Read Online The Light at the End by John Skipp, Craig Spector - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: John Skipp, Craig Spector
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face was a mixture of annoyance and amusement; she wanted to know why he was laughing just as badly as she wanted him to shut up.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered back. “I’ll be quiet.” And started giggling again.
“No, wait a minute.” The smile had taken over her face. “I want to know what’s so funny.”
“Uh…” The words froze on the way up his throat. She’ll think I’m a fruitcake , his rational mind informed him. She’ll say uh-huh, right, and move to the back of the theatre . But then he looked at her again… not just her physical appearance, but the way she was leaning toward him now, her eyes almost flaming in their twin pools of dark design… and he reconsidered.
Fuggit. One fruitcake to another . He shrugged his shoulders, not giggling now, and leaned toward her with one hand cupped between his mouth and her ear.
“You might think this is silly,” he whispered, “but I’m beginning to suspect that there’s a vampire running around in the subways.”
She didn’t move. Danny, too, was fixed in position, with his face half-buried in her hair; and because he couldn’t see her awed, almost beatific expression, he had no idea as to how she was reacting. For a long moment, he sat in tense, motionless apprehension, wishing that he knew what went on in her mind.
And it was funny, because when she turned to him with lowered eyelids and a crafty smile on her purple lips, the first thing she said was, “You know, I was just thinking exactly the same thing.”
For another long moment, their eyes were locked.
An understanding passed between them.
“Later,” she whispered finally, bringing one finger to her lips. They turned, secretly smiling, and went back to the movie.
On the screen, an actor was pretending to drain blood from an actress who was pretending to die; but for the first time in Danny Young’s life, he saw it as though it were actually happening. As though it were possible .
And for the first time in ten viewings of Nosferatu , he was genuinely scared to the bone.
Louie wasn’t sure, at first, what woke him from the sleep of the mortally wasted. It happened suddenly; no dreamlike segue between his own little world and the big one outside his head, no break at all between total unconsciousness and as much attention as he could muster. Suddenly he was awake, staring bleary-eyed at the empty platform.
Alone.
“Wuh,” he mumbled, wiping something wet from his mouth. Liquor and drool. It left a thin, glossy smear across his dirty hand. He wiped it on the hair that spilled down into his eyes, and looked around the platform again.
Dimly, in the back of his mind, it occurred to him that something was missing. He didn’t know what it was, but it was there; or, rather, it was not . Louie grimaced, perplexed, and scratched absently at his itching scalp. His brain, pickled by the years, refused to cooperate.
And then he heard the sound that awakened him Echoing crazily from the depths of the tunnel. Cutting off sharply, as if by a switch. And erupting again.
A scream.
Louie dragged himself forward for about a yard before he could get to his feet. It came again… horrible, tortured, pleading… and stopped abruptly. He craned his neck, stumbled, and fell on his face. For a second he forgot where he was, then remembered; his ears pricked up like a dog’s, and his bowels threatened to let go in terror.
But the screaming had stopped.
“Fred?” he whispered.
Then, from somewhere deep in the forever darkness a low rumbling: faint at first, but slowly gathering force as it drew closer and closer to where he lay, trembling, on the cold concrete. The rumble became a roar, like thunder. For the second time today, Louie pissed himself; but this time he was awake, and whimpering, as two bright circles of brilliance glared out of the tunnel like a pair of hellish eyes.
And as the express train hurtled through the 8 th Street station, Louie was not at all sure whether the puny
“I’m sorry,” he whispered back. “I’ll be quiet.” And started giggling again.
“No, wait a minute.” The smile had taken over her face. “I want to know what’s so funny.”
“Uh…” The words froze on the way up his throat. She’ll think I’m a fruitcake , his rational mind informed him. She’ll say uh-huh, right, and move to the back of the theatre . But then he looked at her again… not just her physical appearance, but the way she was leaning toward him now, her eyes almost flaming in their twin pools of dark design… and he reconsidered.
Fuggit. One fruitcake to another . He shrugged his shoulders, not giggling now, and leaned toward her with one hand cupped between his mouth and her ear.
“You might think this is silly,” he whispered, “but I’m beginning to suspect that there’s a vampire running around in the subways.”
She didn’t move. Danny, too, was fixed in position, with his face half-buried in her hair; and because he couldn’t see her awed, almost beatific expression, he had no idea as to how she was reacting. For a long moment, he sat in tense, motionless apprehension, wishing that he knew what went on in her mind.
And it was funny, because when she turned to him with lowered eyelids and a crafty smile on her purple lips, the first thing she said was, “You know, I was just thinking exactly the same thing.”
For another long moment, their eyes were locked.
An understanding passed between them.
“Later,” she whispered finally, bringing one finger to her lips. They turned, secretly smiling, and went back to the movie.
On the screen, an actor was pretending to drain blood from an actress who was pretending to die; but for the first time in Danny Young’s life, he saw it as though it were actually happening. As though it were possible .
And for the first time in ten viewings of Nosferatu , he was genuinely scared to the bone.
Louie wasn’t sure, at first, what woke him from the sleep of the mortally wasted. It happened suddenly; no dreamlike segue between his own little world and the big one outside his head, no break at all between total unconsciousness and as much attention as he could muster. Suddenly he was awake, staring bleary-eyed at the empty platform.
Alone.
“Wuh,” he mumbled, wiping something wet from his mouth. Liquor and drool. It left a thin, glossy smear across his dirty hand. He wiped it on the hair that spilled down into his eyes, and looked around the platform again.
Dimly, in the back of his mind, it occurred to him that something was missing. He didn’t know what it was, but it was there; or, rather, it was not . Louie grimaced, perplexed, and scratched absently at his itching scalp. His brain, pickled by the years, refused to cooperate.
And then he heard the sound that awakened him Echoing crazily from the depths of the tunnel. Cutting off sharply, as if by a switch. And erupting again.
A scream.
Louie dragged himself forward for about a yard before he could get to his feet. It came again… horrible, tortured, pleading… and stopped abruptly. He craned his neck, stumbled, and fell on his face. For a second he forgot where he was, then remembered; his ears pricked up like a dog’s, and his bowels threatened to let go in terror.
But the screaming had stopped.
“Fred?” he whispered.
Then, from somewhere deep in the forever darkness a low rumbling: faint at first, but slowly gathering force as it drew closer and closer to where he lay, trembling, on the cold concrete. The rumble became a roar, like thunder. For the second time today, Louie pissed himself; but this time he was awake, and whimpering, as two bright circles of brilliance glared out of the tunnel like a pair of hellish eyes.
And as the express train hurtled through the 8 th Street station, Louie was not at all sure whether the puny
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