Filaria - Brent Hayward [87]
The dead boy gave a few more directions. The car turned left, right, reversed once, turned some more corners. The hall continued to narrow, until it was hardly wider than the car itself. They encountered no more people. The smoke had gone, also, though the air still smelled of fire. Eventually the nose of the car came up against a barrier blocking further travel and Phister looked at the boy expectantly; there was no way to continue other than to back up and take another route. Phister suspected that the trap had been sprung, that the monster would catch up now, that the final resolution to his ills would kick in. The ride was over.
But the dead boy appeared genuinely baffled. “That’s odd. I don’t think this wall should be here. I consulted the online map just last night. That wall really should not be there.”
“It looks new,” Phister observed, feeling knowledge not his own creep into his mind and hide surreptitiously there. He turned to the dead boy and saw that the boy was staring at him again, but for the first time since meeting him, the boy appeared to be the frightened child he must once have been. So Phister said, “Everything will be all right, kid. I’m sure of it. Don’t worry.”
“We don’t have time for this. Why don’t we just come clean with each other? Just tell me why this damn wall grew here. Tell me!”
“I don’t know,” Phister said, and for the next moment he looked about the cul-de-sac, unable to understand where he was, or why, or how he had got there. When he at last dimly recalled his situation, he forgot who the people were with him in the vehicle, and why, of all things, they were both dead. Staring sidelong at the pair — comprised of a tiny, ambulatory toddler’s corpse and the body of a very grey, puffy old man in cap and gloves — he dismounted slowly.
There was barely room to stand. As his feet touched the floor, power surged through his body and he knew he could have picked the car up and tossed it like a toy, if there had been room. Stepping forward, he laid his hands on the pristine wall of the dead end. Voices whispered, making him shudder, and briefly he closed his eyes so that the ghosts would leave him alone.
Cynthia had said she was going to kill him. Stop him. But he had so much work to do. He’d been asleep for a long time. The two little guys rushed him first while Cynthia watched, arms folded —
Some plans are bigger than lives. His arms came up of their own accord, powerful. A windpipe collapsed easily in each fist.
Seconds later, he sprinted after the fleeing girl, who seemed about to lift off —
He opened his eyes. There was a tiny panel, set within the pristine wall: creases delineated its presence. Touching the cool surface with his fingers — led to it by something other than his own will — he told the dead boy, “This wall is a safety feature. To deal with the fire.”
Flicking open the tiny panel exposed a numbered keypad. Touch buttons, from one to sixteen. These he regarded for a moment before rapidly pressing out a combination. The wall rose up into the ceiling with a soft hiss.
Beyond lay exposed a large chamber, lit by a ruddy hue, which the smooth floor inside reflected. He blinked and, rubbing at the bridge of his nose — without another comment — got back into the car.
“I know how you did that,” the dead boy whispered.
“Huh? Did what? Open that? It was a lucky guess.”
The dead boy said, “Look. I know what’s going on here. It’s no accident that we met. Let me help you. Your friend’s out of commission for a while.”
Phister declined to comment and drove forward into the great chamber. Their reflections shimmered under them as if they were on a boat, crossing a river. On placid waters. The dead boy, who was not nearly as mesmerized by the wondrous sights as Phister — more intent was he upon Phister himself — shook Phister by the sleeve. “Listen. Are you listening to me? We’ve got more in common than you think. Do you realize that now? I know what’s going on. I figured it out. Do you know who you are?”
This question he could not answer. Because