It was toying with him. It was enjoying this.
His nightmares had found him in the form of this monster, and the monster was taking its time.
Hawk backed up another step and bumped into something. He reached back without taking his eyes off the monster and touched the rough surface of a narrow tree trunk, its barked surface dry and peeling. A cluster of scrawny trees blocked his way. He backed into them, guiding himself between the tangled trunks using his hands, thinking that maybe he could hide if there were enough of them, eyes locked on the monster, telling himself, I can’t let it touch me!
Then a strange thing happened. The monster suddenly stopped where it was, a puzzled look in its mean little eyes. Hawk froze, not daring to move. Even though it was staring right at him, it didn’t seem to be seeing him. It looked left and right, searching. Something was confusing it. It was almost as if Hawk had disappeared.
An instant later the Tyson Flechette boomed out, the muzzle flashes bright against the darkness—once, twice—the charges slamming into the monster with enough force to stagger it. Bear had climbed from the ravine and was coming to Hawk’s rescue, shouting and screaming all at once, making more noise than Hawk had ever heard him make in the entire time he had known him. Bear fired the flechette a third time, but an instant later the monster was gone, vanished back into the mist as if it had never existed.
Hawk stayed where he was, holding his breath. He could feel his hands shaking as he clutched the trunks of the slender trees.
“Hawk!” Bear called out to him. “Where are you?”
Sparrow had reappeared, as well, limping badly. Cheney was only steps behind, fur matted and dust-covered, his big head streaked with blood.
“Hawk!” Bear called again.
“Hawk, where are you?” Sparrow echoed.
Hawk was standing right in front of them, not twenty feet away. The mist was thick, but not so thick that he shouldn’t have been visible to his friends. Yet neither of them could see him. He was so astonished that for a moment he just stayed where he was and watched them cast about for him, searching the haze and the darkness.
He tried to wrap his mind around it. They can’t see me!
Then Cheney pushed past them and came right up to him, shoving at his legs with his dark muzzle. Hawk took his hands away from the trees and reached down to ruffle the big dog’s head.
“There he is,” Bear said at once, as if Hawk had just reappeared.
“Hawk, are you all right?” Sparrow cried.
He stepped out from between the trees as they rushed up to him, their clothes filthy and torn, their faces scratched. Sparrow looked furious, Bear simply relieved. He hugged both of them in turn, still caught up in what had happened, unsure of which was the more astonishing—the appearance of the monster from his childhood dreams or his unexplained invisibility.
He looked around quickly, half fearing what he would find. “Let’s get moving,” he urged.
They began walking again, wrapped anew in the mist and the silence and their fears, what weapons they could salvage recovered, their nerves on edge. Even the dependable Cheney seemed edgy. But within only minutes they heard the rumble of tires and the slosh of standing water disturbed, and the Lightning S-150 hove into view like a big metal beetle. The other Ghosts had heard the sound of Bear’s flechette and had come to their rescue. Hawk exhaled sharply at the prospect of his family reunited, of everyone safe and together again. But at the same time, he thought anew of the monster that was still out there, waiting for another chance at them.
They piled into and on top of the Lightning, finding places where they could because no one was going to walk after what had just happened, and they drove on through the remainder of the night. They were out of the fog after less than an hour and within another two hours after that, out of the darkness, as well. By midday of the following day, they had found the camp with its children and caregivers and been welcomed back by Helen Rice and Angel Perez, who had arrived the day before, and were able to put the events of the previous night behind them.
All except Hawk, who could not stop thinking about the monster. He had looked into its eyes, and those eyes had told him everything. That their owner was heartless and implacable. That killing was its life’s purpose. That he was powerless against it.
That at some point soon it would come for him again.
NINETEEN