Walkers Page 2

  She was sailing, floating, flying without substance through a long, shadowy tunnel. Along the walls of the tunnel were shallow alcoves, and in these there seemed to be people standing, watching her. Joana flew past them at incredible speed, yet she had no real sensation of motion.

  She watched the endless row of faces go by. They appeared to be smiling, warm and welcoming. Here and there along the way was a face Joana seemed to know, but before she could place it, a new, strange face had flashed into view and out again, to be replaced by yet another.

  Far, far up ahead she could see a bright circle of light that was the end of the tunnel. Even at this immense distance Joana could make out the silhouette of a seated figure there waiting for her. It looked like a man, but she could not be sure. The light seemed to emanate from the figure.

  Joana felt an overpowering attraction to the seated figure. All she wanted to do was hurry there and join him in the warmth and protection of the light. The figure beckoned to her gently, and Joana willed herself to fly ever faster along the tunnel toward the light.

  The shadowy people standing in the alcoves along the walls of the tunnel blurred past her. She could hear their soft rustlings, faint murmuring voices. Sounds of approval. While she seemed to travel with blinding speed, the tunne! kept lengthening ahead of

  her so she gained very slowly.

  Joana!

  A voice calling her name. It came not from the seated figure at the end of the tunnel, and not from the dimly seen people along the walls. From where?

  Joana!

  There it was again. A voice she knew from the world she had left behind. A familiar voice, filled now with agony and with love. Joana tried to make room for the voice in her mind. She willed herself to slow the headlong rush down the tunnel. The magnetic force drawing her toward the circle of light was more

  powerful than ever, but she fought against it.

  Joana!

  That voice, she could almost place it now. She wanted to hear it again.

  Then, up ahead, the figure in the light beckoned to her more urgently. A new voice sounded in her mind, a voice of command.

  Come, complete your journey. There is no turning back.

  The force pulling on Joana from the far end of the tunnel was more powerful than anything in her experience. It was like an enormous vacuum sucking her toward the light. But now she did not feel the desire to join the figure there at the end. She fought against the magnetic pull, put the whole force of her will against it. Her movement along the dim tunnel slowed, then stopped. From the people along the walls came an agitated whispering. There were no more murmurs of friendship and approval. Waves of power surged toward her from the figure up ahead.

  Joana, come back!

  The voice of life. With an agonizing effort, Joana forced the essence of self that she had left to begin moving back.

  At the far end of the tunnel the figure rose to a standing position—tall, powerful, commanding. All sense of benevolence was now gone. The figure was dark and menacing. Instead of the warm glow of light, it was surrounded by angry white flashes.

  Bit by bit Joana willed herself back,away from the suddenly frightening thing that awaited her. From the shadows along the walls came an angry mutter. Spidery fingers reached out, clawing for her. At the far end the menacing figure seemed to grow until it filled the entire opening. Its voice thundered in her mind.

  There is no going back! You are one of us!

  Wordlessly she cried out her reply.

  No! I do not belong here! It is not my time!

  Joana!

  Again the familiar voice calling her back. The voice of life. It gave her strength to resist the terrible power that was trying to draw her on to the unknown.

  The rage of the people who lined the tunnel swept over her like a physical force. Joana fought back, and her will grew stronger. She retreated ever faster back the way she had come. Back toward life.

  The terrible voice boomed again.

  You cannot go back now! You have come too far. You can never return!

  I can! Joana cried inside herself. I will! I am going to live!

  Like a scorching desert wind the voice roared around her and through her.

  We will come for you. We will walk. We will bring you back.

  No! I can beat you!

  In the great echoing tunnel the terrible voice thundered a last time.

  You may win once, not likely twice, most rarely thrice, and four times—never! You must return by the Eve of St. John.

  With a suddenness that shocked her, the tunnel vanished, and with it the watchers along the Walls, the distant circle of light, and the terrifying figure who waited at the end.

  There was only darkness at first, then a pinpoint of light that expanded into a blazing white that filled her head. She tried to speak, but managed only a wracking cough. Her chest heaved and she felt the pain.

  Joana was alive.

  Chapter 3

  Somebody finally shut off the record player to kill the blaring disco sound. The young people gathered quietly around the still form of Joana Raitt at the side of the swimming pool. The colored lights still gave a jarring look of gaiety to the apartment recreation deck.

  One of the girls who lived in the apartment held Joana's head in her lap. She braced it with her hands to keep it from rolling from side to side. Glen Early was on his knees beside her. Repeatedly he bent forward and put his mouth over Joana's to force his breath into her lungs, trying to give her life. Then he would raise up and count slowly to five while the air sighed back out of Joana's mouth along with a trickle of water from the pool. She was pale and cold, and there was no sign she would breathe on her own.

  Joana, come back! Glen cried in his mind. He could not let this unthinkable thing happen. Breathe into her mouth, count five, breathe, count five. He would keep it up as long as he had breath of his own to give her. Breathe, count five, breathe. Glen was blind and deaf to everything going on around him. His whole being was focused on the pale form lying there on the grass.

  Somehow, without Glen really being aware of it, this girl had come to be a vital part of his life. The mundane things that happened to him every day on his job were transformed into amusing adventures merely by the telling of them to Joana. The pleasures of his life were so much richer shared with Joana. He could not lose her now. He would not allow it to happen.

  As Glen worked on, the people around him talked in short, excited bursts.

  "Did anybody call an ambulance?"

  "The paramedics are coming."

  "I don't know what good they can do."

  "Isn't anybody here a doctor?"

  "There's one living in the apartment."

  "That's right, Dr. Hovde."

  "What unit is he in?"

  "Number 12. It's over on the other side by the tennis courts."

  "Come on, let's go get him if he's in."

  On the far side of the apartment complex, away from the swimming pool and the party deck, Dr. Warren Hovde heard the thump of the disco music suddenly stop. He pulled out a thin gold pocket watch and consulted the delicate hands. It was only a little after ten, much too early for a Marina Village party to shut down, even a mid-week party like this one.

  Maybe they blew out an amplifier, the doctor thought hopefully. Whatever the cause, he leaned back to savor the relative quiet while it lasted.

  Warren Hovde was fifty-five, which made him one of the senior residents of the Marina Village complex. He wore Brooks Brothers suits in the daytime and he liked classical music, two peculiarities that did not fit in with the local life style. But it was not for the life style that Dr. Hovde chose his furnished one-bedroom unit in the Village. He had taken it because it was convenient to his Santa Monica office and the hospital in West Los Angeles where he put in two afternoons a week. His attorney had found it for him last month when he and Marge decided on the divorce.

  He missed the spacious ranch bungalow in Encino, but that would go to Marge, of
course, along with the furniture. Also the Mercedes, both the kids, and O'Hara, the Irish setter. Warren came out with the VW Rabbit, his record collection, and an apartment on the Marina where everybody but him seemed to be engaged in a perpetual party.

  Warren Hovde had had his fill of parties in Encino. There the whole purpose seemed to be to get drunk enough to get it on with somebody else's wife. Since Warren only wanted to get it on with his own wife, he was considered an old bore. At the Marina Village he was considered merely old.

  Lord, was he really middle-aged? He didn't feel middle-aged. Wasn't it just the other day he had turned thirty and could dance all the steps of the cha-cha like an expert until the bars closed? Where the hell did the years go, anyway?

  Dr. Hovde sighed and pushed the melancholy thoughts to the bottom of his mind. From a rack on the floor he selected a Mozart record that always made him feel better. He set it gently on the turntable, being careful not to fingerprint the grooves, the way Marge had taught him.

  He settled back on the vinyl sofa and put his feet up on the Formica coffee table and let the astringent harmonies of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik cleanse his mind.

  Someone rapped urgently on the sliding, glass door that opened out onto the tennis courts. The courts were uncommonly empty tonight, with the party going on around by the pool. Warren swung his feet reluctantly to the floor as the rapping continued.

  A voice called from outside. "Dr. Hovde, are you home? There's been an accident."

  Oh, Lord, he thought, not another OD. At a party last week one of the guests arrived freaked out on angel dust and tried determinedly to put his head through a cinder-block wall. It took three strong young men to hold him down while Dr. Hovde pumped a tranquilizer into him. Last he heard, the kid was in a private sanitarium, still blasted out of his skull. Fortunately, the parties here ran to booze and grass, and maybe a little coke.

  Dr. Hovde slid open the glass door. Outside stood a young man and woman, their faces tight and anxious.

  "It's a girl, doctor," the young man said. "She was in the pool. She looks drowned."

  "What's been done for her?"

  "Her boyfriend is giving her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation."

  "All right, let's go." The doctor took his compact emergency case from the end table where he kept it and hurried out, the strains of Mozart fading behind him.

  He followed the young people at a jog around the building and into the courtyard where the recreation deck and pool were located. A cluster of people stood on the strip of grass beside the pool.

  "Here's the doctor," called the young man. "Let him through."

  The people gave way and Dr. Hovde saw the still form of the girl lying on the grass. Another girl held her head while a young man the doctor recognized as Glen Early breathed into her mouth. He looked up dazedly as the doctor came through the crowd.

  "Keep it up," Hovde said, and Glen picked up the resuscitation without missing a count.

  Hovde took hold of the girl's icy wrist and felt for a pulse. He could find none. He peeled back an eyelid and grimaced when he saw the dilated pupil. The girl's skin was unnaturally white. The doctor feared he was too late.

  He snapped open the case and filled a hypodermic syringe from a vial of digitalis. Sometimes a massive shot directly into the heart muscle could get things started again. From the looks of the girl, it was not going to work this time, but he was a doctor, and the people expected him to do something.

  The girl coughed.

  Dr. Hovde knelt with the hypodermic syringe in his hand and stared at her unbelievingly.

  Glen Early pulled his head back from hers and spat out pool water and phlegm. The girl rolled her head to one side and coughed again and again. Water sprayed from her lungs. The girl who had been holding her head began to cry.

  Glen Early buried his face in his hands. "Joana," he cried, "Ah, Joana!"

  Dr. Hovde snapped back to his senses. "Get her inside," he said. "Wrap her in blankets to keep her

  warm."

  "We can take her into my place," said Glen. "I'm right over there."

  Three of the young men made a cradle of their arms and gently carried the girl across the recreation deck to Glen Early's apartment. Dr. Hovde picked up his bag and followed slowly. His mind clicked like a computer, searching for a medical explanation for what he had just seen.

  For Joana the fragments of sound coalesced slowly into voices. Real voices this time, not words being spoken inside her head the way it was in the other place. Gradually she could make out what was being said.

  Glen: "Is she going to be all right?"

  An older man: "She seems to be coming around surprisingly fast. Her pulse is weak but steady, and her temperature is climbing back up to normal."

  Landau: "Do you think there'll be any... brain damage?"

  Oh, nice thought. Thank you very much, Peter.

  The older man: "It's hard to say. It depends on how long the oxygen supply to her brain was cut off."

  Glen: "It couldn't have been more than two or three minutes."

  The older man: "Let's hope not. Five minutes is usually the critical period."

  Joana opened her eyes and her vision cleared. She was lying on a sofa, the familiar sofa in Glen's apartment where they had sat so often watching television and drinking wine, and sometimes making love while the late movie flickered on unwatched.

  A semicircle of faces looked down on her. She saw Glen first, his light hair in a tangle across his brow, his eyes full of relief. And there was Peter Landau watching her curiously. Looking for the first sign of brain damage, no doubt. Standing beside the sofa was a professional-looking man with steel-gray hair and a nice tan. Joana tried to reach out for Glen, but she was cocooned in blankets and could not move her arms.

  "How do you feel?" asked the gray-haired man.

  "All right, I think. Who are you?"

  "My name's Warren Hovde. I'm a doctor."

  "Hi, Doctor. My head hurts."

  "I shouldn't wonder." The doctor took a silver penlight out of a leather case and shone it into her pupils, one after the other. He nodded, satisfied.

  "Will she have to go to the hospital?" Glen asked.

  The doctor placed a hand on her forehead. The hand was dry and firm, and smelled faintly of soap. "I don't think so," he said. "Keep her warm and quiet tonight, and tomorrow she ought to see her own doctor for a thorough checkup."

  "I'm here," Joana said. "You don't have to talk around me."

  "I'm sorry." Dr. Hovde smiled. "Would you like me to repeat that?"

  "No need."

  "The paramedics are here," someone called from the far side of the room.

  "I'll talk to them," Glen said. He gave Joana's hand a squeeze and made his way to the door. Joana turned her head and saw him talking to two young men with short haircuts and blue uniforms. Glen gestured toward Joana on the couch. She gave them a smile, and everybody seemed happy and relieved.

  "Dr. Hovde," Joana said.

  "Yes?"

  "I don't have a doctor of my own. Could I come to you for the checkup?"

  "If you like." The doctor fished through his wallet for a card. "Call my office before you come in. I'll tell

  my girl to be expecting you. It will have to be in the morning—tomorrow's my afternoon in Emergency at West L.A. Receiving."

  Joana took the card. "I'll call early.

  Some of the people in the crowded room started to move off. The voices picked up to a more normal conversational level.

  "Is there any beer left?" somebody asked.

  "Tnere's a whole tub hasn't been touched."

  "Well, let's go. Get the music started again. It's early."

  Several of the people stopped by the sofa to say a few words to Glen and smile at Joana, and soon the apartment was empty except for the two of them and Dr. Hovde.

  The doctor gave her a small plastic vial of pills. "This is a mild sedative. If you have any trouble sleeping tonight, take two of them. Other than
that, keep warm and take it easy."

  "I intend to," She said.

  "Fine. I'll see you tomorrow."

  Glen walked Dr. Hovde to the door and saw him out. He drew the draperies across the broad windows and came back to the sofa. He sat down on the eclge of the cushion, looking intently at Joana. She worked one of her arms free of the blanket to take his hand. His grip was strong and reassuring.

  "Baby, baby," he said, "for a while there I really thought I had lost you."

  "For a while there you did," she told him.

  "Can I get you anything? Glass of wine? Coffee? Soup?"

  "Hot soup sounds good. Something not too thick, if you've got it."

  "I'll check."

  Glen went out to the kitchen. Joana readjusted the pillows and laid her head back. She closed her eyes and drew a breath of clean, dry air. Her chest hurt a little, and there was still a faint headache, but nothing serious.

  Joana thought back over what had happened to her. The panic of drowning, then floating out of her body and up somewhere above the pool, the flash scenes of her life, the powerful magnetic pull on her to go...somewhere. Then the tunnel, the shadowy forms along the walls, the pure white light at the end, and the figure—whoever or whatever it was—that sat in the circle of light. She remembered the overwhehmlng sense of peace and comfort she had experienced at first, and how very much she wanted to go to join the seated figure. There was the feeling of sailing at great speed along the tunnel, then suddenly the voice

  calling her back. It had been Glen's voice, she knew now. Once she had heard Glen's voice and hesitated, everything changed. The figure in the light became cold and menacing, the shadow people along walls reached out to prevent her from going back. she had come back.

  She was here.

  Joana knew that something very special had to her. It was no dream. Everything that occurred was fresh and clear in her memory. Although her rational mind fought against acceptance, she knew in her heart what had happened. She had died. She had been dead for a little while, and she had come back, She felt a golden, breathless sense of relief. It was like almost slipping over a cliff, barely pulling back at the last instant. Only in this case Joana had actually gone over, and still she made it back. She should be the happiest, most grateful young woman in the world. But there was a shadow across her happiness. The final thundering of the thing in the tunnel still echoed in her brain.