Nightfall (4 page)

“So you believe that stuff he said ... about the Dark Age? And that this
change
has broken my cell phone and my car?”

“Not just yours, but technology failure is the least of our worries.”

“What are you talking about?”

His eyes darkened, taking on a more somber cast. “Did you watch the news last night, the report about the riot at the penitentiary outside Culver?”

Jenna rubbed her upper arms as the news footage flashed through her mind. She normally didn't watch the news, but she'd wanted to see Stacy make her television debut as the stand-in weather girl. Her friend had been so thrilled to hire on with the New Media Coalition. But before Stacy came on, the lead story had been filled with gruesome images of prisoners beating one another. Then the cameras had gone out and the feed returned to the TV station.

“I saw it,” she said, throat tight. “They set riot dogs on them.”

“Those weren't riot dogs.” He shrugged. “But that's when I knew it was time. I swore to your dad that I'd make sure you survived.”

“Why would he care?” she snapped. “He didn't while he was alive. What hold did he have on you anyway, to make you do this?”

“He saved my life.”

Mason strode to the fireplace. He stacked the wood he'd tossed aside but didn't light it. Only for emergencies. Not comfort. The woodstove would do for now.

“Let's make a deal,” he said. “Eat dinner with me, and I'll tell you how I met your father.”

“Look, just call him Mitch. I did. He sired me, but that's about it.”

“From the way he talked about you, I thought you were close.”

That seemed to take her by surprise. She matched his frown, twirling the end of her ponytail around her forefinger. “Now I
know
you're shitting me.”

He grinned despite everything. Something about Jenna Barclay tempted him. If—no,
when
—she became aware of her effect on him, he'd lose part of himself. She'd hold his attraction over his head like an anvil.

The ridiculous mental image reminded him of Saturday morning cartoons. He'd been four years old and oblivious to anything beyond the TV screen. But nothing so normal as vegging on a Saturday morning would ever happen again. No more homes and towns, no more modern life. None of it. The last bastion of western resistance was falling.

That meant he needed to keep control.

Besides, at that moment, another of his body's needs had to be satisfied: his stomach growled. He hadn't eaten in two days, not since before that thing tried to devour his leg. He'd chopped off its head. Mason had barely escaped the motel parking lot. While cleaning up, he'd seen the footage of the prison riot and knew their time was done.
Promises to keep.
Which was the reason he'd been hanging around a one-horse town like Culver.

He returned to the kitchen and retrieved the casserole. Like he'd learned in the military, he approached his chores in linear fashion.
One thing at a time until the area is secure.
So food first. Preferably with Jenna. Next, he'd find a way to keep her in the cabin without tying her down.

The noodles sticking out from the tuna goo were overcooked, all brown and crispy from the woodstove's uneven heat. They would have been better off eating the ingredients straight from the can.

He gestured to the dish. “So, are you going to have any of this?”

“I'm not eating with you,” she said, shaking her head. “I'm not talking to you. I'm not going to be your friend or your confidante or your shrink. I want to go home.”

Mason swallowed his temper and set the table, as if she'd agreed. But he didn't wait for her to get off her ass and join him. Even the charred casserole was enough to turn his stomach ferocious. He ate in silence, needing the fuel.

Even after twenty minutes, she hadn't budged. He knew because he kept his eye on the clock—not that time would mean much anymore. Not like the trains and buses would be running, or folks waiting to punch out after a hard shift. Nothing left but daytime and nighttime. Safe times and times to hide. That was all.

He almost smiled. There was freedom in letting certain aspects of the modern world go.

Then, just when he was beginning to lose hope—not that she would eat, but that she might be too mulish to see sense—Jenna stood. She didn't meet his eyes as she sat before her plate. But she served up the food. And she ate.

“Now talk,” she said simply.

And Mason had his answer.

However long it took, he'd have a partner. Mitch had said as much when describing his clever and practical daughter—the daughter who felt none of the same affection in return.

Mason had made his promise with a worst-case scenario in mind. He'd try. And if Jenna Barclay proved too stubborn or stupid to take hold of the lifeline he offered, he'd be discharged from that promise. Now he saw her as the kind of woman who'd grasp any possibility of survival, just like she swallowed those overcooked noodles along with her pride.

“I never knew my folks and grew up in foster care,” he said, his throat tight. “A lot of being smacked around but not a lot of supervision. I knocked off my first convenience store when I was fourteen.”

Jenna gazed at him steadily. He found no accusation or pity on her face. Just enough curiosity to suggest she was paying attention.

“Not much of a future, starting out that way,” she said.

“No future outside of the penal system, no. But Mitch got me out of it. Broke the cycle.”

“Never took him for the big-brother type.”

Mason shoved away his empty plate. “Me and two buddies held up a liquor store. Hadn't been to school in years. The dude behind the counter opened fire. I caught one in the leg.” He resisted the urge to rub his upper thigh, the place that ached whenever he thought of his youth. Stupid kid. “But instead of waiting for the cops, I took off for the woods.”

“Where Mitch and his pals used to make camp.” Jenna rubbed the back of her neck, like she was tired or sore, and Mason caught sight of her reddened wrists. He felt a twinge of regret. “Don't tell me you fell in with those crazies.”

“I did.”

She snorted. “Hardly better than a cult.”

“They had order and honor at least. Mitch took care of my leg and taught me survival skills. I was young. I'd never known anything like it. His people knew all about old-timey shit, making soap and herbal medicines. It was pretty weird. I thought most of them were crazy. At first.”

Jenna sipped from her water glass and looked down at her own empty plate, practically licked clean. She shrugged. “Guess I was hungry after all.”

“Seems so.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Fifteen years now.”

“I was in junior high,” she said, her expression souring. “There I was, pulling good grades and captain of the volleyball team while he was trouncing around the woods with some delinquent. I mean, seriously, can you respect a man like that?”

“Yeah. But my perspective was different.”

“I'll say.”

“He talked about you all the time,” Mason said. “How proud he was of you.”

“Bullshit.”

“No bull. He had an envelope full of letters about you. I guess your mom sent them.” He stood and rounded the table, daring to put his hands on her shoulders.

She flinched. “Don't touch me.”

But he didn't let go. The tension he found there begged for some release. He began with his thumbs on the back of her neck, hoping to ease the ache she'd unconsciously revealed.

“Look, Jenna, he didn't think he had anything to offer you. I was just somebody the world threw away, and he tried to make use of me. But he didn't want this life for you—until there was no choice.”

“Bullshit,” she said again, with less conviction.

Did she notice how she'd leaned into his touch? Mason did. That small measure of trust returned him to thoughts of sex. Damn, but he was in a bad way. Being cooped up with her for the foreseeable future wouldn't help.

He leaned over, his lips near her ear. “No bullshit, Jenna. The times he was around you and your mom, what did he do?”

“Drink. And fidget. He always wanted to be out there.” She gestured toward the window and trees that lay beyond. “Preparing. Preaching. Whatever. After a while she told him not to come around anymore. I was ... relieved.”

Sliding onto the bench, Mason took her hands. “I never saw him take a drink. Not ever. And he was calm in the woods.”

“I remember,” she whispered, her eyes unfocused.

“Eventually, he told me to get out of the woods and learn more, the things he couldn't teach me. I got my GED and I joined the military. And no matter how he did by you, he made me a man. He saved my life.”

Reality returned to her. He saw it happen, like switching off a light. She yanked her hands back into her lap. “Fine. Say I believe you about Mitch and the stupid promise you made. What does he have to do with you kidnapping me?”

“You're right.”

Mason stood and fetched their coats. He held them in the air between their bodies, waiting.

She eyed it with suspicion. “What?”

“You wanted to get out of here, so let's do it.”

“So you can kill me in the woods?”

Mason laughed tightly. “Why not here? And why not hours ago?”

“I don't know, but I'm not going out there with you.” Her gaze darted to the blacked windows.

“C'mon.” Without waiting, he grabbed his nine-millimeter and a Maglite.

Jenna didn't miss his preparations. “I'm not stupid, you know. You're not going to get any trouble out of me.”

“Not from you, no.”

“You're trying to scare me and it won't work.”

“It'd better.”

Ten minutes later, with Jenna trailing like a sleepwalker, they stood in a small clearing just north of the cabin. Mason didn't trust her compliance. She was still thinking, doubting his word, and that would get them both killed.

God, he didn't want to get rough with her, but she wasn't getting away from him. She couldn't. Her life depended on him—his will, his cool, his knowledge. But his survival depended on her too.

“C'mere,” he said quietly.

She didn't move.

So he went to her instead. Something good and calm opened in his chest when she didn't shy away.

“Listen, Jenna.”

“What now? More stories?”

“No,
listen
. Listen to the forest.”

The stillness enveloped them, a dark and unnatural stillness that gnawed at bones and wore away at the mind like a drip, drip, drip of water. No moon shone through the quiet leaves. No animals moved among the foliage. Although they stood in the trees, among those countless living plants, breathing each other's poison air, there wasn't a single noise to indicate life.

Jenna stood at his side. He could barely see her in the thick black soup of night, but he heard her frantic breathing.

“Where is everything?” she whispered.

“Mitch took you camping, right? When you were younger?”

“It creeps me out, you knowing stuff like that.”

“Did he or didn't he?”

“Yeah, when I was a kid. And you were right. He never hit the bottle out here. For him, being in the woods was normal.” She inhaled deeply, unsteadily. “But this ...
this
isn't normal.”

He took her hand, the only solid, real, warm thing in the forest. “Everything I've said is God's honest truth.”

She tightened her fingers as a shiver worked down her arm. “There's no God here.”

From out of the enveloping darkness, Jenna caught the faint baying of distant hounds. Only they didn't sound like any dogs she'd ever heard. Their howls echoed with an unwholesome wetness, as if they keened through blood. Her heart skipped a beat. The cold cut through her jacket like icy knives.

The second-scariest part? Mason was the most harmless thing in the woods.

“We have to get back to the cabin.” He tugged her hand. “You're not ready for a fight.”

“Will I be?” she murmured, frozen and dazed.

He leveled a steady look on her, his secrets hidden in the near dark. “Yes.”

Jenna had no time to think about that. She stumbled as he pulled her back toward the cabin, scattering something white that glittered like crystal. Mason glanced her way, seeming to read her without even trying.

“Rock salt,” he said without missing a stride. “It'll put them off our scent.”

Jenna hunched into her jacket, feeling naked and undone. The dogs sounded closer now. She smelled them too, a noxious stench that reminded her of graveyards. In her mind's eye, she could almost see hideous skeletal things with flesh barely clinging to bone. But that was crazy. They were just dogs, some strays gone feral.

Shadows flashed in her peripheral vision. She put on more speed, the feeling of life-or-death hitting her hard. The threat was intuitive, on a soul-deep level, and kicked her flight response into high gear. Dry, brittle branches whipped her face as they ran. They felt like bony fingers clawing at her skin. She swallowed a scream.

I want to wake up now. Time to wake up.
The only reply to her desperation came in the form of Mason's warm fingers twined with hers.

She remembered her father's warning voice:
If you run, predators will chase you.
Sounds of that pursuit crashed through the trees behind them. She heard some of the creatures breaking off, maybe confused by the salt Mason had strewn across their trail. But the dogs didn't stop.