was gone.
Could have been a loon, or even a wolf or coyote. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d been fooled by creatures who sounded human.
Terry fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
SIX
S omeone was in the room.
Chuck “Piranha” Cawthone knew it the minute he came awake, without opening his eyes. The weight of the air was different. The temperature. Something.
Hipshot was whining near Piranha’s bunk. The mutt almost never stayed in the bunkhouse with them, but tonight he hadn’t wanted to haul his furry butt back to the Palace. And now he was whining. In the darkness behind his closed eyes, Piranha saw dancing red rosettes, bloodred, capering madly. For a minute he thought his contacts were only itching, since he’d kept both in tonight instead of taking out either the right or left one to rest his eyes. He didn’t own a pair of glasses, although he was so blind that he couldn’t see the E on the eye chart. But he hated feeling helpless overnight, and tonight he’d known he would want them both.
He’d felt helpless too damned often, a punching bag for the first and second “uncles” his mother installed in her bedroom after Daddy fled his brief tenure as sperm donor. He never wanted to feel that again. Piranha didn’t want to open his eyes. If he opened his eyes, whatever was wrong in the room would solidify. Right now, it was like that Schrödinger’s cat paradox Mr. Fairbanks talked about in physics class. Right now, there was a bad thing in the room, but it both was and wasnot, just like the cat in the box was both dead and not dead. Opening the box collapsed it into one state or another. Opening his eyes would make it real. It couldn’t hurt him if he didn’t open his eyes.
Hipshot’s whimpering sounded like it was directly underneath Piranha’s bunk, and the dog’s fear made sleep slide from Piranha like a sheet of oil. With full consciousness came acuity of senses. Hearing. Was anything moving in the room? No. Wait. A ragged whisper. Yes. And… a smell. A hint of rotten oranges or lemons, as if someone had spritzed a whiff of Glade into the garbage can. Piranha opened his eyes slowly and saw the shape standing there. The moonlight left Piranha more in shadow.
Vern stood there. Vern, with some kind of black stain on his face, as if he’d been licking a jam jar. In this strange dream, and Piranha definitely hoped this was a dream, Vern was Yogi Bear. Hey, Boo-Boo! Vern grinned and stepped forward, just one step, as if testing the floorboards, and the quality of the moonlight changed enough to show Piranha that that wasn’t jam smearing Vern’s face. What was there was too runny to be jam, and another scent blended with the citrus. Piranha’s stomach cinched and twisted simultaneously, wringing his guts into knots. Hipshot suddenly barked and growled like a dog much bigger and meaner than he was. An order to get moving.
When Piranha rolled off the bunk, Vern came straight at him, all wobbly two hundred thirty plus pounds of him, but without the waddle. His usual uncoordinated lurch was purposeful and quick as Vern lunged at Piranha’s bottom bunk. Piranha slid in the opposite direction with a huff of air. Piranha’s thump as his feet hit the floor was like lightning striking the bunkhouse, electricity surging from one personto the next.
Maybe they’d all been waiting. Maybe they’d all known.
The Twins jumped up from their side of the room and saw old Vern rooting around in the lower bunk like a pig after slop. Then Vern snatched at Terry, but Terry was like a cat, could fall out of a bed sound asleep without harm, so half awake was no problem. The cabin was a yelling, screaming cacophony while Vern snarled and grabbed at them. He got a grip on Dean’s bare leg and snapped at it, his face diving down toward exposed skin.
“Don’t let him bite you!” Piranha screamed. Dean did a dance, shaking Vern off as the big man’s belly flopped, and his eyes…
His eyes, caught for a
Could have been a loon, or even a wolf or coyote. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d been fooled by creatures who sounded human.
Terry fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
SIX
S omeone was in the room.
Chuck “Piranha” Cawthone knew it the minute he came awake, without opening his eyes. The weight of the air was different. The temperature. Something.
Hipshot was whining near Piranha’s bunk. The mutt almost never stayed in the bunkhouse with them, but tonight he hadn’t wanted to haul his furry butt back to the Palace. And now he was whining. In the darkness behind his closed eyes, Piranha saw dancing red rosettes, bloodred, capering madly. For a minute he thought his contacts were only itching, since he’d kept both in tonight instead of taking out either the right or left one to rest his eyes. He didn’t own a pair of glasses, although he was so blind that he couldn’t see the E on the eye chart. But he hated feeling helpless overnight, and tonight he’d known he would want them both.
He’d felt helpless too damned often, a punching bag for the first and second “uncles” his mother installed in her bedroom after Daddy fled his brief tenure as sperm donor. He never wanted to feel that again. Piranha didn’t want to open his eyes. If he opened his eyes, whatever was wrong in the room would solidify. Right now, it was like that Schrödinger’s cat paradox Mr. Fairbanks talked about in physics class. Right now, there was a bad thing in the room, but it both was and wasnot, just like the cat in the box was both dead and not dead. Opening the box collapsed it into one state or another. Opening his eyes would make it real. It couldn’t hurt him if he didn’t open his eyes.
Hipshot’s whimpering sounded like it was directly underneath Piranha’s bunk, and the dog’s fear made sleep slide from Piranha like a sheet of oil. With full consciousness came acuity of senses. Hearing. Was anything moving in the room? No. Wait. A ragged whisper. Yes. And… a smell. A hint of rotten oranges or lemons, as if someone had spritzed a whiff of Glade into the garbage can. Piranha opened his eyes slowly and saw the shape standing there. The moonlight left Piranha more in shadow.
Vern stood there. Vern, with some kind of black stain on his face, as if he’d been licking a jam jar. In this strange dream, and Piranha definitely hoped this was a dream, Vern was Yogi Bear. Hey, Boo-Boo! Vern grinned and stepped forward, just one step, as if testing the floorboards, and the quality of the moonlight changed enough to show Piranha that that wasn’t jam smearing Vern’s face. What was there was too runny to be jam, and another scent blended with the citrus. Piranha’s stomach cinched and twisted simultaneously, wringing his guts into knots. Hipshot suddenly barked and growled like a dog much bigger and meaner than he was. An order to get moving.
When Piranha rolled off the bunk, Vern came straight at him, all wobbly two hundred thirty plus pounds of him, but without the waddle. His usual uncoordinated lurch was purposeful and quick as Vern lunged at Piranha’s bottom bunk. Piranha slid in the opposite direction with a huff of air. Piranha’s thump as his feet hit the floor was like lightning striking the bunkhouse, electricity surging from one personto the next.
Maybe they’d all been waiting. Maybe they’d all known.
The Twins jumped up from their side of the room and saw old Vern rooting around in the lower bunk like a pig after slop. Then Vern snatched at Terry, but Terry was like a cat, could fall out of a bed sound asleep without harm, so half awake was no problem. The cabin was a yelling, screaming cacophony while Vern snarled and grabbed at them. He got a grip on Dean’s bare leg and snapped at it, his face diving down toward exposed skin.
“Don’t let him bite you!” Piranha screamed. Dean did a dance, shaking Vern off as the big man’s belly flopped, and his eyes…
His eyes, caught for a
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