White Space

Yeah, yeah. The problem was, Sarge couldn’t know what it was like to be Bode. The man was dead, after all, and what did ghosts know about being haunted? Bode could mute Battle’s voice with drugs. In ’Nam, there’d been pot and hash and Binoctal and booze, but opium was best, Bode’s consciousness floating away and Battle’s face pulling apart on a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke. Stateside, opium dens were scarce, but you could score all kinds of drugs if you had the dough and knew where to look and who to ask. Things got dicey, though, when your prick of a lieutenant followed you into a bar and threatened to turn you in.

From the backseat, Eric said to Bode, “Well, we can’t just sit here. As crazy as this sounds, we got to get moving. The others are still out here.”

“Where you want to go, huh?” Chad flapped a hand toward the windscreen. “How? Inquiring minds want to know.”

“Maybe we could check how far ahead we can really see,” Eric said.

“Yeah, you go right ahead, be my guest.” Chad was pick-pick-picking at his mouth sore again. “I ain’t going out in that. I say we sit tight, wait it out. Shit’s got to go away sometime. Just gotta, you know, wait for the sun to burn it off.”

“Forgetting for the moment that less than a half hour ago, it was night,” Eric said, “I don’t think that’s too likely, Chad. This isn’t any kind of regular fog. You saw how it came after us. It ran us down.”

“Yeah, thanks, I was there. So what are you saying?” Chad twisted his head around to scowl at Eric. “You saying it’s alive? Like it ate us for food or something?”

In the rearview, Bode saw Eric glance askance, as if searching for the right words. “No.” And when Eric looked back, Bode read the dread. “But it wants us for something.” Eric’s darkly blue eyes searched out Bode’s. “You feel it, right?”

“No,” Bode said, uneasy. For a kid he’d only just met, Bode still trusted this devil dog; felt as if they shared something in common besides uniforms. “What do you feel?”

“You’re listening to this guy?” Chad demanded.

“This”—Eric bunched a fist over his chest—“pull. Like something’s digging in, trying to hang on or get a hold. I’m not really sure.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet. You,” Chad said, “are so frigging stunned, man. Got yourself into some el Diablo, you ask me.”

“What?”

Listen to the devil dog, Battle said to Bode. You know he’s right.

Bode frowned. “But Sarge, Chad’s also right. I don’t feel anything like what Eric’s saying.”

That’s because he’s got more of a connection. He’s not set the way you are.

“Set?” What did that mean? “Connection? Sarge, connection to what?”

Not what. Battle raised the charcoal smudge of his remaining eyebrow. Who.

“All I’m saying is, I think we need to get moving.” Eric licked his lips. “And we need to do it now, before the fog decides for us.”

Chad opened his mouth to object, but Bode said, “Yeah, it’s not a bad idea. I hate just sitting on my ass, waiting for something to happen. Here.” Bode reached across Chad, pawed open the glove compartment, and pulled out a flashlight. “You take that, Eric, see how far you—” He broke off as the Dodge’s engine suddenly revved.

“Man, what are you doing?” Chad said.

“Nothing, I’m not doing anything. My foot’s not even on the gas.” Bode stamped the brake. “We’re just—”

“Starting to move,” Eric said.

He was right. The Dodge hitched and staggered, the wheels seeming to spin on ice—or thin air, Bode thought—and then the tires found and caught on something, as if a road had suddenly materialized, making itself out of the fog. The Dodge started to roll, the tires beginning to hum, and the hum rising to a steady high note.

“Well, do something, man!” Chad braced himself as the Dodge picked up speed. “Try the emergency brake, try—”

You can’t stop this, Battle said. It’s using you, gathering you together. It’s forcing her to try and pull you through onto the same White Space.

“What? Who?” Bode asked Battle. “Try what? What the hell’s White Space?”

“You can’t fight it.” Eric’s hand closed over Bode’s shoulder. “The fog won’t let us stop. We’re being pulled toward something for a reason. I feel it, this …”

“Tug,” Bode said, because he felt it now, an insistent finger hooked in the meat of his brain. “In my head.”

“You guys serious?” Chad looked from Bode to Eric and back again. “You’re serious. I don’t feel anything, except like I might take a dump in my pants, man.”

Eric ignored him. “Bode, please, give me a weapon. The shotgun, the rifle, I don’t care, but give me something and do it now.”

“What?” Bode asked. “Why?”

“So I can fight.” Eric’s skin was so dead white he seemed a creature spun of fog. “So I can kill whatever this place makes next.”

CASEY AND RIMA Look at Her Face

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