Mr. 8

Chapter 39: The Truth

The haze of the Milky Way gauzed over the night sky, as the last of the flames died out. The cool mountain air carried away the lingering odor of gasoline, replacing it with a fresh smell of cold and pine. The silent forest looked on and waited.

Denton lay on his back, feeling his body temperature fading. He had climbed out of the murky water and collapsed on the bank. The cracking and crumbling of the ice had saved him from the fire. It seemed as though destiny had decreed he would die from the burning cold, not the burning heat.

How much longer before hypothermia set in? It couldn't be long, unless his body refused to quit. Could the cold kill him now? Would it have killed Kaling or Radnor, if they had made it out of the fire? But he wasn't completely taken over by the virus yet. Who knew what protections the alien organisms in his blood granted him at this stage? The infinity of stars stared down at him, but all he could see was the glob of the moon. His glasses were lost at the bottom of the lake.

If the disease was curing his eyesight, it still had a long way to go.

He held his hand up in front of his face. Frost was forming on his trembling fingers. They were blotched with red and white and ached with a searing pain. He had heard once that pain was good; it meant frostbite hadn't fully set in. He wished he could dry them, but he was soaked to the bone. Rubbing them against his coat only released the icy water and gasoline trapped in the wool, drenching them anew.

The legs of his pants were in tatters. He tried to feel the burns on the raw skin of his legs, but it was numb flesh on numb flesh. His skin was so devoid of sensation, he might already be a corpse.

Despite the red welts, Denton was able to twirl his ankles and bend his knees. Perhaps he could make it to the car. But that wasn't the point, was it? He was the last link. Everyone else was gone. Even Kaling hadn't been able to escape. Fate had stepped in and drew him back to the flames.

Denton raised his head and, with his limited vision, searched for any sign of the men's bodies. The lake was a black void in the middle of the snow. Chunks of ice and burnt debris floated in its waters. It was so quiet and peaceful it was easy to forget the violence that had taken place there. The carnage that had consumed Stephen and Cole and the disease with them.

Now it was Denton's turn. It was time to turn out the lights and let the infection disappear with him. He closed his eyes and sunk deeper into the snowbank. He could feel darkness welling up inside of him, grabbing him from the inside, and pulling him down into the deep abyss of oblivion.

His eyes flickered open in panic. He sat up, breathing raggedly, overcome with nausea. He tried focusing on the light in front of him to avert the sensation of vertigo.

Light? There was a light in the woods. Could the fire have spread to the trees? Through tightly squinted eyes, Denton saw that the light was small and stationary. It hadn't been there earlier. Someone else was out there.

He should run in the other direction. Flee all other people. He couldn't risk being rescued or accidentally contaminating any others. But the longer he stared at it, the more convinced he was that it was there for him. Somebody was in the woods waiting for him.

Denton managed to pull himself out of the snow and stand, channeling some power—some strength—he never knew he possessed. Trudging toward the light, his overcoat weighed him down as if it were made of lead.

His feet stumbled onto the trail leading back to the road. The light must be coming from the shed. He staggered toward it, each footfall feeling like a marathon.

There was a rusty oil lantern on a hook by the shed's door. Its small flame shone out into the darkness like a great beacon, warning sailors off the rocks, drawing moths to their demise. The lamp's fire was protected from the wind whistling through the trees by a dome of warped glass.