Winter Moon

encountering a highway-maintenance crew before he had gone far.

Whether they were equipped with a big road grader or a salt-spreading

truck with a plow on the front--or both--they would have microwave

communications with their dispatcher. If he could persuade them that

his story was not just the raving of a lunatic, he might be able to

convince them to take him back to the house to get Heather and Toby out

of there.

Might be able to persuade them? Hell, he had a shotgun. For sure,

he'd convince them. They'd plow the half-mile driveway clean as a

nun's conscience to the front door of Quartermass Ranch, smiles on

their faces from start to finish, as jolly as Snow White's short

protectors, singing

"Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it's off to work we go" if

that's what he wanted them to do.

Impossible as it seemed, the creature on the stairs appeared even more

grotesque and frightful in the obscuring embrace of fire, with smoke

seething from it, than it had been when she'd had a clear look at its

every feature.

Yet another step it rose. Silently, silently. Then another. It

ascended out of the conflagration with all the panache of His Satanic

Majesty on a day trip out of hell.

The beast was burning, or at least the portion of it that was Eduardo

Fernandez's body was being consumed, and yet the demonic thing climbed

one more step. Almost to the top now.

Heather couldn't delay any longer. The heat was unbearable. She'd

already exposed her face too long and would probably wind up with a

mild burn. The hungry fire ate across the hallway ceiling, licking at

the plaster overhead, and her position was perilous.

Besides, the Giver was not going to collapse backward into the furnace

below, as she had hoped. It would reach the second floor and open its

arms to her, its many fiery arms, seeking to enfold and become her.

Heart thudding furiously, Heather hurried a few steps along the hall to

the red can of gasoline. She snatched it up with one hand. It felt

light. She must have used three of the five gallons.

She glanced back.

The stalker came out of the stairwell, into the hallway. Both the

colpse and the Giver were ablaze, not merely a smoldering gnarl of

charred organisms but a dazzling column of tempestuous flames, as if

their entwined bodies had been constructed of dry tinder. Some of the

longer tentacles coiled and lashed like whips, casting off streams and

gobs of fire that spattered against the walls and floor, igniting

carpet and wallpaper.

As Toby took one more step toward the curtained bed, Falstaff finally

dashed into the room. The dog blocked his path and barked at him,

warning him to back off.

Something moved on the bed behind the drapes, brushing against them,

and each of the next few seconds was an hour to Toby, as if he had

shifted into super-slow-mo. The sleeping alcove was like the stage of

a puppet theater just before the show began, but it wasn't Punch or

Judy back there, wasn't Kukla or Ollie, wasn't any of the Muppets,

nothing you'd ever find on Sesame Street, and this wasn't going to be a

funny program, no laughs in this weird performance.

He wanted to close his eyes and wish it away. Maybe, if you just

didn't believe in it, the thing wouldn't exist.

It was stirring the drapes again, bulging against them, as if to say,

Hello there, little boy. Maybe you had to believe in it just like you

had to believe in Tinker Bell to keep her alive. So if you closed your

eyes and thought good thoughts about an empty bed, about air that

smelled of freshbaked cookies, then the thing wouldn't be there any

more, and neither would the stink. It wasn't a perfect plan, maybe it

was even a dumb plan, but at least it was something to do. He had to

have something to do or he was going to go nuts, yet he couldn't take

one more step toward the bed, not even if the retriever hadn't been

blocking his way, because he was just too scared. Numb. Dad hadn't

said anything about heroes going numb. Or spitting up. Did heroes

ever spit up? Because he felt as if he was going to spew. He couldn't

run, either, because he'd have to turn his back to the bed. He

wouldn't do that, couldn't do that. Which meant that closing his eyes

and wishing the thing away was the plan, the best and only plan--except

he was not in a billion years going to close his eyes.

Falstaff remained between Toby and the alcove but turned to face

whatever waited there. Not barking now. Not growling or whimpering.

Just waiting, teeth bared, shuddering in fear but ready to fight.

A hand slipped between the drapes, reaching out from the alcove. It

was mostly bone in a shredded glove of crinkled leathery skin, spotted

with mold. For sure, this couldn't really be alive unless you believed

in it, because it was more impossible than Tinker Bell, a hundred

million times more impossible. A couple of fingernails were still

attached to the decaying hand, but they had turned black, looked like

the gleaming shells of fat beetles. If he couldn't close his eyes and

wish the thing away, if he couldn't run, he at least had to scream for