “Barbara ... I really am so sorry. I have to go.”
Without looking up, Barbara says: “Everyone does ... Eventually.”
Amber knows that's not strictly true. Some people don't go anywhere, and often despite their own best efforts to leave. “I'll come back for you - or Michael will get you. Just stay here.”
She moves with haste, feeling terrible for having to leave Barbara in such a fragile state. But Wendy is young. She has her whole life ahead of her.
And Amber can't allow herself to make the same mistake twice.
She makes a mental note to collect her jacket and purse when she comes across them. There isn't anything of particular importance in her purse – besides make-up - but she does like that jacket. Also, her cellphone is in the inside pocket. It's completely disposable, but there are a few important contacts in there.
It doesn't take her long to catch up to Stan and Wendy. They're a couple of cars along, and standing near the end of the aisle. They appear to be with another person that is partially obscured from view.
She slows to a cautious stroll. “Wendy? Stan?”
Wendy turns. “Oh my God, I can totally see the resemblance. She really does look like you.”
Amber frowns. “Who does?”
“She does,” Screwball replies. He steps aside to reveal a woman standing in four inch heels, and wearing tight black jeans and a dark blue, lace-trimmed tank top. “Your sister.”
1705; Kovolosia
Under the radiance of a magnificent clear sky, the landscape crackled with the sounds of chirping birds and idling fauna. The afternoon breeze blew in and around the thick green forest, occasionally becoming boisterous enough to displace foliage.
One leaf twirled lazily to the ground and landed on the back of Amara's hand. She looked up and squinted her eyes. The branches of a stately tree swayed gently overhead.
She continued to paddle her feet in the cool, winding stream. Its surface glimmered in the daylight. Tilting back her head, she closed her eyes and allowed her mind to drift. The breeze toyed with her soft cotton blouse. It felt nice against her skin.
The gleeful sound of her eleven year old brother, Malkin, could be heard from somewhere close by. He was playing with their dog, Patches. The animal was appropriately named, having a predominantly black coat patterned with various sized spots of white.
Amara visualized them in her head, running through the forest and kicking up dirt and leaves. It gave her a warm feeling in the pit of her stomach, and made her smile.
“
Amara
!” Malkin called out.
Without moving her head, Amara replied, “What?”
“
Come see Patches play with the leaves
!”
“I am too busy.”
After a few moments, Malkin called again: “
Amara
!”
The impetuosity in her brother's voice was evident.
“Malkin, let me be.”
Amara lifted one foot from the stream. She listened to the sound of water dripping from it, then dipped her toes back below the surface.
“
Amara
!”
Now Malkin was beginning to irritate her. “Malkin-”
“
I found something
!”
“Unless it is buried treasure, I have no interest.”
A bird flew overhead, tweeting merrily. Amara enjoyed its song and started to hum a tune. Not long into her melody, she was interrupted by the sound of Patches, barking like an animal possessed by some form of devil. She jerked forward her head and opened her eyes. The sudden intrusion of light caused her to squint. With haste, she withdrew her feet from the water.
“Malkin!” she called, plunging beyond the treeline and hurrying in the direction of the dog's frantic outburst.
It didn't take her long to track the pair down. They were standing over their discovery.
Malkin looked to Amara and shrugged. “I poked it with a stick. It moved.”
“You did what? Give me that!” Amara tore the stick from Malkin's hand. Her brother's find was clearly a person huddled in a blanket. “Patches, be quiet!”
Patches gave a subdued whimper, then reluctantly did as he was told.
Amara tossed the stick aside.
Patches considered going for it, then thought better of the action.
Malkin patted Patches on the head. “Good boy.”
Amara hitched up her delicate long cotton skirt and crouched beside the huddled form. She took the end of the brown woolen blanket and began to gingerly peel it back.
“No!” came a startled voice, and snatched it out of her hand.
The voice below the blanket was that of a woman.
“I have a condition,” the woman explained. “... strong sunlight ... it brings me out in a rash.”
Amara guessed the woman wasn't old, but it was difficult to be sure. “Can you stand?”
There was a pause, and then the woman replied, “I- I think so.”
“Malkin, help me,” Amara said. She found the outline of the woman's arm and began to help her to her feet.
Malkin did likewise from his side.
Patches growled at the figure, then looked to Amara for approval.
“Patches,” Amara warned, “
stop it
.”
“I don't live far from here,” Amara said to the woman. “I can provide you with shelter until the sun goes down.”
Amara didn't think her parents would mind her bringing a stranger back to the cabin. This was a person in distress, after all.
“Thank you,” the woman replied.
“This way,” Amara said, and began to guide the woman. She thought it best to avoid the sporadic shafts of light poking through the forest canopy.
They led the woman further into the wood. Along the way, Amara reassured her that their destination wasn't far.
Patches continued to growl.
It wasn't long until they stepped out into a small clearing, in the middle of which stood a log cabin of reasonable size. Smoke billowed from the stone chimney. A large ax was embedded in a chopping block several feet from the porch.
“Mother!” Amara called.
Patches began to bark loudly again.
“Malkin, do something about the dog,” Amara said.
“Patches!” Malkin shouted. “Here!”
The dog disregarded Malkin's command, and circled the group.
The door to the cabin opened and a dark-haired woman wearing a cotton blouse tucked into the waistband of a long brown skirt appeared. She looked pretty much like what Amara expected herself to look like in her advancing years.
The woman below the blanket threatened to buckle at the knees.
Struggling to keep her on her feet, Amara said, “Mother, she needs our help.”