Alan Wake

“Now.”

“You said you’ve already read it,” Wake said coolly. “Come on, smart guy, what am I going to do now?”

The man stopped smiling.

“You have a problem, then.”

“We all got problems, pal. Alice most of all.” The man held out his hand. “Give me the rest of the manuscript, and I’ll let her go. The two of you can still have a good vacation. Maybe catch Deerfest.”

“You said we,” said Wake. “Once we get you some proper editorial control. Who are you working with?”

“Smart guy, aren’t you?” Mist from the waterfall drifted over him. “Just for the record, I knew you were going to be trouble, Wake.”

“Look, I need more time,” said Wake, trying to stay calm. “Just another week.”

The man fingered the 9mm. “I’ll give you two days. After that…” The grin was back, splitting his face into two obscene halves. “Let’s just say, you don’t even want to think about what I’m going to do to wifey.”

Wake drove his fist into the man’s face, knocked him backwards. He drew back again, but the man pointed the 9mm at him, thumbed back the hammer, so angry the pistol shook.

“I wish,” the man said softly, blood trickling from his split lip, “I dearly wish we didn’t need you to finish the manuscript.”

Wake faced him, fists balled.

“Move aside,” ordered the man, waving the 9mm.

Wake didn’t move.

“Meet me at the old Bright Falls coal mine in two days. Main building. Noon.”

Wake grabbed for the gun, kneed the man.

The man grunted, punched at Wake with his free hand. “You need to give it up, Wake!”

Wake tripped him, the two of them rolling around on the ground, still fighting for the 9mm. The man smelled of cigarettes and sour beer.

“I want my wife,” said Wake, their faces only inches apart. “Give me Alice back.”

The man head-butted him. Twice. Right where he’d been hurt in the car accident, but Wake held on.

The gun went off, nearly deafening Wake, and the man broke free. He scrambled away and ran limping into the underbrush. “You got two days, Wake!” he called over his shoulder.

Wake got up slowly, his ears still ringing. He looked himself over, couldn’t find any bullet wounds, but there was a raw spot along one side of his chin. He bent down, picked the 9mm off the ground, checked to see that there were still bullets in the magazine.

He dabbed at his forehead, saw blood on his fingertips. When this nightmare was over, Wake was going to start wearing a football helmet, make it part of his wardrobe.

Wake put fresh batteries in the flashlight, kept the two remaining flares in his other hand. Beside the trail a display had been set up, a slice of an ancient tree at least ten feet in diameter, its growth rings marked by important historical and local events. Pilgrims land at Plymouth Rock was near the middle of the slice. Declaration of Independence signed was further out. He traced them with a forefinger. Lincoln assassinated. World War II ends. Wake stared at the entry toward the edge of the slice. Estimated 7.1 magnitude earthquake sinks island in Cauldron Lake.

Wake shivered.

No… he wasn’t shivering, the ground was shaking again, the wind roaring through the trees. Wake’s head throbbed, a real skull cracker, the pain burning through his thoughts, leaving nothing behind except darkness. He felt himself falling.

Wake broke the black calm surface of Cauldron Lake, shattering the dead surface, the icy water humming as he fell deeper and deeper. Bird Leg Cabin was down there, and that’s where Wake belonged. He sat in the study now, hunched over the typewriter, tapping away, the sound of the keys like thunder as he typed faster and faster. Two days, two days, two days…

Wake opened his eyes. Nothing but stars above and the sound of wind in the trees. He scrambled to his feet, looked around, half expected to see fresh swarms of Taken emerging from the darkness. He was alone.

Wake ran down the trail, kept running until the pain in his side became unbearable. He slowed, but kept moving as the forest rippled and flowed around him. Every time he was sure he was lost, he came upon a sign that pointed the way back to the Visitor Center.

He was near exhaustion when he heard voices. He approached carefully, rounded a bend, and walked into a camp site. Three tents were pitched beside the trail, equipment laid out around a picnic table. A portable radio on the table was tuned into the local talk show.

“Hello?” called Wake. No response. “Hello!”

The tents were empty. Looking around, Wake understood why. A shotgun leaned against a footstool, its walnut stock etched with a hunting scene. The camping gear was nearly new, high-quality sleeping bags, fancy cook stoves, freeze-dried lobster bisque and sirloin tips, a bottle of sixteen-year-old scotch. The hunting party was made up of gentleman tourists out for a leisurely long weekend, uninterested in really hunting, the gear just an excuse to get away from their wives. Three of the Taken had fit that description. At least once upon a time. They had been no less ferocious than the grimy Taken in work boots and denim jackets. No less dead now either. He looked over at the radio.

“Welcome back to the show, folks, this is your host, Pat Maine, but you already know that. As promised, our very own Dr. Nelson has just parked his rear end in the studio. Doc, what’s your Deerfest plan like?”

“My plan? You make it sound a lot more organized than I ever seem to manage!”

“Ha ha ha!”

“Yeah, exactly, Pat. But I’m going to check out the parade, of course, and I’ll be one of the pie contest judges.”

Wake switched off the radio. He rummaged through the tent, found shotgun shells, and stuck them in his jacket. He slung the shotgun over one shoulder and headed for the cabin. An hour later, Wake’s cell phone rang. He answered it, still walking.

“Al? Finally.”

“Barry?”

“I’m flipping out here, Al,” whispered Barry. “The front porch is all covered with birds. Real pissed-off birds. It’s like I’m Tippi Hedren in a Hitchcock movie.”

Wake remembered the ravens that had attacked him in the cable car, almost killing him. He was on the edge of the forest now, the trail forking. To the right was the Visitor Center. He took the left trail that led to the cabin. “Stay inside, I’m almost there.”

“Al,” said Barry, still whispering, “first you with your disappearing zombies, now me with the birds from Hell. I’m starting to wonder, if craziness is catching, like the flu or mumps or—”

“Why are you whispering?”

“The birds… I don’t want them to hear me.”

“I’ll be there soon. Just make sure you keep the lights on!” Wake broke the connection.

Wake reached the top of the path. From this vantage point he could see the cabin, still shrouded in darkness, but the horizon was aglow, edged with dawn. Ravens clustered in the trees around the cabin, hundreds of them, weighing down the branches. They swooped off the trees and into the air as Wake approached, their wings darker than the night.

Wake covered his face, trying to protect his eyes as the birds attacked, the flock so thick that he couldn’t see the cabin. He swung the flashlight, the beam dissolving some of the ravens, but there were too many of them.

“Al! Al, this way!”