Alan Wake

Wake, picks and shovels and sledgehammers in their scarred hands, mumbling and muttering something about putting up more braces and rich seams of coal below. Wake preferred the chittering of the bats.

Wake retreated, playing the searchlight over them as he backed up, trying to keep them at bay. The shadows sizzled, but the Taken kept coming, darkness boiling off them. More Taken lumbered from the tunnels, their silhouettes huge and menacing in the dim light. He stumbled back on the uneven floor of the tunnel, caught himself. He turned and ran.

Something whistled past his head. A pickax bounced off the wall, sent sparks crackling into the air. Wake kept running, the beam of light small in the darkness. Something heavy hit him in the back and knocked him down, the searchlight flying from his grasp and into a pool of water.

In the dying light, Wake saw an enormous, grease-stained crescent wrench on the floor of the tunnel. He got up, his clothes soaked, one whole side of his body numb. Then the searchlight went out.

Wake inched forward in the darkness, one hand in front of him, the other hand fumbling for his own flashlight. He could hear the Taken getting closer, their guttural voices louder now, eager.

Wake flicked on the flashlight.

A Taken swung a sledgehammer at him, and Wake ducked, the hammer striking the wall of the tunnel so hard the rock splintered.

Wake shined the light in the Taken’s face, tearing away the darkness that protected it. Wake shot it once, twice, three times in the head, so close that he couldn’t miss. The third shot killed it, the Taken disintegrating.

The other Taken swarmed after him, but Wake was already running, splashing through standing water, breathing hard and not looking back.

Wake raced full-tilt out of the tunnel and into the sunlight, skidding on the loose gravel and falling onto the ground.

Raising the gun, Wake looked back to the mine entrance. There was nothing there. He sat slowly up, trying to catch his breath. His back ached from where the crescent wrench had struck him. His cell phone rang.

“What was that all about, Wake? You born clumsy or did you work on it?”

Wake listened to the kidnapper’s laughter. He looked around, trying to see where the man was.

“You’re a good boy, Wake, you do what you’re told,” said the kidnapper. “No cops, no buddies tagging along. Good thing for Alice you did.”

Wake craned his head, imagining the kidnapper hunkered down in the woods, watching him through a pair of high-powered binoculars. “Where are you? Is Alice with you?”

“You got the manuscript?”

“Right here.” Wake pulled the folded manuscript pages out of his jacket, waved them around. There were only a few dozen random pages, but the kidnapper didn’t know that. “You’re not getting it until I have Alice.”

Silence.

Wake resisted the impulse to talk, to barter. Anything he said would be interpreted as a sign of weakness.

“Okay. I can live with that.”

Wake put the pages back into his jacket. “So show yourself.”

“You look tired, Wake.” The kidnapper had a dirty laugh. “Were you up late writing?”

“It’s the best thing I ever wrote. Come and get it.”

“Not now,” said the man. “I got business to take care of. We’ll make the exchange tonight, midnight—”

“I don’t want to wait,” said Wake. “I want Alice now.”

“You’re just a writer, Wake, you ain’t God. Midnight. Mirror Peak. Bring a bouquet of flowers for the missus and the manuscript for me.”

Wake started to argue but the phone went dead. He resisted the impulse to smash it to pieces on the hard ground.

The moon was just coming out as Wake slowly started up the winding trail to Mirror Peak, a scenic outlook half a mile ahead, offering “some of the most breathtaking views in the area,” according to the sign. It must be true, because Wake could barely breathe. He was glad for the moonlight; it meant he could save the batteries in his flashlight.

It had been a long day. Too many long days. After the phone call from the kidnapper, Wake had checked the map he had taken from the ranger’s tower, worked out the route he needed to take, then curled up in the sun and slept for a few hours. More hours than he had anticipated, awakening only when the day cooled into evening.

Wake had been hiking through the forest for five hours now; he was dizzy and hungry, but he was almost there. A few miles back he had scooped handfuls of cold water out of a mountain stream—it tasted coppery and was probably crawling with parasites and bacteria, but he didn’t care. All the things that used to concern him: his inability to write, problems with his publisher, his rage at the idiocy of the world, none of these things meant anything now. The loss of Alice had focused his mind on one thing only. Getting her back. If he had to threaten the kidnapper, if he had to shoot the man to get her back, he wouldn’t think twice. Barry could get him a good lawyer and he’d deal with the consequences.

Wake was hurrying now, almost to the top. As he crossed a footbridge over a narrow ravine, a roaring sound exploded out of the woods, splintering trees, smashing boulders into powder. Wake didn’t even slow down.

A few minutes later, he rounded a bend in the trail, exhausted, allowing himself to acknowledge it finally. He had reached the lookout, a rocky ledge fifty feet above the lake.

He moved toward the very edge of the lookout, transfixed. Cauldron Lake lay stretched out below like a gigantic black mirror. He stared at the flat surface of the lake, saw stars reflected in the water. In the distance was the spot where the island and the cabin had been. Diver’s Isle. He was sure of it.

There was a red light near the spot. A light from a boat, moving toward him. He was sure of that too. The night was dead calm. Even the smallest noises were amplified, echoing from the cliff faces around the lake.

“Wake? Is that you?”

The voice came from the trail up ahead. It was the kidnapper. He sounded scared.

“Wake?”

Wake took the gun out of his jacket. “I’m coming.”

“No! Get away!”

“What are you talking…?” Wake’s voice was drowned out by the roaring that raced through the night, whipping the trees back and forth.

“Please… please,” said the kidnapper.

Wake flicked on the flashlight, started up the path toward the sound of his voice, the wind pushing him forward so hard he couldn’t have resisted if he tried.

“I’m sorry,” begged the kidnapper. “Please, lady! The boss didn’t know who he was messing with! I didn’t know! I swear, I didn’t know!”

Wake rounded a bend in the trail, saw the kidnapper from an observation platform overlooking the lake, the man cringing in front of the woman in the black veil. The kidnapper wore a dirty hunting jacket and jeans, his greasy hair poking out from under the blue cap.

“It was a mistake,” blubbered the kidnapper, tears streaming down his face. “We didn’t mean anything by it! It was a mistake!”

“Hey!” shouted Wake. Neither the kidnapper nor the woman in the black veil reacted. It was as if he wasn’t there. “Hey!”

A dark wind rose off the lake, swirling around all three of them. The kidnapper’s cap was torn off his head, tumbled end over end in the air.

“We don’t have his wife, if that’s what you’re worried about!” the kidnapper said to the woman in black. “We don’t know where she is! We just told Wake we had her so he’d agree to write for us.” He fell to his knees, sobbing, clutching at the hem of her dress. “It’s over! We won’t have anything more to do with Wake! You can have him!”

Wake reached the edge of the platform, his jacket flapping as the dark wind buffeted him. He felt himself lifted off the deck, grabbed out for the railing and lost his grip on the flashlight. The light rolled slowly across the