We all stare at the doors as the pounding slows, slows . . . then eventually stops.
There are voices. Whispers.
Finally, footsteps trail away, away . . .
And silence.
I look at the survivors we have with us. A rough count puts us at fifteen, give or take.
Minus those who fell.
I look for Byron, locate him sitting on a cot, bloody mallet between his legs, head bowed.
“Where’s Jonathan?” Finnegan asks.
David and I look at each other, each asking the other the same question.
Finnegan tugs my sleeve. There’s a strange look of humor on his face, as if we’re playing a joke on him. “Where’s my mate? Where’s Jonathan?”
Once again, I look around the room, praying to see the boy’s head, his smile, maybe waving a hand from behind a cot, laughing at how he got us. Got us good.
“He was right next to me,” Finn says, the humorous look turning slowly to confusion, then alarm. “He was right next to me . . .”
I shake my head. “I don’t know . . . I fell . . .”
Finnegan looks to the doors. The large, shining cross wedged in their handles.
“He can’t still be out there,” he says, voice breaking. He walks toward the doors, but David drops to a knee in front of him, puts a hand on his shoulder. Finnegan looks at David crossly, but warily, as if still unsure whether we’re all playing a cruel joke.
“We need to go get him,” he says.
“No, Finn. We can’t,” David replies, looking to me for help.
“But he’s out there!” Finnegan yells abruptly, realizing the worst has happened.
The others are watching the scene now, all eyes on the doors. On Finnegan.
Obviously, we all realize that they’re not biological siblings—not even related—but we also know, deep down, what we’re seeing: a twin who has lost his other half.
“Finnegan,” I say, and he spins on me, eyes red and wet with fresh tears.
“We need to go back!” he screams, his young, high-pitched voice breaking. “We need to get Jonathan! We need to get my friend!”
He runs for the doors, but David catches him, holds him tight as Finnegan fights against him, wailing and shrieking and calling out the name again and again.
“Jonathan!” he yells. “Jonathan, please! Jonathan!”
Beyond the doors, there is nothing but silence.
38
JOHNSON RUNS THROUGH THE SNOW, NOW SHIN-DEEP after the early morning’s heavy fall. Fat slumbering flakes drift down all around him, and he knows the storm that’s coming won’t be as peaceful, or as restrained.
It won’t be looking to drown us slowly, it’ll arrive howling and thrashing, eager to kill.
It doesn’t matter.
By nightfall, he’ll be gone.
After he got Poole settled in his chamber and treated the worst of his wounds, Poole told him to get to the town, find the sheriff.
Bring help.
Johnson doesn’t know what the hell happened, or which of the children have lost their damn minds and which ones are still sane, and he doesn’t care. All that matters is one cold fact: the boys have lost control. Turned into murdering savages. Killed Father White in cold blood. Tried to kill Poole and Andrew, and himself.
Not to mention the dead children.
When Johnson passed through the foyer on his way out, he saw Andrew laying a bedsheet over a small body. It was lain neatly at the end of a row. Johnson didn’t count the shrouds, didn’t have time and, frankly, didn’t give a damn. Dead was dead. But he figured at least six or seven lay there, blood soaking through the clean linens.
Whole place stank of smoke and death.
He was therefore glad for his orders. It was time to run.
As he approaches the barn, he begins to wonder what the place will be like when he returns. If any will survive. Will it be a tomb he comes back to, with Sheriff Baker and deputies in tow? Or will those remaining somehow survive?
And then, a different thought creeps into his mind.
What if I don’t come back at all?
Now, there’s a thought. Of course, he’ll be a fugitive. An outlaw. A wanted man.
Or . . . maybe not. Maybe there is another way.
What if he comes back the next morning and finds nothing but bodies? The murdering kids long gone?
He could burn the place. Burn it to the ground.
With so many charred corpses beneath the rubble . . . it would simply be assumed he was one of them.
Yes, or that you were the one who did the killing.
“Damn it to hell,” he says, fighting through the last few feet of snow to reach the barn. He needs to get the horses tethered, needs to get to town. No more big plans. Get the sheriff, get back here, save who can be saved.
He unclasps the barn door, pulls it wide.
The inside of the barn is dark, musty, and oddly welcoming. An animal warmth. The smell of shit and hair and muscle. A good smell. A wholesome smell.
He reaches for the lantern hung by the door, finds the wooden matches on a nearby shelf and brings it to light. He walks past the wagon, the lamplight a halo shield, pushing back the dark.
A good hiding place, this, he thinks. But he’s not overly worried. The snow was clean when he walked through it. No tracks. Wherever the little bastards are holing up, it isn’t in the barn. At least not the ones who done the killing. But there might be others.
The thought gives him pause, and he stops, looks around and behind him. Studies the shadows. And why can’t I hear the animals?
And what’s that stench?
He hurries the last few steps to the stalls that hold the horses. No large heads protrude, no large brown eyes watch him, hoping he’s bringing oats or an apple to feast on. He reaches the stall’s opening, thrusts the lantern into the dark.
He cries out, surprising himself with the outburst; this new horror is too much. Too much.
Both horses lie in their respective stalls, butchered, the underlying hay soaked red with their blood. Johnson opens one of the stall doors and steps inside, holds the lantern near the body.
There must be a hundred cuts . . . a thousand.
It seemed every inch of the beast has been sliced, cut, or stabbed. Covering his mouth and nose with a sleeve, he staggers to the next stall, finds the same has been done to the other. A blood-stained scythe lies in the dirt, but there is no sign of other weapons. He assumes they must have cleaned and held onto the ones they could. Hidden them in pant legs and shirt sleeves, waist bands and socks. Pulled out at a signal, when they were all gathered.
Organized.
“Damn them,” he says, his voice shaking with anger and fear.
He leaves the stalls and hurries back toward the main doors of the barn. He must tell Poole. They need to figure out a plan before the snowfall gets worse, before they’re all trapped here. As he approaches the square of daylight, he slows, staring at the expanse of gray sky, the blanket of new-fallen snow. The landscape, framed neatly by the open doors, seems to almost be waiting for him. To welcome him into the light. It was almost . . . inviting.
I could make it to the Hill farm, he thinks. I could go now and be there before dark. Before the storm loses its temper and buries us all.
He blows out the lantern, sets it on the ground of the entryway. He doesn’t bother closing the doors as he steps out into the brisk day, a tiny creature beneath an ever-arching pale sky. Wind tugging his face, he looks in the direction of the Hill farm, of the city beyond. The road has vanished beneath the snow cover, but he knows the way.