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Book: HIGHWATER: a suspense thriller you won't be able to put down by T. J. Brearton
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Authors: T. J. Brearton
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crumpled at the foot of the stairs, there in that little vestibule, next to the closet with the missing towels.
“What—” said Jared.
It was the only word she discerned. What she heard next was Jared loading more shells into the gun. He racked it. He fired. There was no shriek this time. Where had he fired? Liz felt like she was choking, like she had a large piece of coal stuck in her throat. Fissures of hot and cold raced through her body in corkscrewed, wiry pulses.
She heard the sound of breaking glass again — this time from upstairs. She looked up there. It took tremendous effort; her head weighed too much, her neck felt small, skinny, like a bird’s.
There was a thump above her. Something had gotten in upstairs.
Jared fired again, and began yelling.
* * *
Tom banged back in the house, Christopher following on his heels. “We need to go to the hospital,” he said. “The one called ‘Little Rock’.”
Tom ignored him.
“What are you doing?” Christopher asked.
Tom threw a hasty glance over his shoulder. He gripped the Kimber Montana rifle, reluctant to set it down anywhere the kid — or his cronies — could get at it.
“Calling the troopers,” said Tom. The phone was mounted to the side of one of the kitchen cabinets. Steph had asked him repeatedly (and with as much patience as anyone could muster, he remembered) to get a cordless phone. Tom had said he would get around to it. He now plucked the handset from the cradle. The pigtail cord was twelve feet long, and, as usual, bunched around itself.
Tom clumsily worked towards the living room, trying to keep hold of the rifle and free the phone cord at the same time. He debated dialing 911, but that would put the call out to everyone in the vicinity, the state troopers and the Sheriff’s Department. Tom didn’t much like the Sheriff of Red Rock County, but that wasn’t why he didn’t want the Department here. He just felt, given the strange nature of the situation ( spontaneous combustion? ) he felt a little discretion could be called for. Bill Wepple would be able to help handle things.
Tom reached the living room, having managed to untangle the knotted cord most of the way.
Background radiation. Left over from the origin.
He watched out the window as the kid, the last in the group, the lookout, continued to burn. The three others seemed to have taken no notice of it. They hadn’t moved. They remained as still as statues.
“Jesus Christ,” Tom said. He hadn’t been sure he was going to speak. For a moment, he stayed standing there like that, the rifle gripped in his armpit, the phone in one hand, his other hand poised to punch in the numbers. He looked down, remembering that Wepple’s number was back in the kitchen, on a list stuck in one of the knick-knack drawers. At the same time, he realized that Christopher had followed him, soundlessly, and stood close behind him.
“Tom.”
Tom licked his lips. He found his throat was dry. He found himself thinking something he hadn’t for a long time. He wanted a drink.
He couldn’t take his eyes off that last kid standing there. The lookout wasn’t just burning, not like a log on a fire, but sparking, brighter in places than others, fulgid. There were white lights about him, tiny explosions, like a chemical reaction — like his combustion was interacting with the air.
Nuclear , he heard a voice say. It sounded like Charlie. It sounded like Charlie, full of his usual colorful bullshit. It’s nuclear.
I miss you, Chuck .
“Tom,” said Christopher, his tone calm and firm. “Remember what happened the last time you waited for them.”
Tom blinked. He winced, as if he’d been struck along the back of his neck. It felt hot there, like a hand gripping him, and he had to step away, and turn. As he did, the phone cord slack tightened. And the handset slipped out of his grip. The unit hit the floor and went sliding across the kitchen towards its cradle, dragged by the elasticity of the
“What—” said Jared.
It was the only word she discerned. What she heard next was Jared loading more shells into the gun. He racked it. He fired. There was no shriek this time. Where had he fired? Liz felt like she was choking, like she had a large piece of coal stuck in her throat. Fissures of hot and cold raced through her body in corkscrewed, wiry pulses.
She heard the sound of breaking glass again — this time from upstairs. She looked up there. It took tremendous effort; her head weighed too much, her neck felt small, skinny, like a bird’s.
There was a thump above her. Something had gotten in upstairs.
Jared fired again, and began yelling.
* * *
Tom banged back in the house, Christopher following on his heels. “We need to go to the hospital,” he said. “The one called ‘Little Rock’.”
Tom ignored him.
“What are you doing?” Christopher asked.
Tom threw a hasty glance over his shoulder. He gripped the Kimber Montana rifle, reluctant to set it down anywhere the kid — or his cronies — could get at it.
“Calling the troopers,” said Tom. The phone was mounted to the side of one of the kitchen cabinets. Steph had asked him repeatedly (and with as much patience as anyone could muster, he remembered) to get a cordless phone. Tom had said he would get around to it. He now plucked the handset from the cradle. The pigtail cord was twelve feet long, and, as usual, bunched around itself.
Tom clumsily worked towards the living room, trying to keep hold of the rifle and free the phone cord at the same time. He debated dialing 911, but that would put the call out to everyone in the vicinity, the state troopers and the Sheriff’s Department. Tom didn’t much like the Sheriff of Red Rock County, but that wasn’t why he didn’t want the Department here. He just felt, given the strange nature of the situation ( spontaneous combustion? ) he felt a little discretion could be called for. Bill Wepple would be able to help handle things.
Tom reached the living room, having managed to untangle the knotted cord most of the way.
Background radiation. Left over from the origin.
He watched out the window as the kid, the last in the group, the lookout, continued to burn. The three others seemed to have taken no notice of it. They hadn’t moved. They remained as still as statues.
“Jesus Christ,” Tom said. He hadn’t been sure he was going to speak. For a moment, he stayed standing there like that, the rifle gripped in his armpit, the phone in one hand, his other hand poised to punch in the numbers. He looked down, remembering that Wepple’s number was back in the kitchen, on a list stuck in one of the knick-knack drawers. At the same time, he realized that Christopher had followed him, soundlessly, and stood close behind him.
“Tom.”
Tom licked his lips. He found his throat was dry. He found himself thinking something he hadn’t for a long time. He wanted a drink.
He couldn’t take his eyes off that last kid standing there. The lookout wasn’t just burning, not like a log on a fire, but sparking, brighter in places than others, fulgid. There were white lights about him, tiny explosions, like a chemical reaction — like his combustion was interacting with the air.
Nuclear , he heard a voice say. It sounded like Charlie. It sounded like Charlie, full of his usual colorful bullshit. It’s nuclear.
I miss you, Chuck .
“Tom,” said Christopher, his tone calm and firm. “Remember what happened the last time you waited for them.”
Tom blinked. He winced, as if he’d been struck along the back of his neck. It felt hot there, like a hand gripping him, and he had to step away, and turn. As he did, the phone cord slack tightened. And the handset slipped out of his grip. The unit hit the floor and went sliding across the kitchen towards its cradle, dragged by the elasticity of the
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