Alan Wake

louder now.

The woods suddenly shook.

“What the…” Wake put his hands to his head, trying to block out the sound, a roaring in his ears, like something awakening after a long sleep, something enormous. He staggered, the sound ending as abruptly as it started, the woods utterly still now, silent except for the sound of a bird shrieking in the distance.

He moved forward, dazed, walked off the path and into the weeds. He stopped, seeing a boulder to his right, splashed with glowing paint, the words RAISE HIGH THE LANTERN dribbling across the surface of the rock. He looked around, realized he was on the brink of walking off the ledge into the river far below. He stepped back from the edge, heart pounding. Have to be careful out here. Careful of everything.

Wake noticed the path wound back the way he had come. If he was going to reach the gas station, he was going to have to cross the river. There was no bridge. None that he could see anyway, but there was a huge fallen tree that reached from one side of the river to the other. Wake walked over to the tree. It looked slippery with moss and lichen, but he put one foot on the thick trunk. He could just walk across it. Plenty of room, if he were Indiana Jones or Tarzan. He looked back toward the logging camp. Still time to retreat to the overhead light and wait until dawn, Wake. No one would know.

Of course he would know, and that was enough. He put the pistol into one pocket of his jacket, slipped the flashlight in the other. He stepped up onto the log. Bounced a little. The log probably weighed a ton. It wasn’t going anywhere. One slip, however, and Wake would be falling a couple hundred feet to the river and the rocks below. Too scared to take a deep breath, he slowly started across the log, arms outstretched like a tightrope walker. The bark of the log was rough, bits flaking off with every step, drifting down. In the movies they always warned people in this kind of situation not to look down, but how was he supposed to cross without looking where he was stepping? He tried to focus on his feet, swaying slightly as he moved.

Halfway across, away from the surrounding trees, it was lighter and he made the mistake of letting his attention stray to the river itself, the water dark and swirling, reflecting the stars overhead. It made Wake dizzy, stars above, stars below, and Wake caught somewhere in between. Alice… she was someplace else.

He imagined her sinking into Cauldron Lake, the water like black glass, Alice getting smaller and smaller as she fell into darkness. He felt he might be sick. Legs shaking, Wake was forced to crawl on his hands and knees across the log, told himself not to look at the river or the stars or anything else but the other side. That was the way to find Alice. He kept going.

When he finally crawled off the log and onto solid ground, he lay there panting, eyes closed. He would have liked to stay like that, pretend this was all a dream, a nightmare, a horror story his mind had cooked up without telling him. But it wasn’t and he couldn’t stay here.

Wake got up. He felt better now, as though every challenge met, every fear conquered, made him stronger. He had to be strong. There was a path here, one that led in the direction of the faint glow in the trees. Stucky’s gas station.

He snapped on the flashlight. Nothing. Fighting back panic, he shook the flashlight, tried it again. The beam shot into the trees. He switched it off, glad that it was working again, but there was a certain uneasiness now. He no longer trusted the light. He looked back, half-expecting a logger, a Taken, to be sauntering across the log twirling a double-bladed ax. He was alone though. For now.

The trail was easy to follow, and he saw more rocks splashed with luminous paint. Some of the messages on the rocks warned about the darkness or encouraged staying in the light, some simply showed an arrow pointing the path that should be followed. Wake wondered who had left the markings, but he had other priorities now. He made good time, trying not to use the flashlight. He told himself he was saving the batteries, but part of him felt the light alerted the Taken to his presence. Best to keep going in the dim light of the moon and stars.

Bushes rustled up ahead and Wake jerked, plastering himself against one of the trees that lined the path. He stayed there, trying not to breathe, trying to quiet his heart. More rustling in the underbrush. Chipmunks, squirrels gathering nuts for winter… Wake would settle for a ravenous grizzly bear being out there. Anything other than what he had encountered back at the logging camp.

The wind kicked up, carrying the sound of water splashing from the river, that and a manic, distorted voice.

“Sparkling River Estates. That’s where I go when I want something special to eat.”

It was Stucky. Wake hurried along the path, trying to put some distance between himself and the river.

“Paul makes the best hotdogs in the state!” crooned Stucky, closer now. “Belly Buster is the best no contest. Monster Dog is second best.”

Wake ran. He could see the light from the gas station through the trees. He tripped on a root, sprawled across the path and scrambled up, hands scraped. He pulled the revolver and the flashlight from his jacket, started running again.

“Never touch salad though,” babbled Stucky, his voice distant now, fading. “Man like me needs a hefty meal to get through the day.”

Wake ran on, the path twisting and turning through the trees, branches brushing against him as he raced headlong through the forest. The gas station was in view now, just beyond a patch of trees. He was breathing hard, panting, not trying to be quiet, just trying to put as much space between him and Stucky as possible. All he had to do was get to the lights of the gas station and—

Stucky stepped out of the shadows ahead, right in the middle of the path, backlit by the light from his gas station, his face crawling with darkness. “You got to change your oil more often,” he wheezed, slapping an enormous pipe wrench into the palm of his hand.

Wake back stumbled, and Stucky rushed him as he scrambled up. He felt the pipe wrench slam into his shoulder, and almost dropped the flashlight as his whole arm went numb.

“Changing a spark plug is not as simple and safe as you might think,” said Stucky, swinging at Wake again, just missing him. “It can be dangerous.”

Wake shined the flashlight on Stucky, saw the man’s… the Taken’s face boiling like hot tar. Stucky backed up and it was Wake who advanced now. The flashlight flickered. Died. Wake smacked it against his leg, and the light came back on. He still had no feeling in his hand, his shoulder aching.

Stucky stepped into the trees, an arm thrown over his face.

Wake heard him crashing through the underbrush, then saw Stucky burst from the thorn bushes behind him.

Wake ran for the gas station, his side aching from the effort, stitching up on him.

“Even with the hood open, the engine block takes hours to cool,” shrieked Stucky, getting closer.

Wake kept running, but the gas station was too far away. He’d never reach it in time.

“You should always leave the job to a professional,” howled Stucky.

Wake whirled, saw Stucky not more than a few steps behind, the pipe wrench raised with both hands. He slashed the beam of the flashlight across Stucky, watched him twist away.

“Change your oil!” bellowed Stucky, charging hysterically, swinging the pipe wrench as the flashlight tore the shroud of darkness that covered him.

Wake shot Stucky, close enough to see him stagger, his eyelids fluttering in the glare. He kept the beam on Stucky, pinning him as he shot him again and again and again. Shot him until the revolver clicked on empty cylinders and Wake still kept dry-firing it, even after the Taken had dissolved in the night.

Wake finally lowered the revolver, staring at the spot where Stucky had been. There was no trace of him, though when he briefly closed his eyes he could see the glowing afterimage of a man on fire.

He turned and hurried toward the bright lights of the gas station. Stucky’s gas station. Wake could still hear the man’s last words ringing in his ears, demanding Wake change his oil.

Brambles tore at Wake’s arms and legs, but he ignored the pain in his haste. When he finally emerged from the woods and onto the outskirts of the station, he had to resist the impulse to kiss the blacktop. He walked forward more slowly now, as if he moved too fast the gas station and all his hopes would fade away.

A Deerfest float was parked on the outskirts of the station, right on the edge of darkness. The same one