The Last Handful of Clover - Book 2: Gifts Both Light and Dark

2.73 Souls in a Lifeboat

June 15, 8:00 pm

Howard awoke with the tire iron still in his clenched fist, and rolled over onto the crackling wrappers from a dozen granola bars.

He wasn't sure if he awoke because heard something outside, or because of the suddenly pervasive smell of bitter smoke that was creeping into the damp stone room. But whatever caused it, he awoke to a feeling of panic and dread that went far beyond his own dire circumstances. He felt instantly like the world was collapsing around him, and with a gasp his hands shot out, clawing at the stones in the darkness.

His heart raced like a jackhammer in his chest for a few minutes, and he had to fight to suppress the adrenalin that coursed through him. He'd never experienced a panic attack, but he'd known people that had, and what he felt in those first dark moments, waking up in the tomb, felt exactly like what they had described. If the whole crypt had imploded and crushed the life out of him, it wouldn't have surprised him in the least.

He'd huddled in the dank tomb for more than a day—sleeping most of the time in the narrow space between the concrete sarcophagus and the wall. It had been uncomfortably warm during the day, so he'd taken to sleeping in his underwear, using both his prison issues and the new clothes from Keith Woo as makeshift bedding. But despite being nearly naked on the concrete floor, he was still covered in sweat.

As his panic slowly subsided, he sensed that the world outside was no longer the world he had fled the night before. First, of course, was the smell, which burned his nose and made his eyes water. But the next thing he noticed was the silence.

The tomb was just off Q Street, and by all rights, he should have been able to hear cars passing. But the silence was so pervasive that even the wind seemed stilled. Climbing to his feet and looking out the latticework door of the crypt, he saw what looked like a scene out of a post-apocalyptic video game. The houses across from the cemetery looked silent and empty. No lights were on in any of them, as far as he could see, and tendrils of gray smoke snaked across their doorways and through their trees as if they were the fingers of a hungry predator.

Instantly, he knew that if he was still in danger, it was not from the police. What he had heard Billy and Richard talking about had come to pass—or perhaps was still in the process of coming to pass—and the Salt Lake Valley now had far more dire things to worry about than an escaped prisoner.

He dressed in Richard Pratt's baggy clothes. Then, slowly, he eased the door open. The creaking of its hinges cut through the air like the shriek of a bat. He hadn't taken two steps before he realized he had forgotten something important—something he hadn't taken with him the last time, but knew this time he could very well need.

He returned to the crypt for the tire iron. And feeling it in his hand again calmed his nerves.

He considered heading south into the Avenues, but then thought better of it. Perhaps he shouldn't walk openly through the streets just yet. The sun would be down soon, and he thought it would be wise for him to slip further into the cemetery, where he could get a better sense of what was happening, and perhaps decide what to do.

As he crested the rise behind the tomb and looked deep into the now shadowy expanse of the twilit cemetery, he saw something that filled him with such wonder that he fell to his knees.

The cemetery was full of ghosts.

Howard had realized, shortly after seeing Richard and Billy, that there had to be more ghosts than just those two and Justin. And then when he had seen the little girl and the pilot, he knew he must be barely seeing the tip of the iceberg. But it was far different to know that intellectually, than it was to actually see it in front of his face.