Fourteen: Stakes and Matches
***
They were taken down to the basement. Three of the Satanists walked behind them, three in front. On the way, Marty asked again whether anyone had heard of Victor Unsichtbar. Once again he was told—by all six captors this time—that such a man had never crossed the threshold of this house.
“And if he shows up,” the man with the knife went on, “he’ll die just the same way as you.”
“Aren’t you worried about the police?” Marty then wanted to know.
The man’s reply stifled all ability for reasoning: “I actually work in the donut shop when I’m not doing this. We’re tight with the cops.”
They walked down a flight of creaky basement steps. Naked bulbs glowed from a ceiling strewn with cobwebs. But it was the floor that sent Keltie’s heart into a newly panicked sprint. It was earthen, and quite moist. Her boots sank in it. It would be easy, thus, to erect two of the long, wooden stakes she saw lying next to a dormant water heater. They would sink as far down as the Satanists needed them to go.
“This is a misunderstanding,” she explained, though she knew the futility of it. “That’s all. A misunderstanding.”
“I agree,” the knife man said. “Now pick up one of those stakes. We’re going outside.”
“Outside?”
“Yes.” His black hood tilted. “Unless you’d rather die down here?”
Keltie stepped forward. The stakes were long, crude, and looked very heavy. She knelt, grabbed hold the wood. Her arms flexed, bulged. The stakes were indeed heavy; she could barely get one to move. Gasping in a breath, Keltie tried again. The stake moved a little more. She thought she might be able to carry it, but not for long.
“Here,” Marty said, kneeling next to her. He took a stake in each hand and stood up.
Keltie looked at him. “You are going to carry my stake for me?” she marveled. “How chivalrous. Next time I die, I hope you’re around.”
Outside, the wind shoved them. Keltie was knocked backward a step, while two of the Satanists scrambled to keep their hoods on. Meanwhile, the back lawn had become a tundra. Ice gleamed in the dead grass; snowflakes sharp as cutting blades screamed through the trees. Keeping her head down, Keltie fought the tempest as best she could. They began walking towards a line of trees at the far end of the lawn.
She tried hard to think of a way to escape. A pitiful, pathetic thimble of possibilities emerged. She could run. Simply turn and dash off. In weather like this it might even work. Keltie didn’t know how long she could outlast these crazy people in a sprint, but what did that matter? They would lose their masks, trip over their own robes. And in the time they got their shit together and finished yelling at each other she’d be gone. Marty, on the other hand, might not fair so well. Anything could and probably would happen to him while she busied herself with fetching the police.
And then there was the stake and hammer inside her coat. What good might they do for such chance medlee as this? Likely not much. Against a willing target, Keltie had surprised herself: She had pounded a stake through Vera’s chest until the woman literally burst into flames. The Satanists would not be so passive. Far from it. Dumb they just might be (against all reason, she kept wanting to laugh at that Satanists Group Association name), but too weak to defend themselves against a girl with a stick?
They passed into the woods. Trees now swayed in heavy winds. Keltie looked back. With ever increasing dread, she saw the house getting further and further away. It reminded her of the dream she’d had the other night. There, she’d also been moving away from a scary building, albeit with a sense of comfort, of escape. This time around—
“Stop,” the knife man said. “Stop!”
They all stopped. The area looked unremarkable to Keltie. Chosen at random. There were no gruesome statues leering down from blackened pedestals, no weird hieroglyphics etched in the dirt. There were just trees, and wind, and snow.
“Did anyone bother to text Rick?” the knife man said.
One of the other Satanists raised a tentative hand.
“Fine. So let’s get to work.”
They erected the stakes clumsily, and with much bickering as to who was supposed to do what. The one meant for Marty fell over twice as his arms were being tied to it. The knife man cursed at them, told them to work faster, to do better. Either they didn’t hear him or they were already doing their level best. Whichever, Keltie was grateful to have this icy storm impede the progress of her doom. Over the past few minutes the snow had become almost too heavy to see through. She shivered like a wet dog as one of the Satanists tied her to the stake, while another threatened to stab her should she make any sudden moves.
“Finished yet?” Knife man yelled over the storm.
Keltie now felt like a witch from the seventeenth century trials. The stake, with her arms tied behind it, ran straight up her back, and two more of the Satanists were busy piling kindling at her feet. Ah, death. The storm had kept it at bay, but it couldn’t be far off now. She and Marty were going to die, courtesy of probably the stupidest bunch of idiots she had ever encountered. It wasn’t fair. What the hell kind of god allowed such shit to happen?
Their kind, girl, their kind.
A man dressed in a hockey mask and a green jumpsuit appeared. Keltie rolled her eyes. Here was the icing on the cake. The seventh psycho had arrived.
“Rick!” Knife man called. “Great to have you here, bud! Ready to roast some marshmallows?”
Rick stared silently through his mask.
“Great!” Knife man said. “Cool! Did you bring matches?”
Rick went on staring. Keltie supposed it could have been worse: Rick could have been carrying a machete. Or maybe a two-by-four.
“Rick? Buddy? We’re all really cold here, so let’s get this show on the road.”
Slowly, Rick reached into his jumpsuit and brought out a box of Guitar matches. Several of the Satanists ooh’d and ahh’d. Guitar matches. Damn, you couldn’t do better than those. As if he understood this, Rick walked to Marty’s stake and showed him the box.
Marty gave him a nod. “Yeah. Those kick ass. I’m sure to go up like a Roman candle now.”
At that instant a massive gust of wind swept through the trees. Keltie’s stake tilted forward. She screamed, but the wind screamed harder. Rick staggered, fell down…and was immediately crushed under a massive tree branch from somewhere high above.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” somebody yelled, as the wind screamed some more.
Six black robes made a mad dash for cover. Keltie could barely see them now, but it made no difference. She thought they would go back to the house, wait out the storm, and then return to finish what they’d started. No way did she intend for them to have that satisfaction. Desperately, she began twisting her hands, left and right, right and left. Yet once again her muscles were not equal to the challenge. No matter how hard she tried, the ropes held.
“Help!” she cried into the snow. “Somebody help!”
“Right here,” Marty said.
He’d materialized next to her, a tall, dark shape in the frenzied white. His hands found Keltie’s wrists and untied them with a few quick tugs. The sudden release caused her to stagger forward, straight into his arms, which caught her up easily and drew her close.
She was happy to hold on. Arms locked around his neck, Keltie raised her legs, indulging the sanctity of his embrace. Marty had no trouble lifting her, or providing warmth to her rattled bones. His lips went to her ear, asked if she was okay. She told him yes. Then she noticed Rick beginning to stir under the fallen branch.
“Should we help him?” she asked, after pointing him out to Marty.
His answer was cold as the snow: “No way in hell.”
“Then please let’s get out of this place.”
Using the woods (and the storm) for cover, Marty led them in the direction he felt would best go back to his car. The journey proved difficult. Once an ally in their plight, the weather now seemed intent on freezing them to death. Keltie did her best to stick close to Marty, giving him what heat her body had to offer, but several times he had to stop to regain his bearings while the wind continued to shriek, hurling snow and twigs—and the occasional heavy branch—directly at them.
“Dammit!” he yelled. Then: “Can you even see?”
Keltie could. She pointed past his shoulder towards a patch of white that looked a shade brighter than the rest. She guessed it had to be a break in the trees. Either that or a gateway off the edge of the earth. Keeping their eyes fixed on this target, they trudged on, until at last the trees fell back. Keltie’s boot struck something hard beneath the snow; she had time to register it as concrete before slipping backward. Once more, Marty caught her, and it was a good thing, for suddenly she could no longer stand on her own. She’d been through a lot today. Truckloads by ordinary standards. A brush with the police, a sick mother who needed hospital care, a long drive. Spooky houses, crazy people dressed in black. Bondage to a wooden stake, a flirt with death. And now the storm—the cold, brutal storm that would not let up, even as a transformer over Keltie’s shoulder blew and spit sparks down on their heads.
“Marty!” she screamed. “Oh my God! Oh my God!”
“I’ve got you!”
Gasping for air (it was too cold to breathe in; her lungs felt like popsicles), Keltie felt her legs lifted off the ground. She reached out to lock her arms about his neck. His shoulder was there, too, where she happily buried her face, dreaming of her next wish, which involved tropical beaches and funny-sounding drinks dressed with plastic umbrellas.
“Go!” she commanded.
“Where?”
“I don’t care! Just GO!”
Somehow he made it back to the car. Keltie did not look up even once to check on his progress. The task of staying awake and coherent had monopolized the market. He got her into the back seat, ran around to the front and started the engine. Soon after that, heat began pouring into the compartment. By then Marty, too, was in the back seat, and Keltie had her head in his lap, waiting for her bones to thaw.
“Fucking…maniacs,” she said, once her teeth stopped chattering.
All the car’s windows were caked with snow, leaving them with only the dome light to see by. Not that Keltie needed to see. Barring a collision with one of Howling’s snowplows, they were safe for the time being. Safe and warm.
Are we, girl? There might be crazies still in the house nearby, and then Rick, the Guitar match hero, squirming under a branch somewhere.
She looked at Marty, who had not needed matches of any kind to be a hero today. He was stroking her hair in an absent way (and a rather pleasurable way), his eyes on nothing at all, his thoughts…who knew?
“Hey, Mister,” she said, smiling. He looked down and tilted his head. “You’re pretty good at rescuing damsels in distress. Do they give classes on it in the boys’ wing?”
Blushing, he said: “Well, we’re not quite out of the mess yet.”
“I know. The house is only about a hundred yards off. But I don’t think anyone will coming looking for us until the snow stops.”
“Once it does we’ll need to leave,” he nodded. “Find somewhere to hole up until they get the roads plowed.”
She looked out the window, half hoping that a hotel would magically appear before her eyes. The storm would have none of it. Even with the heater running, snow clung to the glass, thick as a quilt. All they could do was wait.
Not much later, Marty asked if he could turn on the radio. Weather bulletins, none of them promising, vibrated the speakers. The storm had actually made its way north and now threatened Cleveland. Keltie laughed. Long ago, another boy named Marty had once asked: Since when can weathermen predict the weather? His question no longer sounded sarcastic.
“What’s so funny?” the Marty sitting with her wondered.
And so she told him, and they got to talking about their favorite movies for awhile. Mean Girls remained at the top of Keltie’s list. Charmed was another. For Marty, the answer turned out to be surprising.
“Fright Night,” he told her. “The old one.”
She gawped up from his lap. “No way. Seriously?”
“Yep.”
“Why?”
To judge by the look he gave, she was silly for even asking. “Keltie,” he said, “darling. Baby. Sweetheart…”
“Ooh, go on. I want to hear all of this.”
He stroked her hair again before saying: “A master vampire gets killed at the end of it. He gets killed…and his flesh falls off from his bones.”
“Good point,” she said, filling her chest with a deep breath under his touch. “Good point.”