Creepers

  Something in his mind seemed to tilt. He feared he had gone insane.

  “Need to get out, or we’ll drown.” Amanda’s voice quavered.

  Balenger couldn’t bring himself to tell her that even if they managed to fight their way back up to the lobby, their chilled muscles would render them helpless in the water, unable to prevent Ronnie from shooting them.

  For a dismaying instant, Amanda’s lovely cheeks and blond hair made him think he was looking at…

  “Diane?”

  “What did you call me?”

  He took her arm and worked to guide her and Vinnie toward the swimming pool. But he managed only one step before the relentless current pushed them back against the metal tank.

  Cold. So cold.

  Balenger’s hands felt stiff.

  The water rose to his sternum.

  Finally found her. Can’t let her die. Damn it, how do we get out? If that bastard hadn’t welded the door shut…

  Letting the current pull him from the tank, he waded toward the door. The welds, he thought. Maybe they’re not strong. Maybe I can use the crowbar to break them.

  With all this water pushing against the door? Tons of it? Even if the door wasn’t welded shut, I could never get it open.

  Welds. Something jogged his memory. Something important that he couldn’t quite identify. Something…

  Balenger remembered that when Ronnie appeared on the surveillance monitor, when he motioned toward the pipe he’d welded across the door, there was a welder’s tank to the left of the door. Now Balenger waded in that direction. Praying that Ronnie hadn’t moved the tank, he groped in the water but couldn’t find it. He groped lower, his awkward fingers brushing curved metal.

  He almost shouted with hope as he straightened, but there was a lot he had to do before hope was justified. The water was almost above the pipe across the door. There was a gap behind the pipe. He pulled the crowbar from his knapsack and jammed the sharp end into the gap. He braced the crowbar vertically, its hook at the top of the door.

  Again, he groped in the water. Groaning from the weight, he lifted the tank and used its straps to attach it to the crowbar, suspending it above the water. He took the plastic explosive from the knapsack and wedged it between the tank and the door. He yanked the roll of duct tape from his knapsack and secured the tank’s rod so the nozzle was pointed at the middle of the tank. Next, he taped the lever on the rod’s handle in the open position. Gas escaped. When he clicked the tank’s igniter, the torch flamed, burning into the tank.

  The water pushed at him as he fought to return to Amanda and Vinnie. He was reminded of nightmares in which he struggled to hurry somewhere but his legs were trapped. Seeing the reflection of the torch behind him, he pressed his shoes against the floor and urged his legs forward through the deepening water. Breathing furiously, he rounded the storage tank. The force of the water pressed Amanda and Vinnie against it.

  “Close your eyes! Cover your ears!” he shouted.

  Amanda didn’t hesitate.

  “Vinnie, can you hear me? Close your eyes! Cover your ears!”

  Stupefied by his pain, the morphine, and the cold, Vinnie pressed his hands against his ears.

  Balenger did the same. The water was at his chest. The torch, he thought. How long will it take to burn into the tank? One, two, three, four. It should have exploded by now. Seven, eight, nine. Did the tank fall into the water? Did the water rise high enough to put out the torch? Thirteen, fourteen.

  The world became loud and bright. Even with his eyes closed and his hands over his ears, Balenger felt deafened and blinded. A force lifted him at the same time it seemed to suck the life from him. Weightless, he couldn’t breathe. He dropped, pressure squeezing him. Up and down, right and left, these suddenly no longer had meaning. As chaos propelled him, he struck something, gasped, inhaled water, and continued speeding forward.

  I’m in the tunnel, he realized. The door blew open. The water’s flooding into…The chaos spun and tossed him. Banging against a wall, he inhaled more water and found that his face was above the surface. The green-tinted roof of the tunnel sped over him. Rats surrounded him. Two were on his chest.

  He saw a swiftly approaching corner. His shoes rammed into it. The flood twisted him, propelling him down the continuation of the tunnel. Underwater again, he banged against a wall and strained not to breathe. At once, the feeling of weightlessness returned. He arced into a wide space, arms flying.

  An impact jolted him. He rolled, stopping on his back, and struggled to clear his lungs as water sprayed behind him. Rats scrambled over him.

  Boards. Somehow boards were above him. He lay on wet sand. A broken, rusted grate was next to him.

  My God, he realized, the force of the water rammed the screen off a drain tunnel. It threw me onto the beach. I’m under the boardwalk.

  Clang.

  Clang.

  The wind carried the noise of the sheet metal flapping in the abandoned condominium. Balenger recalled the unease he’d felt when he heard it tolling seven hours earlier.

  Clang.

  Rain came through cracks in the boardwalk, falling on his face. He groped for his gun, which remained in his holster. But the darkness was no longer green. His night-vision goggles had been torn away, and yet he could see a little. Lightning. The flames in the upper stories of the hotel. Balenger forced himself to sit up. Diane. Vinnie.

  He searched among the debris. More rats scurried away. The five-legged cat lay motionless, its neck at an unnatural angle. A shape was sprawled near water spewing from the tunnel. Balenger dug his hands and knees into the sand, crawling toward it, only to stop in horror when he realized it was a mummified corpse. Again, something in his mind seemed to tilt, like ball bearings shifting weight.

  To his left, he saw two other sprawled shapes. One of them was blonde. Fearful that this too was a corpse, he approached.

  The shape moved. He increased speed, reaching it, turning it.

  “Diane.”

  “No,” the shape whispered.

  Next to her, Vinnie lay unmoving. Balenger checked his mouth to make sure nothing blocked it. He turned him onto his stomach, pressing his back, trying to push water from his lungs.

  Vinnie coughed, expelling fluid. Balenger kept pressing.

  “Diane, we can’t stay,” Balenger said.

  “But I’m not—”

  “Ronnie will come. We need to get out of here.” Balenger tugged Vinnie to his feet. “Help me, Diane.”

  As lightning flashed, she and Balenger held Vinnie between them. They did their best to hurry, but Vinnie’s shoes kept dragging in the sand. Balenger stumbled and dropped to one knee. He gathered the strength to stand. Ten steps later, all three of them fell, exhausted.

  Balenger looked around. “Ronnie’ll soon be here. Need to hide. We need to…That trough in the sand ahead. Diane, do you see it?”

  No response.

  Rain poured through holes in the boardwalk.

  “Help me drag Vinnie,” Balenger said.

  With the last of their energy, they pulled him into the trough.

  “Lie down next to him,” Balenger said.

  “But—”

  “I’ll cover you. The beach’ll seem flat. Maybe he won’t see you.”

  “Our tracks.”

  “The rain’s washing sand into them, hiding them.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll make him follow me in a different direction. Diane…”

  “I’m not Diane.”

  “I love you.”

  “I wish I were Diane.” She kissed his cheek.

  He made her lie in the trough, then covered her and Vinnie with sand, just enough to hide them, a fake grave to prevent a real one.

  He left their faces exposed.

  “Cold,” she said.

  “I’ll lead him away. Count to three hundred,” Balenger said. “Then try to find help. If it isn’t safe for you to crawl out by then, I failed, and it’ll never
be safe.”

  “Diane was lucky to have you.”

  “Was? I don’t understand. You’ve still got me.”

  He turned, somehow mustering the resolve to go back the way he had come—toward the drain tunnel. The debris. The rats. The mummified bodies. The rain was indeed shifting sand into the footprints. He summoned all his will and stepped onto the beach, walking toward the violent waves. Lightning cracked, but he no longer flinched.

  A few yards from the surf, he turned and faced the boardwalk. Beyond it, flames burst from the Paragon’s upper stories. The fire and the storm struggled with each other. In this deserted area, at this late hour, with the storm hiding the fire from the rest of the city, it would take time for firefighters and police to be alerted and arrive. Balenger couldn’t depend on anyone for help.

  To the right, lightning silhouetted the skeleton of the abandoned condominium. He heard the clang of the sheet metal.

  He unholstered his gun and stuck it behind his belt at his spine. Then he spread his arms, making himself as visible as he could. His aggressive posture said everything. Come for me, Ronnie. See if you can take me.

  Thunder rumbled as Ronnie appeared at the top of the boardwalk. Flames silhouetted him, making it seem that he stepped from hell. He stood at the collapsed rail, staring down toward the surf. His night-vision goggles were like hatches over his soul, making him look monstrous. Slowly, steadily, he came down the stairs, his shotgun in his hands.

  The thunder reminded Balenger of a giant’s steps. Murderous resolve made tall, thin, fifty-seven-year-old Ronnie assume a Titan’s stature. The darkness of his Kevlar vest was emblematic of the terrible power he exuded. He strode with the weight of robbed innocence and a stolen childhood, of a lifetime of pain and anger, of terror and death. As he neared Balenger, his blank face communicated an emptiness that could never be filled.

  “I’m sorry for what was done to you, Ronnie!” Balenger knew that he couldn’t be heard in the storm. He wanted to keep Ronnie coming nearer, to make Ronnie curious about what he yelled. “I hate you, but I’m sorry for that little boy!”

  Ronnie kept approaching, relentless, implacable: an executioner.

  “Is this where Carlisle died?” Balenger shouted, rain pelting him. Ronnie was probably still too far away to hear. That didn’t matter. He wanted Ronnie to see his lips moving, to wonder what he was saying, to keep approaching.

  Come closer! Balenger thought. Most gunfights occurred within five yards. Even then, adrenaline unsteadied the shooters’ hands and often made them miss. Balenger’s hands were shaking and numb from the cold. He couldn’t possibly hope to shoot Ronnie from any distance. In contrast, Ronnie’s shotgun could finish him at forty yards.

  Closer!

  “Is this where the old man blew his brains out? After he realized the extent of what you did, he became more terrified of you than he was of going outside! He escaped from the hotel! Did he find your shotgun? Did he take it with him? He hoped to protect himself on the beach! But as he stood here shaking, as he saw you coming in the rain, he realized he was damned! So he shot himself!”

  Silhouetted by lightning, Ronnie narrowed the distance between them.

  “The shotgun in your hand! Is that the one Carlisle used to blow his brains out?”

  Thirty yards away, Ronnie stopped.

  No! I need you closer!

  “Is this where it happened? Is this where he did it? The father you always wanted! Is this where you scared him into killing himself?”

  Thunder overwhelmed his words.

  A flash of lightning paralyzed Ronnie for a moment. Then he stepped nearer, wanting to hear what Balenger said.

  “What a wonderful son you were!” Balenger shouted. “He gave you a chance for a new life, and you paid him back by filling his life with terror!”

  Twenty yards away, Ronnie stopped again. Evidently he was now close enough to have heard. “Sister Carrie,” he shouted.

  Balenger was startled by the incongruity of the statement. “What?”

  “Dreiser’s novel! When your friend talked about it, he said almost everything that matters! Our bodies and our surroundings doom us! He forgot to say that the past dooms us!”

  “Not always! Not if you fight it! But that hellhole of a building sure can trick us into believing that!”

  Lightning again paralyzed Ronnie. What’s wrong with him? Balenger wondered. Why isn’t he coming closer?

  The goggles! Balenger realized. When the lightning flashes, the goggles need a moment to adjust! The lightning causes a flare that temporarily blinds him!

  Ronnie lifted the shotgun to his shoulder.

  As lightning cracked, again blinding Ronnie, Balenger pulled his gun from behind his back and charged. Ronnie came out of his paralysis and shifted his aim.

  Balenger dove to the sand, shooting upward. Ronnie’s shotgun blast hit behind him. Balenger fired toward Ronnie’s face.

  Then his pistol clicked on empty, its slide back. No more ammunition.

  Did I hit him? Balenger rolled. A blast struck next to him, pellets hitting his calf.

  He came to his feet, hobbling, trying to lead Ronnie away from the boardwalk.

  A groan behind him made him turn. Lightning showed Ronnie sinking to his knees. His shoulder was bloody where one of Balenger’s shots had hit him above the Kevlar vest. A raging figure stood behind him, swinging a two-by-four. Diane. Swinging. Shrieking. The shotgun went off, blasting into the sand, as Diane swung the board like a baseball bat. The flames in the hotel showed a chunk of bloody hair flying into the rain. In a Windbreaker, with only a nightgown covering her legs, both garments clinging to her, soaked, she swung the board again, whacking the rear of Ronnie’s skull so hard that he dropped forward onto the beach. She stood over him, hitting, hitting, stopping only when the board snapped. Then she cursed and plunged the sharp end into his back.

  Ronnie shuddered and lay still.

  Amanda stood over him, sobbing. Balenger hobbled toward her.

  “Is he dead?” she asked.

  “Right now, he’s entering hell.”

  They clung to each other, trying not to fall.

  “He put a lot of others through it. Now it’s his turn,” she said.

  “Because of something that wasn’t his fault. A Fourth of July weekend a lifetime ago.” Balenger was sickened.

  Clang.

  The wind whipped the flap of sheet metal.

  Clang.

  It tolled for Ronnie, for his victims, for the Paragon Hotel.

  Clang.

  Balenger watched the flames in the upper stories. “Diane,” he said.

  “I’m not Diane.”

  He stared at her. He touched her cheek.

  “I know,” he said, finally believing it. “God, how I wish.”

  “You were ready to die to save me.”

  “I lost Diane once. I couldn’t bear to lose her twice. If I couldn’t save you and Vinnie, I didn’t want to live.”

  “You haven’t lost me.”

  Sorrow made him feel choked. “We’d better go. We need to help Vinnie.”

  They stumbled through the dark rain toward the boardwalk. When they reached the hollow in the beach, Vinnie was unconscious. They lifted him from the sand.

  “Do I hear…” Amanda turned.

  “Sirens.”

  Out of breath, they staggered with Vinnie, following the boardwalk toward the sound. Balenger’s legs didn’t seem a part of him, but he kept struggling forward just as Amanda did. He looked at her. How he wished she was Diane, or at least that he could believe she was Diane.

  Delirious, he must have said that out loud, because Amanda turned to him. “Keep remembering, I’m not her, but you haven’t lost me.”

  They reached stairs to the boardwalk. Avoiding broken planks, they ascended wearily, sinking to their knees, then continuing upward. The light of the flames grew. Balenger felt a warm wind from the fire. Then the wind was hot, although Balenger couldn’t stop shivering.
The sirens wailed to a halt. Firemen jumped from a truck. Policemen scrambled from cruisers.

  The top of the hotel’s pyramid caved in. Sparks flew. Consumed by fire, the sixth level collapsed. There go the gold coins, Balenger thought. He remembered the double eagle in his pocket. The words on it: In God We Trust.

  Policemen ran to them, one of them shouting, “What happened to you?”

  As Balenger slumped to the ground, he heard the clang clang clang of the tolling sheet metal. Another section of the building collapsed. But hell had many levels. So did the past. “What happened to us?” he murmured. He could barely force the words out. “The Paragon Hotel.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE:

  AN OBSESSION WITH THE PAST

  As every author knows, the most frequent question we’re asked is, “Where do you get your ideas?” Creepers. Although I wasn’t familiar with that term until recently, my fascination with the concept has gripped me for most of my life.

  When I was nine, my family lived in a cramped apartment above a restaurant that catered to drinkers from the area’s numerous bars. (This was in a city called Kitchener in southern Ontario in Canada.) I often heard drunks fighting in the alley beneath my bedroom window. There was plenty of fighting in the apartment, as well. Although my mother and my stepfather never came to blows, their arguments made me so afraid that many nights I stuffed pillows under my bedding to make it look as if I slept there while I lay awake under the bed.

  I often escaped that apartment and wandered the streets, where I learned the secrets of every alley and parking lot within ten blocks. I also learned the secrets of abandoned buildings. In retrospect, I’m amazed that I didn’t run into fatal trouble in some of those buildings. But I was a street kid, a survivor, and the worst that happened to me was a cat bite on a wrist and a nail through a foot, both of which caused blood poisoning.

  Those abandoned buildings—a house, a factory, and an apartment complex—fascinated me. The smashed windows, the moldy wallpaper, the peeling paint, the musty smell of the past, lured me back repeatedly. The most interesting building was the apartment complex because, although deserted, it wasn’t empty. Tenants had abandoned tables, chairs, dishes, pots, lamps, and sofas. Most were in such poor shape that it was obvious why the objects hadn’t been taken. Nonetheless, combined with magazines and newspapers left behind, the tables and chairs and dishes created the illusion that people still lived there—ghostly remnants of the life that once flourished in the building.