Vacation

32. 12:55 A.M.

He might have dozed off.

But each time sleep came close, Jack would pull himself back to alertness. He listened to Christie’s breathing, always the gentlest of sleepers. While she complained that he, on the other hand, snored like a bear through the night.

She had been asleep for a while. But he wanted to wait.

Let that sleep deepen.

Let other people in Paterville go to sleep.

Let it get as quiet as it can.

He looked at the glowing face of the travel alarm clock. Nearly 1:00 A.M. He pulled off the sheet and thin blanket. He slowly swung his legs out and moved his feet to the floor.

The pain immediate. A Vicodin would be so good.

But not now. Not tonight.

He walked over to the dresser. He had thrown his pants there. He grabbed them, and then slowly opened the drawer to recover the flashlight and his small .44.

Now that he knew how well Paterville’s security worked, he wouldn’t go anywhere on this property without a gun.

He went out to the living room, taking care to quietly shut the bedroom door behind him. Not closed so tight that there would be a telltale click. Just enough so that any noises he made would be masked. He didn’t put on a light.

He put on his running shoes.

He was ready.

Jack looked out the front window.

He could see guards out there. Back on duty. Watching all the good sleeping vacationers.

He knew that going out the front door was out of the question. Before he had gone to bed with Christie, he had checked out another possibility.

First, though, he picked up the car keys he had found off the coffee table.

He walked to the small bathroom at the back of the cabin.

Straight to the window. Open now, assorted bugs mashed up against the screen. Might just be big enough.

The toilet right next to the window.

That would give him enough height. But could he fit?

The screen—an old-fashioned piece of mesh held in place by primitive metal clips—had to be removed. Jack would need to pop it out and let it fall to the ground.

Jack put down the toilet cover and stood on it. The bowl wobbled, bolts in need of tightening.

He steadied himself on the bowl.

Then he pushed two clips on the side of the screen, and then one at the bottom. The three released, sending the screen falling back and away from the window.

It made noise hitting the brush outside.

Jack hesitated.

Not much of a noise. Not a bad noise, he thought. Not anything that could attract attention.

Now the hard part.

He brought his arms up and wedged them on either side of the open window.

Pressure to either side. He’d need to pull himself up, then somehow through the window.

Then pressure. A curl from the biceps, lifting his dead weight up and off the toilet, into the air. Now with a combination of the lift from his arms and wriggling his chest, he was able to get his upper torso part of the way through the window.

He unlocked his arms and reached outside the frame to the walls on either side. Grabbing there, palms against the wood, while he squirmed more, pressing his feet against the inner wall of the bathroom.

No purchase there, but the rubbery toes of his running shoes got some traction.

Had to be done in one move, he knew. And no grunts. No sounds.

One smooth move to slide out.

His landing would make noise. Nothing he could do about that.

He started pressing with his hands as he pushed with his sneakers, attempting to use the wall. And all the time, he wriggled from side to side.

Like being born, he thought.

But it worked. He slid through the hole. The frame scraped his chest, then his stomach, maybe drawing blood. It would at least leave nasty bruises. His right knee banged the inner wall, kicking, squirming.

He kept on going. This was the only way out.

And I’m getting out.

One last push with his hands against the wall, and finally gravity did its work and he tumbled, headfirst, down into the brush, the sound of his landing seeming so loud.

For a few seconds, he just lay there.

Listening to see if his maneuver had aroused any attention.

Nothing.

He got to his knees and then, urged by pain, quickly stood up.

He double-checked his gun. Secure in its ankle holster. A pat to the pocket to guarantee that he still had the keys.

He headed into the woods behind the cabins, away from any paths, away from any light, away from any guards.

Deep into a stand of pines, Jack went off the path and navigated around the side of the camp, away from the lake and the lodge.

At one point, the strip of woods narrowed and he came close to the fence.

He moved slowly there.

A thought: What if they have motion detectors out here?

But how could they? Every small rodent would trigger it.

Once he heard voices—guards patrolling the nearby fence.

But then the woods opened up again, and Jack quickly moved away from the fence, curling well behind the Great Lodge, behind the field and the cabin where Shana had so effectively split wood.

The woods ran behind the lodge, close to the parking lot before merging with a sloping hill dotted with pine trees and the dead trunks of deciduous trees.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness. He reached a secluded spot near the lot.

Jack crouched down and left the safety of the trees for the maze of cars filling the lot.

So many cars.

He could have used the electronic key, but the flash of lights would advertise that someone was there.

Instead, he tried the car key in the one thing he thought would not produce a light.

The trunk.

Moving from car to car, crouching the way he imagined soldiers did in some godforsaken city filled with snipers.

How long before a guard on his rounds spotted him? Called for some help to see who the hell was down there.

Then what? Jack making up some bullshit story about how he got out of his cabin? And what the hell was he doing?

So many cars.

He came finally to one near the back of the lot, the car pointed at the hill leading up to the service camp.

Parked that way, Jack would be totally exposed as he went to the trunk.

He used his fingers to find the lock on the trunk. Then, keeping his fingers there, he slid the key in.

It fit.

He turned it.

A click, then the trunk attempting to fly open.

But Jack held it open a crack, the trunk light squelched by the lid being held low.

Got the keys—and now I got the car.

A fucking match.

He slid to the left of the car, finally out of sight of anyone who might look down at the lot.

He couldn’t enter the car. The inside would light up. And like most cars, the interior light would stay on for a good few minutes.

He brought his head up slowly to look inside. Just at the level of the door lock. Another inch, so he could look inside.

On the dashboard—a picture magnet. The frame looked like a palm tree.

A picture in the frame.

Too damn dark to see.

He looked over his shoulder.

He’d have to risk a quick flash.

It would have to be so goddamn fast.

He dug out the flashlight.

He held the compact light next to his eyes. He aimed the light as if it was a weapon.

Targeting the small frame stuck just to the side of the radio.

It was possible that the frame held nothing.

Some knickknack that someone bought along. Empty. Useless

He held the light close to his face, breathing steadily. One quick flash.

Three, he thought.

Two.

One.

Now.

His thumb flicked the light on, then off.

To anyone looking, it might have seemed like an illusion. A flash of light? A lightning bug? Maybe nothing.

But Jack’s eyes had been locked on the small magnetic frame.

The light had missed its target by an inch or more, but there was enough of a glow around the core ray to hit the frame.

For Jack—whose eyes were locked on that frame—to see:

Tom Blair. His wife, Sharon. The two boys.

Then the image was gone.

Jack fell back, falling onto the ground.

He felt sick. He could throw up. The fear so real now. This was Tom Blair’s car. They hadn’t gone anywhere.

And only after sitting there for what seemed like such a long time did Jack look up.

To see a glow on the car’s front windshield.

A glow, picking up a reflection from the hill, from the service area up on that hill, up that road.

Something fiery, streaming up, way above the treetops, dissipating into a plume of smoke.

The reflection danced on the windshield of Tom Blair’s car. Something happening up there so late at night.

This night wasn’t over.

Not yet.

Again, Jack got into the painful crouching position.

He knew where he had to go.

He started a slow careful climb up the small hill.

33. 1:41 A.M.

Christie turned in the bed and let her arm reach out, a chill in the air making her seek warmth.

Instead, her arm touched nothing. The years of sleeping with another person by her side, just right there, made her awaken.

She looked at the empty space.

And immediately she sat up.

“Jack?” she said quietly.

Thinking he’d gone to bathroom. That he was somewhere outside.

Again: “Jack?”

But there was no answer and even before she slipped out of bed, feeling how cool the night had become, she knew he wasn’t here.

She stood in the middle of the living room. Then she went to the window. She saw Paterville guards standing outside by the lampposts at the end of the path leading from their cabin area.

Did he leave, just walk past them?

And where did he go?

But she knew. She knew as strongly as she knew anything. As much as she might have wished that Jack left work, his cop mind back in New York.

It was impossible. He wasn’t wired that way.

And if those keys… if they really were Tom Blair’s keys—

God, what would that mean…

Then he would have to find out.

And if they were, what would he do?

No—what would they do?

Because she also knew that Jack would talk to her. Tell her everything. He may have slipped out somehow. But when he came back, he would talk.

For now there was nothing she could do but sit down on the couch, in the darkness, and wait.

She grabbed a throw blanket filled with woven images of a summer mountain holiday from the nineteenth century, people with parasols and top hats.

Times change…

She draped it over her, then pulled her legs up, tucking them under the blanket.

Every step that Jack made brought the possibility of a noise that would catch someone’s attention.

He took care to bring his weight down slowly, testing the underbrush.

Near the top of the small hill, he stepped on a twisted piece of dried branch. The crack of the wood sounded like a gunshot.

Jack immediately looked up, eyes scanning the nearby woods for any movement, any response to that cracking sound.

Nothing.

He thought of his face, so pale, probably catching any light.

If there had been a moon, he’d easily stand out. But all there was were the flames from a chimney ahead, the dancing fiery embers floating up with the smoke.

The closer he got, the more light would fall on him.

Steady, he told himself. No rushing.

Another few minutes at a crawling speed, and he was at the top of the hill.

Closer to where the woods ended.

He finally saw where the service road led.

And for a minute, all he could do was look.

Cabins. Lots of them. People lived up here. Way too many for just the workers and the guards. The cabins looked bigger, like homes. Not the rustic summer-only places down below.

And other buildings, one nearly the size of the Great Lodge. A central meeting place maybe. Other buildings nearby. Mostly all dark.

He saw the building with the chimney, the smoke, the flames licking the sky.

The thought, standing there in the chilly darkness, It’s a town. This is a fucking town.

Something hidden from the guests.

Back to the big building with the chimney off to his left. What happened there? What were they doing there in the middle of the night?

He thought of something stupid.

They’re baking bread. Making tomorrow’s gruel. Cooking the soy crap, whatever the hell the cook used for soy.

Mighty big flames.

He had to get closer to this hidden town. But more important, to this one building that seemed to be operating at full steam.

Jack hugged the apron of the woods to get closer to the big building.

He also passed the cabins, dark as those below. Some with cars parked out front.

Because people live here, Jack thought.

This town also had guards—two stationed where the service road ended, both holding rifles.

And behind the town, above the woods, a turret like those by the main gate. No telling if it was manned; no lights.

Of course it’s manned, he thought.

They’d have a good look at the whole service area.

Got to remember that.

And cameras.

Got to have cameras here as well, not that I’d be able to make them out.

The odds of not getting spotted seemed slim.

But he had no choice.

He felt like an animal, step after careful step, moving closer to the big building.

And still well away from it, he caught the first breeze that carried the building’s smell.

It filled his nostrils. His stomach tightened. A stench that he couldn’t identify. He opened his mouth to breathe and then he kept moving.

Alongside the building. Crouched in the bushes.

Jack looked at the building’s few windows. But they had all been glazed with a whitewash. No way he could see anything inside.

The back of the building was closest to where he crouched. A front entrance faced the cabins and other buildings.

This building—well away from the others.

No cabin, no workshop, was even close to it.

That was good.

He needed to get in.

He looked up at the turret. It stood far away from this area, near another exit out of Paterville. They could get a look at him if he left his cover, but only if they happened to be looking at this spot at the right time.

And while Jack looked around, immobilized by his analysis of what he was going to do…

Two back doors to the building flew open.

The cook, Dunphy, walked out, a dark shadow in his apron and sleeveless T-shirt. He laughed. Two other men, one on either side, walked beside him.

The two men were half the cook’s size. The cook a monster. Obese. But having seen him in the kitchen, Jack knew he was also a monster with arms as thick as most men’s thighs. No neck, just that bowling-ball head that melted into a barrel of a body.

The three of them passed a bottle back and forth. Cook’s moonshine, Jack thought. More laughter, the words blurred but the tone lewd, drunken.

They walked to the side of the building, Dunphy fumbling at his pants. Moments later, Jack heard the sound of the cook’s piss hitting the ground.

C’mon, Jack thought. Go walk somewhere else. Let me look inside.

Then, as if hearing Jack’s thoughts, the three walked around to the front of the building. Cool night. Maybe it was hot inside.

Jack waited.

A few more steps, and the three of them stood near the front, out in the open. The laughter faint now. The bottle still being passed.

He took a breath.

Struggling to remain in the crouch, he hurried to the two open doors at the back of the building.

Charnel house.

That’s what he thought going in. Huge bubbling pots, the floor filled with blood.

A big oven under the chimney had massive black pans and pots bubbling away. On the other side, a walk-in freezer. The biggest walk-in freezer Jack had ever seen.

The walls, lined with saws, bolt guns, butcher knives.

The image so powerful he didn’t move, even though Dunphy could walk back and find him any minute.

And how would that go down? Jack thought.

Not too well.

He moved to a table to the right, a solid block of thick wood. He crouched down just in case the cook returned. On the floor something glistened. A curved butcher knife that must have fallen off the table.

Across the way, the entrance to the freezer. He crouch-walked his way to the double doors of the freezer.

He moved behind what had to be a twelve-foot-long table as if he was a soldier moving up on a target.

He looked around as he moved.

This kitchen, this insane place with its smells and cooking pots, could all be seen from here.

He saw something on a table across the way.

His attention first drawn there by the steady drip, drip, drip of blood running off the table.

His first thought: They’re going to eat the Can Heads.

Like when desperate cattle ranchers fed their steers the dead offal of other creatures… anything to try and make some money.

Is this their food? Jack wondered. Is this where they get it from?

Who’d be crazy enough to eat Can Heads, knowing that whatever threw a switch turning them into feral animals could be within them, ready to infect whoever ate it?

He slowly stood up, keeping his ears cocked for the sound of Dunphy and his laughing companions.

When he stood he could see the table, and what was on it. A body. First thought: They are dismembering the Can Heads and using them for food. For the chili, for the stews, for whatever the hell they served and ate.

But after a glance at the open back doors, Jack took a step toward the table, then another. Expecting to see some crazed Can Head face on the table.

The face, smeared with blood, but intact. Though already, its legs had been removed. One arm left.

He fought the gag reflex.

Until the angle was about right and he could really see the face.

Tom Blair.

Jack realized that he had been pushing that thought away the whole time.

Still no sounds from outside. It had only been minutes. They could stay out there for awhile, letting these pots bubble away.

He turned away from the big wooden table. Next to it, the freezer.

He hobbled his way over.

Hand on the freezer door. It had a latch that could be thrown over the handle and a place for a massive lock. But the latch wasn’t flipped, and there was no lock in sight.

He grabbed the handle. Important to pull it gently, he told himself. Don’t want a telltale click that cuts through the night sounds.

He pulled back so slowly.

He felt the latch disengage, the large freezer door ready to swing open.

When it was free, he pulled on the door smoothly now. A cloud of frost rushed out.

He saw metallic shelves loaded with covered plastic trays—so many, stretching to the full height of the freezer, which was nearly as high as this charnel house itself.

And deep. The freezer went back and to the side, easily half the length of the whole building.

When Jack walked in few more steps and the frost settled, he saw the hooks.

A row of fifteen metal hooks. Things hanging from them.

Different sizes.

His brain screamed at him: Leave. Don’t look. You’ve seen enough. Leave!

More steps into the freezer, his strides kicking up icy clouds as the humid air from outside also entered the freezer.

He saw the bodies hanging from the hooks.

God. The bodies.

Still dressed. Different sizes, because some were adults.

Some were—

Children.

He was close enough that he could touch the nearest, a woman. His hand felt the frozen, crinkly material of the skirt. The body twisted a bit, the head hanging down, gaping right at Jack because the hook had to be embedded in the back.

Sharon Blair’s eyes wide open.

Her dead, dull face for once registering something.

Horror.

His mind repeating dully:

Leave. Now.

There are things to be done.

Things that had to be done. He had seen enough. He knew enough.

He limped out of the freezer. As carefully as he had opened it, he shut it.

He went over to his hiding place, near the fallen knife. His journey from there seeming to have started a lifetime earlier.

Before he knew—really knew—everything.

Crouching down. Listening. So quiet.

34. 2:28 A.M.

He heard the laughter.

Dunphy the cook, his helpers—shit, they were coming back. The laughter louder. No way now to get out before they returned.

He stayed crouched.

The only guide to what was happening now were the sounds. The steps outside. The cook’s loud drunken voice. The others, the human hyenas at his side, laughing at anything, everything.

The voices passed close by, and the cook’s tone shifted.

“Chuck, go give the damn oven a look. Got to be cooked down soon. And Willy, let’s finish breaking this fucker down. I wanna get some goddamn sleep tonight.”

Everyone getting back to their assigned tasks.

The human butchery getting back in operation.

But Jack hadn’t heard them shut the doors.

He edged as close as he could to the way out. There was an open space of six or seven feet before he could slip away.

If anyone looked, they’d see him. They’d be all over him.

No, he thought. That can’t happen.

I have things to do. Things that must be done.

Like a simple—what did his wife call it?—a mantra.

I have to get my family out of here.

He gave them a few minutes to get to their places, two men hacking at what was left of Tom Blair, the other at the stove. Possibly all of them looking away when Jack started to move.

Which he did.

Staying low, nearly crawling to the open doors. The blessed outside air hitting his nostrils. Step after awkward step. Not so fast that the footfalls made any sound, not with all the bubbling, and now the hacking, the chopping, the sawing.

Whack, whack, whack.

He finally got outside and moved like some insect, a hunted bug, a wounded cockroach hurrying as fast as he could to the safety of the dark woods, miles away, an eternity away as he sucked in each breath with every step.

Then deeper into the woods, still refusing to stop, though clearly sheltered by the darkness now.

Until, so deep, he felt he could stop and he fell forward.

His face catching a thorny bush, the prickers tearing at his face. He felt so happy, so goddamned happy that he had escaped, that he nearly cried with joy.

He had escaped.

He could get his family out of here.

He gave himself a few minutes to recover.

Such a small rest before he started moving again.

Christie sat on the couch, the throw blanket tight on her lap, when she heard the sound from the back.

She had seen the open bathroom window and realized how Jack had left. She looked in that direction and waited.

She heard a grunt. Then the sound of the window being shut, sluggish from humidity.

Jack’s steps told her he was limping.

Welcome to our vacation, she thought.

He walked into the room. He might have passed right by her.

“Jack,” she said quietly, not wanting to startle him in the darkness.

He stopped.

“You’re awake,” he said.

“I woke up. You were gone.” A pause. Then: “Where were you?”

He tossed the keys onto the coffee table.

Even in the dark room, the keys caught some light.

“I had to know,” he said. “About those keys.”

“I figured that, when I woke up and you were gone. Guess I know you.”

She looked up at him standing there like her young son would if caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“Sit down.”

Jack maneuvered around the coffee table and sat down beside her, falling into the couch. His right arm brushed hers, and she felt the cooling sweat on it. Close now, she saw his face covered with sweat, and then the scratches.

“What happened?”

He looked away.

“Jack?”

When those eyes turned back to her, she knew he’d tell her everything.

The room felt frigid. Christie had her hands locked together.

She looked at Jack as he told her about the car, how the Blairs never left, then described what he saw inside the building with the smoking chimney.

He hesitated then. He couldn’t go on. But then without any prompting, he finally finished his tale.

And when he described going into the freezer and touching Sharon Blair’s body, Christie’s hands untwisted and went to her face.

Did she sob? Or was it merely a gasp that she needed to muffle? Was her heaving all from the fear?

She didn’t know. The feelings overwhelmed her. She felt Jack put his arm around her. Somehow that brought no sense of comfort.

Finally, she brought her hands away from her face. She felt wet trails on her cheeks, drying now. She had been sobbing as quietly as possible. But that was done.

“God, Jack.” Her voice a whisper.

She looked in the direction of the bedroom, the kids. “Jack. What are we going to do?”

Thinking all the time, he has to have some idea. He was her rock. He was someone who faces fear and death and madness every night. Surely he had to have a plan here.

His voice low. “We have to get out of here.”

“Now? Right now?”

He shook his head.

“No. You’ve seen the guards out there. And I can only guess what the roads outside are like at night. No, it’ll have to be in the daytime.”

She looked right at him.

“W-will they let us?”

He took one of her hands. “I wasn’t seen. I got into their cookhouse, whatever the hell that place is, and no one saw me.”

“And the car? The Blairs’ car?”

“No one saw me get the keys. The parking lot was dark.” He took a breath. “I wasn’t seen.”

Which Christie took to mean, I hope I wasn’t seen.

After all, hadn’t Jack shown her all the cameras?

Then the details.

“How will we do it?”

And those details rolled out, showing that Jack had indeed thought about it.

“Leave everything. We split up and—”

“No. We can’t—”

A squeeze to her hand.

“Listen.”

“We can’t split—”

“Christie, please. We have to split up. If we march to the car together, then they’ll know something’s up.”

He didn’t add the obvious.

Then we would never get out of here.

“I’ll take Simon. You, Kate. Maybe you go by the lake. I’ll go near the game room. Then we go right to the car.”

“I’m scared.”

“We get in. We drive toward the gate. If they don’t suspect anything, they won’t have a plan to stop us. We’ll get out.”

She shook her head. “It sounds crazy.”

A harder squeeze. “Listen, Christie. It’s what we have to do. There are things we have to do over the next few hours. Do you understand?”

More words not said.

If we want to get out of here.

If we want our kids to get out of here.

If we want them to stay alive.

Quiet for a few minutes. An old-fashioned wall clock with a luminous dial showed a little after four. Dawn wasn’t far away. Everything that Jack talked about would be happening in the next few hours.

“What do we tell the kids?”

Already she was imagining walking with Kate to the car. Her questions. Her reluctance to go all the way to the parking lot. For… what?

Then getting them both into the car, fast, when every second might count.

He said, “We have to tell them.”

“No.” She shook her head. Almost moaned. “We can’t.”

“We have to. Who knows what they’ll see. What we might face.”

“They’ll be so scared.”

“Yes. But, listen. We get them to the car. We leave.”

She nodded at Jack’s words. Then, as if she had to be part of this plan: “Right. No discussion, no debate. You and I tell them we need to get into the car now. That this is a bad place. And we have to leave now.”

Jack looked right at her, realizing the bridge she had crossed.

Christie thought of her daughter, more obstinate and self-absorbed each week that she got older.

But she also knew that Kate still had one foot in the world of a little girl.

“I know Kate will understand. And Simon will follow her. We just have to do this fast.”

“Yes.” Jack took another deep breath. “We can do this.”

She didn’t say anything. Then:

“Do we wake them early?” she said.

“First light.”

She saw Jack look at the door, the front windows of the cabin.

“Right. First bit of light.” She choked on the words, feeling this close to sobbing.

Instead, she raised a hand to his face. “You’re badly cut.”

“Scratches. A bush.”

She felt the thin lines of dried blood.

“You should wash them.”

“And you should sleep.”

She curled her legs up and rested against him.

“I don’t think I can do that.”

Neither moved as the black night sky outside slowly began to lighten.