Bad Men

Scarfe ran, the ground rising before him, until he came to the clearing, and the tower.

Macy walked across the floor and stood at the base of the next flight of steps. All was darkness above, but she could see, faintly, the edges of the wooden floor. She reached out a hand to steady herself against the wall, then recoiled instantly as she felt movement on her skin. There were more moths up here. As she looked closer, she saw that they entirely covered the wall beside the ascending stairs. Macy took a step back and a figure passed across the top of the steps. She had a fleeting image of something small and gray, with white-blond hair. A tattered gown seemed to hang from it, as though she were shedding a skin.

It was a girl, a little girl dressed in gray.

The crying came again.

“Honey, come on down,” said Macy. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

“No, you come up.”

But Macy didn’t move. The voice was not that of a child. It was older. It sounded sick. There was desire in that voice, despite the tears, and hunger. Macy stood still, undecided, and again the image of a honey pot came to her.

Then her decision was made for her. There came a gunshot, followed by a second. Moments later she heard the door beneath her slam closed, and then there was silence.

Willard was unusual in many ways, not the least of which was his total lack of imagination. He didn’t read books, didn’t like movies, didn’t even watch much TV. He didn’t need to live in a fantasy world created by others. Instead, Willard moved through this world and carved his own reality from it.

Yet even Willard felt that there was something wrong with this island. There was a buzzing in his head, like an out-of-tune radio. He thought that he sensed movement around him but when he looked closer there was nothing. Willard felt as if he were the subject of a conversation that he couldn’t quite hear, or the punch line of a joke that had not yet been told.

He considered his options. He could go back to the boat and return to the mainland, but he didn’t know much about boats, and even if he could get it started, he didn’t think he could even find the mainland in this weather. But he also had scores to settle and questions to be answered. When Willard had all the information at his disposal, he would then decide what moves to make against the others.

Macy went down the stairs as quietly as she could, carefully placing each foot so that she did not slip. She listened carefully, and once or twice she believed she heard heavy breathing, the sound of a man recovering from sudden, unaccustomed exertion. She kept her back against the wall, trying to listen to both what was below her and what was above.

A shadow moved across the Plexiglas of the window and Macy, puzzled, found her attention distracted. The shadow came again, and Macy was aware of a darkness hovering beyond the window, out of sight yet still capable of stealing what little light she had. The gun in her hand made a regular arc, first pointing down toward the unknown man below, then swinging up toward the shadows above, and the child who was not a child. The darkness in the stairway was almost liquid, pouring from the walls and oozing down the stairs. She was halfway down when she heard a soft hiss and the Gray Girl’s hand emerged from the shadows and pushed her.

Macy lost her footing and stumbled down the last of the concrete steps.

The porch light was out and the house was in complete darkness as Maria

They’re here. They’ve cut off the power and they’re here.

But then she looked to her right, where Jack’s house lay, and saw that it too was dark. That never happened, for the old man stayed awake until the wee hours, working in his studio. She saw him, sometimes, when she couldn’t sleep during the warm summer months and sat outside on her porch, watching him working on his terrible paintings. It was a power failure, that was all, although it didn’t explain her car dying. Coincidence, she decided. After all, what other reason could there be?

She found her keys, opened the door, then slammed it closed behind her with the heel of her shoe. She carried Da

Finally, she pulled down the attic stairs and headed up. Her flashlight wasn’t working, and she was almost certain that she’d filled her bag with a selection of mismatched clothing, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was the knapsack that lay hidden under piles of trash and junk at the rear of the attic. She stepped carefully, one hand raised ahead of her so that she would not bump her head on the eaves. Kneeling down, she began tossing bags and boxes away until beneath her fingers she felt the canvas straps on the bag. She dragged it out, hauled it to the edge of the attic door, then tipped it down into the hallway.

It landed with the kind of sound that only three quarters of a million dollars can make.

Scarfe too had seen the shadows outside. Panicked, he held his gun in a double-handed grip and tried to catch the figures as they moved beyond the windows.

Then two noises came together: a scuffling from the staircase across from him, and a rattle as something thrust itself against the door from outside. Torn between the two threats, Scarfe retreated against the wall just as Macy’s voice called out: “Police! Drop your weapon.”

And then the door flew open, and the man in her sights turned to stare at what lay beyond. He raised his weapon and fired. Macy, aware only of the gun and the threat that it posed, fired at the same time, and watched the man buck against the wall, then slide down, the gun falling from his hand.

Macy advanced toward Scarfe and kicked his gun away with her foot. The doorway was empty. Only snow was entering. The shot had taken him clean in the chest and he was bleeding from the mouth. She tried to open his jacket but his hand gripped hers as he tried to speak.

“Tell me,” said Macy. “Tell me why you’re here.”

“Elliot,” Scarfe whispered. “Moloch!”

He was staring straight at her, pulling her closer, and then his gaze shifted to a point over her shoulder and his grip tightened. She was already turning when she felt a presence close by, flitting moth-like in the shadows.

The Gray Girl hung in the air behind her, moving swiftly back and forth, trying to find some means of access to the dying man. Macy could see her eyes, jet black within her wrinkled skin, and the edges of her teeth almost hidden beneath the lips of her rounded mouth.

She raised her gun as Scarfe began to spasm beside her. His nails dug into her painfully. The Gray Girl darted forward, then retreated again as Macy shielded the dying man’s body from her. Scarfe coughed once, and his fingers relaxed their grip as the life passed from him. Macy watched as the child’s features contorted with rage, her head and arms trembling with the depth of her anger, and then she seemed to sink back into the shadows in the corner. Seconds later, a flight of moths burst from the darkness and disappeared into the night, forming a mist that moved against the direction of the wind, heading deeper and deeper into the forest, making for the very heart of the island.