Now. He put everything he had into it, all that was left. With one shaky snap of his hands, he scraped the striker against the end of the flare. The flare bloomed to life in a sputtering, bright flame. The darkness peeled back in a black shriek; the fog parted, drawing aside like curtains; and what leapt from the night … what he saw …
Oh my God. His mind tilted, and he nearly lost his already failing grip on the flare. No, this can’t be happening. I read you, but you’re not real, you can’t be …
Then, a single, last memory: as he cringed on the strange mirror-ice, he remembered the feel of the fog’s fingers worming into his lungs, snagging his blood, walking his brain …
To find this? Because this was a monster he recognized. It was something he knew, and well, because he had thought it into being, this cancer that burrowed through his mother’s guts, on a dark stage in his mind.
It was a thing with eyes—with an insane sweep of a million myriad black and glittery eyes, a boil of writhing tentacles, a bristle of teeth, a swooning horror that even Lovecraft could never have survived thinking, much less writing—but it was here, it was here, it was on top on him, it was—
Tony didn’t have time for more than that. No time to think how such a nightmare could be, or how it had been plucked from his mind. No time for much of anything, in fact.
With the last of his strength, Tony thrust the sputtering flame into the thing’s bloody, gasoline-soaked maw and then
<p>RIMA</p><p>Don’t Look Back</p>IN THE CAMRY, with no screen of wind-driven snow to block her view, Rima saw it all: a quick, bright spark blooming in the dark, and then, for the briefest of instants, the brooding mass of something huge and monstrous.
What is that? She could feel her lungs forget how to work. Are those … are those arms? And then she put something else together: Tony had lit a flare. Oh my God … “Casey,” she said, urgently, “the—”
“The gas,” he finished for her. “Oh sh—”
The darkness broke apart in a fireball, a geyser of orange-yellow flame that shot toward the sky. The light was bright, worse than staring into the full round heat of the sun, and blistered her eyes. With a cry, she threw up her hands as the light seemed to sear its way into her brain—
And Tony was gone. Just like that. She knew it. She had his scarf, after all. One moment Tony was there, cupping her flesh in the most fleeting of whispers—and then not. Poof.
Wait, she thought, suddenly. That’s not how it usually hap—
There was another huge boom as the van exploded. This second fireball was eye-wateringly bright, and she saw the wreck’s mangled metal skeleton actually lift from the snow. Pieces rocketed into the air and then streamed down in blazing arcs just like those big firecrackers on the Fourth of July, the kind that blossomed in a thousand different directions. A flaming tire whizzed past the car; twisted bits of scorched metal rained in a hot shower.
“Oh shit, shit!” Scrambling over the front seat, Casey landed half on, half off the rear bench, then flung himself at the passenger’s side door. He gave the handle a ferocious yank, then cursed. “Rima, pop the locks! We got to get out! Come on, get out, get out of the car!”
She saw them coming now, too: flaming streamers of burning gasoline slithering toward them over the snow. No, not snow now: ice, odd and milky—but why wasn’t it melting? She watched in a kind of horrified paralysis as the greedy flames gobbled up distance and raced through the dark, heading right—
“Pop the locks!” Casey bawled. “Rima, pop the goddamned locks!”
With a gasp, Rima stretched, tripped the control, heard the ka-thunk of the locks, and then threw herself against the door. This time, the door flew open and she tumbled out. Casey was already there, scrambling to his feet.
“Come on,” he shouted, making a grab for her arm. “Come on, Rima! Run, run!”
Her flesh shrank from his touch, and she had to swallow back the scream that tried crawling past her teeth. But she knew what to expect now: that she would feel the ghost of Big Earl’s hard, meaty, callused hands instead of Casey’s because his father’s death-whisper, clinging to the flannel shirt, was that strong.
“Come on!” Casey cried, hauling her to her feet, and then he was churning through that lake of gasoline, dragging her along as they slipped and scrambled away from the car: two steps, four, six, ten …
Don’t look back. Rima dug in, willing herself to stay upright, feeling the treacherous ice trying to upend her. Don’t look back; run, run, ru—
The Camry blew.
