Valley of the Shadow (2 page)

    A Chicago police car pulled hesitantly onto West, spotlight sweeping the street. Jim stood and waved and the squad car rolled toward him. He went back to CPR. He could hear the car doors open and close. Two officers moved slowly. Cautiously.

    Jim was careful not to make any sudden moves. They’d heard a report of gunfire and probably had their own weapons trained on him. He glanced up, squinting into the glare of flashlights. They lit up the sidewalk around him. Jim looked back down and gasped at the amount of blood.

    He’d better explain. “I was coming out of the bar.” His breathing was labored. “Coming back to my car over there. I saw a black sedan pull away. It just tore off. Then I saw these two kids in the car here. I saw the window shattered. But I didn’t hear any shots. No gunshots.”

    One of the officers knelt beside him. “I can take over.”

    The other cop was shining his light into the driver-side window. “This one’s not breathing either.” He spoke into his shoulder radio, relaying information to the dispatcher. He described the scene, then opened the door and pulled the driver out.

    Jim sat back and caught his breath. His forehead was dripping. He could hear more sirens now. Getting closer.

    A second squad car arrived and, shortly after that, the ambulance. There was a flurry of lights and activity. A second ambulance was on its way. The medics unpacked their gear. They seemed to work without emotion, speaking to one another in tight, clinical phrases.

    Jim’s head was swimming. He’d never been this close to death before. Well . . . except for once.

    The second ambulance arrived. A row of spectators had gathered, watching from the shadows. Jim just shook his head. Sure, now there was plenty of help.

    The medics unpacked more equipment. They had cut off the boy’s Nike shirt, exposing his chest. Jim could see a bullet wound near the shoulder. One of the medics checked for an exit wound and set about packing gauze around it.

    They had an oxygen mask on the boy now and a medic squeezed air into his lungs. The other listened with a stethoscope, then turned and reached for the portable defibrillator. Flipped a few switches, pulled out the paddles. “Charging,” he said to his partner.

    The medic laid the paddles against the boy’s flesh. “Clear.”

    Jim heard a click and soft hum. The boy’s body stiffened for a moment, then fell limp again. The medic checked for a pulse. Finally he nodded.

    Jim’s eyes widened. He couldn’t contain himself and blurted out, “He’s alive?”

    But they ignored him and continued giving the boy oxygen. Three cops gathered to help lift the boy onto a stretcher and wheel him to one of the waiting ambulances. Jim watched them go, then remembered the other kid. The driver. Had they been able to save him too?

    Jim moved closer for a better look. But they had covered that boy with a sheet already. Jim felt his stomach tighten. The kid was just a faceless shape lying on the asphalt under a blue sheet. Jim couldn’t even recall what he looked like.

    One of the officers pulled Jim aside. “Good thing you happened along when you did or they’d both be dead.”

    Jim stared at the sheet.

    The officer held a notepad. “Sir, I’m going to need to ask you a few questions.”

    Jim nodded.

    “Let’s start with your name.”

    His name? Jim couldn’t take his eyes off the sheet. Or the body underneath it. Thoughts started peppering his mind like crows diving for corn. Swooping down and flitting away. What if he had pulled the driver out first? Would that kid have been in the ambulance now instead of under a sheet? Why had he even gone to the passenger’s door in the first place? For that matter, what if he had just stayed at the bar for another beer like Danny had wanted? Or what if he hadn’t gone to the bar at all? What if he’d stayed home with his wife instead? She had asked him to stay. She’d said they needed to talk. They had a big decision to make. But he’d just wanted some air. To clear his head and have a beer. There were so many tiny decisions that night. So many choices that led him here.

    “Sir?” The officer’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Can I get your name?”

    Jim blinked and nodded. “Uh . . . Jim,” he said. “Jim Malone.”

FREEZING.
Devon Marshall was freezing.

    Darkness enveloped him. Thick and heavy, wrapping around him like a blanket. He could feel its weight pressing in on him. Squeezing him. Smothering him. And far off in the darkness, he heard sounds. A deep rumble mixed with a jumbled, muddied squawking. The noises were muffled and distant but growing steadily louder. Like a train approaching: the thunder of the engines and the clacking of its wheels on the tracks.

    A pinprick of light blazed in the darkness. Tiny at first, but getting closer. Every second it grew larger and more intense. The sound roared now as the light rushed toward him and then…

    Everything exploded into chaos.

    Light and sound washed around him like a giant whirlpool. He could feel himself spinning inside it. Being buffeted and pulled along by a current.

    And he was still freezing.

    Lights flashed in his face. A dizzying array of reds and blues. Light and darkness. Shadows loomed over him and moved about. He tried to focus on the shadowy images as they swirled around him. Then he recognized them.

    People?

    He was surrounded by people. Actual human beings! They were speaking to one another. Devon could hear distinct voices but still couldn’t make out the words. And the voices sounded worried. Anxious.

    Devon’s vision was becoming clearer. Several people with uniforms and badges hovered over him. An ambulance was parked nearby, and two police cars, their lights flashing.

    Paramedics? And cops? Was there an accident somewhere?

    His mind was a jumble of thoughts and he tried to recall what had just happened. Images flashed through his mind. Terrifying ones. Disjointed and vague memories of huge, empty buildings. Skyscrapers. An entire city, void of life. A dull, overcast sky. Gray, faceless creatures reaching out hands with long, bony fingers like enormous spider legs.

    And a farm out in the middle of nowhere…

    Terrell. Where was Terrell? They had been together just a few days ago. Or had it been only a few minutes?

    Devon tried to turn his head but couldn’t. Something was holding him in place. He struggled to move but was too weak.

    He had to get out of here. He had to find Terrell.

    He could hear the voices better now. One of them called for help. Something about a stretcher. Legs and feet shuffled out of view, then back in again. More lights.

    Not far off, a row of strangers huddled together, watching. Devon scanned their faces, and one of them caught his eye. One face seemed out of place in the group. One man was standing off a little ways by himself. Standing in the shadows, staring right at Devon. His face seemed to draw Devon’s gaze toward him, as if pulling him down into a pit.

    It was long and narrow. Pale skin almost glowed against the shadows behind him. His cheeks were gaunt and sunken. And his eyes…

    His eyes shone a pale yellow. But they seemed hollow. Then he smiled. His thin, puckered mouth expanded into a wide grin. Rows of brown, rotted teeth dripped with black saliva.

    Devon couldn’t take his eyes off the man. Then someone passed between them and he was gone.

    Suddenly Devon felt himself moving. Floating. He could see several people standing around him. Cops and paramedics. They slid him into an enclosed space where white light surrounded him. Two people climbed up beside him.

    What was going on?

    Devon heard doors slam shut with a thud and a click. A moment later, he could feel himself moving again.

    His eyes widened and his breathing grew more rapid. The crowd. The paramedics. The cops…

    They were there for him!

    They had put him into the ambulance!

    One of the paramedics leaned close. He had reddish brown hair, green eyes, and a broad, freckled face. “. . . what I’m saying? You’ve been shot.… going to be all right . . . Cook County Memorial . . . understand?”

    He was pressing something against Devon’s chest. Devon glanced down. Now in the light he could see his shirt was cut open and drenched in blood. A large, white piece of gauze was taped to his chest.

    Devon looked back up at the medic and his breath caught in his throat.

    The man’s face had changed. His eyes glowed yellow. His lips parted in a twisted grin, showing dozens of teeth. Dark and rotted, all jammed together in his mouth. Black liquid, like tar, dripped onto his chin.

    “The door is still open,” he croaked. His voice was gargled and deep.

    “Leave me alone!” Devon squeezed his eyes shut. “Leave me alone! Leave me alone!”

    He felt a hand on his forehead and opened his eyes again. The medic’s face had returned to normal. The guy was working on Devon as if nothing had happened.

    Devon tried to slow his breathing. His chest burned and a sharp pain knifed through his ribs with every breath. He struggled for air as darkness began to close in around him. Sounds grew muffled. The medic’s voice sounded urgent but began to fade. Devon could feel them moving around, trying to save him.

    And he could feel himself slipping away.

Two Months Later

CONNER HAYDEN FOUGHT
his way through the woods. Branches snapped at his passing, disintegrating into puffs of dust, as if every drop of moisture had been sucked out of them. Tendrils of mist curled around his legs like serpents seeking to pull him to the ground. He could feel their weight as he struggled to walk. But he had to press onward. He had to keep going.

    He had been here before.

    Darkness fell around him like a thick blanket, almost smothering him. His chest pounded as much from the strain of his movement as from the fear rising inside him.

    He knew what was out there.

    But he heard no voices this time. No ghostly whispers from the dark, save one. One single, moaning plea.

    
Help me!

    His breath came in steamy puffs. The passing branches lashed at him like razors, slicing into his hands and face. The trees seemed to lean their gnarled limbs into his path, blocking his way and closing in again behind him. He would never find his way out.

    
Please, someone help me!

    “Mitch!” Conner hissed through his teeth. For two months Mitch Kent’s face had haunted his dreams. The thought of the young man he barely knew, trapped inside this place—trapped between life and death—gnawed at him day and night. Conner had to help him. This was his sole mission. This was the reason God had saved him. Brought him back from the dead. Back from the edge of the abyss.

    A light flickered between the twisted branches. Conner lowered his head, threw his arm across his face, and plowed through. The trees seemed to claw at him like a swarm of angry cats. He almost thought he heard them hissing as if not wanting him to pass. Trying desperately to keep him from moving forward. It was the only way he could tell he was headed in the right direction. It seemed to be the one place they didn’t want him to go.

    Conner stumbled into the clearing and found himself staring at the old cabin. Again. It stood weathered and barren, the roof sagging under its own weight. A dull, orange light poured out from the crusted glass of the single window in the front.

    He stepped closer. “Mitch?”

    
Help!

    Conner peered through the window. The cabin was empty, just as he remembered it. He cracked the door open and slipped inside. And winced. The odor flooded his nostrils like an overflowing sewer. He turned toward the door, gagging. His head swam from the stench. This was not what he remembered.

    Conner gathered himself and inspected the interior more closely. The wood-burning stove poured out a sickly orange light. But there was no heat.

    “Mitch, where are you? It’s me. It’s Conner.”

    Something thumped against the wood. Conner spun around. The doorway stood open and empty. Nothing moved in the darkness outside.

    There was a second thump and a sharp crack. The entire cabin shuddered. Then something burst through the floorboards directly in front of him, splintering the wood. An arm reached up. Blackened flesh dangled from the bones. Maggots poured from abscesses in the rotting skin. A skeletal hand gripped Conner’s ankle like a bear trap. He couldn’t move. The stench flowed up stronger now, overpowering him. His eyes rolled back, and the cabin seemed to sway beneath him. Conner tumbled backward onto the floor, but the hand kept its grip.

    A second arm burst through the boards and clutched his hair. Then two more crashed through, pinning his shoulders to the floor. Conner screamed.…

    He sat up straight. Chest heaving.

    The cabin dissolved into the shadows of his bedroom as Conner gasped for breath. Cold sweat soaked his T-shirt. He felt something stir beside him.

    Marta rolled over and reached for the nightstand lamp. “Connie?” Her voice was hoarse with sleep. She sat up and slipped her arm around him, pressing her hand lightly against his sternum. She held it there as she rested her cheek on his shoulder. “Was it the dream again?”

    Conner could feel his heart pounding under her hand. He sucked air into his lungs, deep and slow. He had to control his breathing. He had to calm himself. Finally he nodded. “Yeah. The same one.”

    “Can I get you anything?”

    “No.” His heart rate began to slow. He rubbed his eyes and lay down again. “I’m all right.”

    He closed his eyes but could still feel Marta’s stare. She was worried about him; he could tell. More so than usual. In the two months since his heart attack, he hadn’t made it through more than three consecutive nights without having that dream. But he’d only described it to her in vague terms. He didn’t want to give her the details. He didn’t want her to press him with questions about his “experience” during the heart attack.