The Fifth Day Read online

  “What is it?” Margo said.

  “Eyes.” He pointed back in the direction he’d come. “Eyes. On the tree. In the tree. Eyes.”

  A chill vibrated its way over Z’s skin. “What kind of eyes, Ben?”

  “Green ones.”

  She turned toward Margo, but she didn’t say anything.

  Gary laughed. “Funny, little bro. Monsters in the trees? Show me where. I’m up for kicking some monster ass.”

  He stood and swaggered off toward where Ben had gone to pee. There were three tall, slender trees in a group, their mottled cream and gray bark in shreds on the trunk, their long, glossy leaves fluttering in the breeze.

  “Where?”

  Ben pointed silently toward the middle tree.

  Zolzaya saw it first—a pair of shining green eyes in the trunk, about seven feet from the ground. As she looked, a pair of heavy, thickly-lashed lids closed over them. Now they looked like knotholes, or irregularities in the bark. But then they opened again. She pointed. Margo, and then Jeff, saw them. Jeff stepped back, uttering a prayer under his breath.

  Zolzaya looked downward from the eyes, and she could see, half-hidden in the pattern of the bark, the outline of a man. Or, at least, some sort of bipedal creature. It looked almost two-dimensional, as if it was drawn or cut into the surface, any depth to its body only a suggestion. Its arms were raised above its head, and both the arms and legs were far too spindly to be human. It was naked, and its torso was covered with hair or something like moss.

  Gary strode up to the middle tree, a grin on his face, and put one hand on the trunk, fingers splayed. “Funny joke, little bro. No monsters.”

  That was when the thing in the tree swung down one arm, and long, bony fingers encircled Gary’s wrist in an inescapable grip.

  2

  THE PEOPLE LEFT, and they were afraid. Some of them gave in to despair, in spite of the Sibyl’s wise words, and sat down by the roadside, covering their faces with their hands, and were so devoured. Others went on, but were betrayed by their foolishness or courage or blindness or compassion, and were likewise swallowed up. But they met more of their kind, and walked farther. In time they came upon a forest walled by a hedge, and a gate standing amidst it. Upon the gate were graven symbols warning them of dire dangers that lay ahead, and images of the creatures in the forest that waited for them. But one amongst them had the key, though she did not know from whence it came. She fitted the key into the lock, and turned it, and the gate swung open without a sound.

  —

  CALDWELL, CALIFORNIA WAS a combination of upscale art galleries and places that sold tawdry tourist crap. Straw hats, poorly-made pewter key chains that had your name or the word California embossed on the surface, glass beer steins and shot glasses with a stenciled design of a grinning dolphin and the legend, You Have a Friend In Caldwell.

  Any friends who lived there, however, were long gone. The waterfront was deserted. Jackson saw a rabbit nibbling on a patch of withered flowers in a circular garden on Front Street, the main north/south road through town. It heard the approach of the truck and ambled away, unconcerned.

  “No one here either,” Olivia said in a hushed voice.

  “No one we’ve seen.”

  “Do you think—think we’re it?” Her gaze tracked along the empty road.

  “No. We’ll meet others.”

  He was glad she didn’t ask him how he could be so sure.

  So they did their passes up and down the streets, blowing the horn at every intersection. Most of the houses were little cottages. The property values were so astronomical in this part of California that few people could afford more. All were desolate. The only movement was birds, ground squirrels, the wind brushing the trees and making the leaves flutter.

  They were a block from returning to Front Street when Olivia grabbed Jackson’s right bicep so hard that it took all of his self-control not to jerk it out of her hand. She pointed, her mouth hanging open, unable to utter a sound.

  “What?” Damn. He sounded irritable, even to himself.

  He needed to keep cool. Couldn’t let her see him out of control.

  But Olivia was staring, her arm out of the truck window, and still had Jackson’s upper arm in a viselike grip. Finally she squeaked out, “Look!”

  He squinted and shielded his eyes against the sun. A cheerful cottage, with a colorful garden and a variety of lawn statuary, sat next to a metal-sided shed. There was a narrow, shaded slot between them. And in the shadows was something darker, more solid.

  He caught the glassy glint of two eyes, staring at them. He recognized the expression immediately—the wildness, the savagery, and the laser-beam intensity with which it was focused on his face.

  “Is it a dog?”

  “No. It’s the monster I told you about. The thing that’s stalking me.” He put the truck in park, but left the motor running, and opened the door.

  “Where the fuck are you going? Don’t leave me!”

  Jackson’s eyes never left the twin pinpoints of red hovering six feet in the air, between the shed and the house. “I’m going to stop this thing if I can. Slide over into the driver’s seat. Put it in gear, with your foot on the brake pedal. If I’m attacked, don’t wait, and don’t try to help me. Get yourself out of here.”

  “Jackson! Get back in here! Jackson!”

  But he kept moving forward, footsteps soundless on the pavement. He drew his gun in a smooth motion, raised it, aiming it right between those two glistening points of light.

  Thirty feet. The low branch of a plum tree obscured his vision for a moment, and he stepped to the side. Twenty feet.

  “Stay still. Don’t move....”

  His finger tightened on the trigger.

  And then the thing was gone. Daylight shone behind the narrow space. There was a bang from behind the shed, and the fence surrounding the back yard wobbled.

  “Hell.”

  There was another sound, fainter and off to the right, a crash of breaking glass and rending wood, then silence.

  Jackson retreated to the truck, keeping an eye on the direction the monster had fled. The first thing he noticed was that Olivia had not done what he’d said. She was still sitting in the passenger seat, staring at him with an expression that was simultaneously horror-struck and furious.

  “You left me!” she screamed at him, as he opened the door. “You left me!”

  “I had a chance to kill it. I had to act.”

  “But you didn’t even kill it! It’s still out there!”

  Jackson shrugged. “I waited until I had a clear shot, and waited a second too long.” He put the truck in gear, and drove the remaining block to Front Street. “I’m impressed you saw it. You have sharp eyes.”

  She slapped his upper arm with an open palm. “Fuck you! Don’t change the subject!”

  “It’s the same subject.”

  Olivia gave a derisive snort, and turned her face back to the window.

  She wanted to be protected. Needed reassurance she was safe. Recognized she was not, because she was unarmed.

  But volatile—meaning not to be trusted with a gun.

  —

  OLIVIA SULKED FOR the rest of the morning as they drove farther up the coast. Jackson considered trying to talk her out of her mood, but realized the silence was more pleasant than the continuous chatter. There was nothing he needed from her in the way of information. And if she saw either other survivors or the creature again, she’d react, even if she was pissed off at him.

  So, no need to waste further time thinking about it. She’d come around in her own time, or not.

  The first words she said to him were, “I’m hungry.”

  The sun was high, the time a little before noon. They were on a long, winding section of Route 1 that skirted a stretch of rocky beach. On the right were rolling hills covered by a carpet of dead grass the color of sand. Only an occasional oak tree broke the monotony.

  “There’s food in the bags behind you.�
��

  She stared at him for a moment, her brows knitting. “Doesn’t anything rattle you?”

  “Yes. Sometimes.”

  “What?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I try not to let things get to me.”

  “You’re like a machine.”

  “Is that a bad thing? Would more be accomplished by my breaking down in tears over what happened?”

  Olivia looked down into her lap, where her hands rested, one cupping the other. “I can’t help it. I can’t control my emotions.”

  “How much have you tried?”

  She shook her head, didn’t respond for nearly a minute. “Were you afraid of that creature this morning?”

  “Of course. From its appearance, it’s likely to be dangerous.”

  “You could have driven off, not gotten out and gone after it.”

  “It has the ability to keep up with us. I wanted to finish it off before it comes on either of us unaware. Sooner or later, one of us will slip.”

  “I don’t see you as the kind to slip.”

  “If it’s important, I try not to.”

  —

  THEY SAW NO further sign of the creature, nor any other humans, that day.

  They spent the night in a motel in Geary, California. The next town up the coast was Furness, the largest yet, so Jackson decided to leave that for the next day. After Furness, there would be more and more towns until one blended into another, into the sprawl of southern San Francisco still eighty miles farther along. The increasing number of side roads and houses would slow them down, as Jackson still intended to drive up and down in a systematic fashion, blowing his horn, hoping the noise would attract any other survivors.

  But their efforts that day had been unsuccessful, and when the sun had set and they saw a darkened sign for the Seaside Victorian Inn north of Geary, he pulled into the parking lot, and shut the motor off.

  Although Olivia didn’t act angry any more, she was still uncharacteristically silent as they went into the office, selected a key from the rack behind the desk, and then carried the food bags and their belongings to Room 27. Jackson deliberately selected a room on the second floor. Although the creature stalking them could clearly climb, they’d have more warning if it scaled the wall than if it simply crashed through the window.

  Jackson had his gun drawn the entire time, covering his movements and Olivia’s as they brought their things up the stairs and inside the room. It was only after he closed the door and slid home the bolt that he returned the Glock to its holster.

  “Could it get in here?” Olivia sat on the end of the bed looking up at him with worried eyes.

  “Probably.”

  She didn’t expect him to make love to her that night, which was fine by him. No need to pretend he was into it. But a night of no sex increased the likelihood she would want it the following night. Something to keep in mind, something to plan for.

  He looked over at her. She wasn’t asleep yet, but didn’t speak, didn’t move. She lay in the queen-sized bed, the covers pulled around her, and for a while stared at him as he stood by the window, as motionless as a statue, looking out into the parking lot of the motel.

  Nothing moved. The glittering whiteness of moonlight showed nothing but the empty cars and the shadows of a clump of eucalyptus trees. Finally, he turned away. Olivia snored softly.

  He got undressed, and slid in next to her, lying on his back, hands folded across his belly, staring at the ceiling.

  Tomorrow, said the Voice from the depths of the Place Where The Answers Are. Tomorrow you will meet others. And one, especially, you should watch. There is one who will get in your way.

  Which one? he asked, his lips forming the words, but making no sound but a whisper.

  You must determine that for yourself. Watch, and wait, and you will know. Now, sleep and let tomorrow take care of tomorrow’s problems.

  How much warning will I have?

  The fire and sword will come when it chooses. Only Surt knows the day and hour of his return. You cannot control him. You can only keep yourself in readiness for the time that is to come, when you will be tested.

  Ragnarok?

  Yes. But no more questions. Sleep now. It will come when it comes, as does everything in the world.

  I need to write this down.

  Another time. There will be opportunities to write. What you must remember, you will remember.

  He nodded, closed his eyes, and slept, his consciousness dropping down into the silence without resistance.

  —

  THE NIGHT PASSED without incident. Jackson woke first, and swung his legs out of bed, picked up his gun from the nightstand, then padded across the room, not bothering to dress. He slowly unbolted the door, moving gently so that the lock turned with only a quiet snick.

  He opened the door, gave a quick look up and down the railed walkway that led to a staircase on either side. Nothing, and no one, but his sensitive nose once more picked up a rank, feral animal odor.

  It had been here. No doubt about it.

  He went down the walkway, the cool morning air raising goose bumps on his bare skin. He peed over the second-floor railing into the yard rather than going down the stairs—too many corners and alcoves to pass on the way back to the parking lot, and there was no one there to see in any case. He finished, and turned back toward the room, and that’s when he noticed a long set of parallel scratches in the paint of the door. They hadn’t been there the previous evening, he was certain of it. The pale wood was splintered underneath them.

  You are marked. You are mine.

  He brushed the rough gouges in the door with his fingertips.

  “Give it your best, my friend,” he said under his breath. “I wish you luck. If you’re trying to scare me, it’s not working. So, my advice is to find some easier prey.”

  He pushed the door open, and returned to the dim warmth of the room.

  I am not afraid.

  He stood, eyes closed, flexing his fists, willing his heart rate to slow down. It did. But he still closed and bolted the door behind him.

  3

  TREES, AGES OLD, furred with moss, writhing, wrinkled branches reaching across the path like the grasping arms of old men and old women, the decayed leaves of a thousand winters soft underfoot. All around them were the furtive noises of little animals, movement to the eyes’ side but never there when looked at straightaway, here-and-gone only to start again somewhere else. As they walked forward, trembling, fearful of going on and fearful of turning back, they one by one came unto a terrifying knowledge, a knowledge that came from without:

  The monsters weren’t hiding among the trees. They were the trees. They were the leaves and the moss and the scurrying animals and most especially the shadows in between, where anything could be waiting, unseen, for one of them to falter or get separated from the others.

  The monsters were everywhere, woven into the landscape, so that one could not tell where the waking life ended and the monsters began.

  —

  GARY SUAREZ CRIED out as he was lifted bodily off the ground, his feet dangling a good six inches over the grass, kicking spasmodically like a hanged man’s. The creature pulled away from the trunk of the tree, seeming to peel itself off, as if it were two-dimensional at first and three-dimensional when it wanted to be. Gary stared up into the thing’s face, and his expression had lost all of its cocky savoir-faire.

  Margo gave a squeaky scream, and Ben scrambled backwards, whimpering with fear. Zolzaya was silent and transfixed, and stared up at the creature. Its features were old and craggy. Where skin showed through the hair that thickly covered everything but its arms and legs, it was a rough gray-brown like tree bark. The hair itself was curly and greenish-gray, hanging in ragged tufts from a powerful chest, and surrounding its face and its astonishing bright green eyes. It had a long, beaked nose, and thin, unsmiling lips.

  The most peculiar thing was its limbs, which were skinny to the point of emaciation. The ha
nds and feet both had long, slender, prehensile digits, five of which were wrapped around Gary’s much thicker wrist. Despite its lack of muscle, it was holding all two-hundred-odd pounds of the man’s body aloft with no apparent effort. Its splay-toed feet gripped the ground like tree roots over stone.

  The creature looked down into Gary’s terrified face, its head tipped to one side as if it were trying to figure out what sort of strange thing it had caught. The eyes blinked once, twice, as Gary gave a thin, gasping intake of breath, his broad chest jittering with the effort.

  Suddenly, the thing was gone. Gary collapsed to the ground like a dropped doll. Margo ran to him, helping him to a sitting position, as he massaged his wrist and said, “Fuck… fuck… fuck…” under his breath over and over.

  The whole episode had lasted under thirty seconds.

  “What the hell was that?” Zolzaya knelt next to Gary, taking his arm and looking at the livid bruises on his wrist.

  “I dunno.” To her surprise, he sounded like he was near tears. “Fucker almost broke my arm.”

  Margo patted Gary’s shoulder. “It’s gone now.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  All of them turned to look at Ben.

  Lissa swallowed. “What do you mean?”

  “Didn’t you see it? When it came out of the tree, it went from flat to, you know, not flat. To having a shape like us. When it let Gary go, it went back to being flat, and slipped around the tree trunk. I think it’s still around here somewhere.”

  “It was a demon.” As usual, Jeff sounded certain. “Demons haunt the wild places. Isaiah, chapter 34. ‘The wild beasts of the desert shall also meet with the wild beasts of the island, and the satyr shall cry to his fellow; the screech owl also shall rest there, and find for herself a place of rest.’”