Desolation. Derek Landy
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They parked in the motel lot beside a police cruiser and were heading inside when a uniformed man walked out, met them halfway.
“Mr Sebastian,” he said. “Miss Lamont, good afternoon. Welcome to Desolation Hill.”
He was in his forties, with dark hair and heavy-lidded eyes. He had a long, lined face, not entirely unattractive. His badge was gleaming on his black uniform beneath his open jacket, and his gun was holstered.
“Thank you,” said Milo.
“My name is Trevor Novak. I’m the Chief of Police here.”
“It’s a very nice town,” said Amber.
“It can be,” said Novak. “Although it has a habit of attracting the wrong kind of visitor.”
“Is that so?” said Milo.
“Regrettably. Especially at this time of year.” Novak looked at them both before continuing. “You have been told, I understand, about our festival. Naturally, you’re curious. I appreciate curiosity – it’s what has me here talking to you, after all. And, while I’m not about to satisfy that curiosity, hopefully I can explain our attitude to you. We’re a quiet town, or at least we want to be, and we value our traditions. This festival just happens to be our most cherished, most valued tradition.”
“What does it celebrate?” Milo asked.
“Our history,” said Novak. “Our culture. Our heritage. And our success. Many other towns, a lot like ours, dried up and were blown away after the gold rush. But Desolation Hill remained standing. Even more towns dried up and were blown away during the various recessions and depressions … but Desolation Hill has stayed strong. I put this down to the people. We have the single lowest crime rate, per capita, in America.”
Milo nodded. “Certainly something to be proud of.”
“It is, Mr Sebastian, yes. And I am proud.”
“We’re not planning on committing any crimes, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Amber said, offering up a smile.
“I’m not suggesting you were,” said Novak, not offering one in return. “I only wish to impress upon you the need to obey our rules. The festival is for townsfolk only. When you check out of the Dowall Motel on Wednesday morning, you will receive a police escort to the edge of town.”
“Uh …”
“It’s nothing personal,” Novak said. “I trust you won’t be offended.”
“Not offended,” said Milo. “But a police escort does seem a little extreme.”
“We take our rules very seriously. I’m sure you have questions, I’m sure you have many, but please understand that to ask these questions of the townsfolk could lead to a certain degree of irritation. We have traditions we would prefer to keep private, and questions we would prefer not to answer. I’m sure you and your … niece appreciate this desire.”
Milo took a moment. “Sure,” he said.
“I can, of course, see the family resemblance immediately,” said Novak. “Some of my officers, I’m afraid to say, are not so attentive to detail. They may have questions for you.”
“I’m sure there’s no need to bother them,” Milo said.
Novak nodded. “That’s what I was thinking. We like to mind our own business here. I trust you will do the same.”
“Naturally,” said Milo.
“Of course,” said Amber.
Novak adjusted his gun belt, and nodded to them. “Very nice to meet you, and welcome to Desolation Hill.”
“Thanks,” said Milo.
Novak walked to his car, went to get in, but paused. “One of my officers alerted me to some bikers on the edge of town,” he said. “They have anything to do with you?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, okay then. Have a nice day.” He nodded again, got in his car, and they watched him drive away.
“So what do you think of the place?” Milo asked.
“I haven’t decided,” said Amber. “People here are weird. They’re downright rude to me and they’re overly polite with each other. That Novak guy is a little creepy, and I don’t have a clue what this festival is about, but already it’s annoying the crap out of me. Plus, every second that goes by I just want to shift. It’s actually uncomfortable to stay normal.”
“It’s worth it, though,” said Milo.
“Yeah,” she said, a little grudgingly. “I really like this whole barrier thing they’ve got going on. What are we going to do on Wednesday? We can’t leave town – the Hounds will be on us the moment we try.”
“I thought they didn’t intimidate you.”
“Are you nuts? Of course they do. I just said that because they were freaking me out.”
“We’re not leaving,” said Milo. “We can’t be escorted out, either – that’d be like delivering ourselves straight to them. We’ll check out early, find an out-of-the-way place to park that’s still within the town limits, and camp out till Saturday. We keep our heads down, ignore anything to do with their festival, and we’ll be fine.”
“And in the meantime,” said Amber, “we find out who put up that barrier. It’s got to be someone like us, right? Someone hiding from a demon?”
“Maybe.”
“If we can talk to whoever’s behind it, maybe we can make a barrier of our own. You’d be able to do something like that, wouldn’t you?”
Milo frowned. “Me? I know nothing about this kind of thing.”
“Well, yeah, but you know the basics.”
“What basics, Amber? I know the lore. I know some of the traditions. I don’t know how to do anything. Buxton knows, not me, and he’s too busy setting up a new life for himself to come up here and give us advice.”
“Well … maybe we won’t need him. Maybe whoever put up the barrier will show us what we have to do.”
“I guess it’s possible.”
She gave him a disapproving frown. “You don’t sound convinced.”
“I hate to break it to you, Amber, but neither do you.”
AUSTIN COOKE RAN.
He ran from his house on Brookfield Road all the way past the school, past the corner store that was always closed on Sundays, and up towards the fire station, where they kept the single engine that had never, in Austin’s memory, been used for any fire-based emergencies. The volunteer fire fighters brought it out every once in a while and parked it at the top of Beacon Way, the only pedestrian street in Desolation Hill, and they held pancake breakfasts for fund-raising and such, but they’d never had to put out any actual fires – at least not to Austin’s knowledge.
Once the picture of the smiling Dalmatian on the fire-station door came into view, Austin veered left, taking the narrow alley behind the church. His feet splashed in puddles. His sneakers, brand new for his twelfth birthday, got wet and dirty and he didn’t care.
With his breath coming in huge, whooping gulps and a stitch in his side sliding in like a serrated knife, Austin burst from the alley on to the sidewalk on Main Street and turned right, dodging an old lady and sprinting for the square. A beat-up old van trundled by. Up ahead he could hear