Some Quiet Place (Some Quiet Place #1)(74)

The woman kneels beside Rebecca, tugs at her arm. Her gray eyes are sharp and wary. “It’s not safe here,” she adds in a low voice. “We need to—”

“Leave me alone!” The scream echoes, becoming lyrics to the song of the storm. Rebecca shakes. A moment later, however, she’s returned to the mindless grief. “You can’t leave me all alone. Please, please, please, come back … ”

The woman apparently decides to forgo asking and seizes Rebecca’s arm. The girl hisses, swiping at her as if she’s a wild animal. Jerking back, the woman lashes out. The blow hits Rebecca in the head, and she slumps. Swearing under her breath, the woman gathers Rebecca up in her arms. She’s not much bigger than the girl; she stumbles back a step. The rain continues to come down in torrents. The woman sloshes through the mud toward the cover of the trees. She leaves Landon there, bleeding, rotting, dead. It’s too late for him. Her eyes prickle but she doesn’t look back.

Rebecca stirs. “W-where’s Mom?” she asks bleakly, head lolling in the crook of her rescuer’s elbow.

“She’s gone. I think … I think your father took her. I could feel his essence in the air. You were probably too distracted to tell the difference between yours and his. By the time I realized what was happening and went to warn you all, the house was empty. I heard you screaming in the woods.”

The words don’t seem to register with Rebecca. “Where’s Mom?” she asks again. Her companion lets it go unanswered this time, breathing hard. When she trips over a root she curses, setting Rebecca down.

“You’re going to run,” she orders her. “If you don’t, I’ll hit you again. Harder.”

“Oh, Rebecca! Rebecca James!” The playful, unfamiliar voice comes from behind.

The woman’s eyes widen in panic and she yanks at Rebecca’s arm so hard that it might pop out of the socket. Rebecca just stares ahead, empty.

“Where’s Mom?” she murmurs yet again.

“Rebecca! I have some questions for you, if you’ll spare a second!” that male voice calls.

The woman shudders in terror. She glances down at Rebecca with a manic light in her eyes, as if she’s thinking about slapping her. Reason isn’t working, so she stoops again, slips the girl’s arm around her neck, and straightens, trying to drag her soundlessly through the trees. Nightmare is close by; the power rolls off of his skin.

The woman’s fear is so strong that Fear actually comes, appearing right in her path. Drawing up short at the sight of him, the woman smothers her gasp just in time, chest heaving. Fear assesses the situation in an instant. “Take her somewhere safe. I’ll distract him,” he says quietly, touching the woman’s back. His gaze is focused on the way she came. She doesn’t protest. She nods sharply and continues to pull Rebecca along. She knows the girl’s car is parked back at the house, a mile away, so she heads in that direction. Sweat makes her shirt stick to her torso.

They reach the tree line twenty minutes later. Without going out of the way to get clothes or food from the house, the woman bundles Rebecca into the ancient Cadillac and goes. She doesn’t look back, but when she senses Nightmare near, her pulse picks up speed again. He doesn’t appear. The only destination she has in mind is far, far away. They bump onto the highway and climb up to seventy miles an hour.

They spend hours on the road. Five. Eleven. Nineteen. Twenty-

six. They stop only for gas and bathroom breaks. Blearily the woman finds a half-full bottle of Gatorade and a bag of Doritos in the glove compartment. The car becomes hot and cramped, but neither really notices. Rebecca might as well be a corpse. She doesn’t move, speak, eat, or drink. She stares out the window at the passing scenery, not really seeing any of it. Rather than letting her worry consume her, the woman concentrates on the run. Getting as far away from the Element as fast as possible, so that he can no longer sense them.

It’s somewhere in Wisconsin, at twilight, that she finally steps on the brake, frowning. “What’s going on?” she mutters.

There’s a red pickup truck in the middle of the road, one door wide open, the headlights still illuminating the night. The driver isn’t behind the wheel; he’s kneeling next to something on the blacktop, his movements jerky and frantic. CPR. Rebecca and the woman watch, both realizing at some point that the figure lying there prone is a person. A little girl. Her yellow hair splays around her head, a bittersweet halo.

After a few seconds the woman tears her gaze away from the tragedy, shifting gears to pull around them. “We need to keep moving,” she mutters. “He’s still—”

“No, don’t.” It’s the first time Rebecca has spoken since they fled from her home. The woman pauses with her hand poised over the gearshift. The look in Rebecca’s eyes halts the question in her throat. Rebecca slowly turns from the chaos of the accident, staring at her companion with an expression of desperation. “I have an idea,” she whispers, so quietly that the woman has to strain to hear.

The woman frowns. The truck driver is sobbing into his cell phone, hysteria thick in the air. “What do you—” She starts, then breaks off with an impatient hiss. “Rebecca, we don’t have time for this! If he gets too close, he’ll be able to sense you. Please, can’t you just—”

“I have an idea,” Rebecca repeats, like some broken toy.