Seize the Night

combination of the two. I suppose I was clinging desperately to the same belief, because I didn't back away from it when it staggered closer to us.
    By the time it had taken three uncertain steps, I could see clearly enough to identify it as a man in a white vinyl, airtight spacesuit.
    More likely, the outfit was an adapted version of the standard gear that NASA had developed for astronauts, intended primarily not to shield the wearer from the icy vacuum of interplanetary space but rather to protect him from deadly infection in a biologically contaminated environment.
    The large helmet featured an oversize faceplate, but I wasn't able to see the person beyond, because reflections of the whirling light-and shadow show streamed across the Plexiglas. On the brow of the helmet was stenciled a name, HODGSON.
    Perhaps because of the fireworks, more likely because he was blinded by terror, Hodgson didn't react as if he saw Bobby and me. He entered screaming and his voice was by far the loudest of those still borne on the foul wind. After staggering a few steps away from the wall, he turned to face it, holding up both hands to ward off an attack by something that was invisible to me.
    He jerked as if hit by multiple rounds of high-caliber gunfire.
    Though I'd heard no shots, I ducked reflexively.
    When he fell to the floor, Hodgson landed on his back. He was propped halfway between a prone and a sitting position by the air tank and by the briefcase-size, waste-purification-and-reclamation system strapped to his back. His arms fell limp at his sides.
    I didn't need to examine him to know he was dead. I had no idea what might have killed him, and I didn't have enough curiosity to risk investigating.
    If he'd already been a ghost, how could he die again?
    Some questions are better left unanswered. Curiosity is one of the engines of human achievement, but it's not much of a survival mechanism if it motivates you to see what the back side of a lion's teeth look like.
    Crouching, I scooped up Bobby's flashlight and clicked it off.
    An immediate drop in the ferocity of the wind seemed to support the theory that even the minimal energy input from the beams of our flashlights had triggered all this bizarre activity.
    The stench of steaming tar and rotting vegetation was also fading.
    Rising to my feet again, I glanced at the door. It was still there.
    Huge and shiny. Too real.
    I wanted to get out, but I didn't head for the exit. I was afraid it would actually be there when I reached it, whereupon this waking dream might become a waking nightmare.
    In every surface, the pyrotechnics continued undiminished.
    Previously, when we'd doused the flashlights, this extraordinary spectacle had been self-perpetuating for a short while, and it would probably power itself even longer this time.
    I regarded the walls, the floor, and the ceiling with suspicion.
    I expected another figure to coalesce out of the bright, ceaselessly changing cyclorama, something more threatening than the man in the bio-secure gear.
    Bobby was approaching Hodgson. Apparently, the disorienting effect of the light show did not affect his equilibrium as it did mine.
    “Bro,” I warned.
    “Cool.”
    “Not.”
    He had the shotgun. He believed it was protection.
    I, on the other hand, figured that the weapon was potentially as dangerous as the flashlights. Any lead pellets not stopped by the target would most likely ricochet from wall to ceiling to floor to wall with deadly velocity. And every time a bit of lead shot struck any surface in the chamber, the kinetic energy of the impact might be absorbed by that glassy material, further powering these weird phenomena.
    The wind subsided to a breeze.
    Carnivals and catastrophes still glittered and blazed through every curving surface of the room, Ferris wheels of rotating blue lights and orange-red spouts like volcanic eruptions.
    The vault door appeared dauntingly solid.
    No ghost had ever looked as real as the body in the spacesuit.
    Not Jacob Marley rattling his chains at Scrooge, not the Ghost of Christmas Future, not the White Lady of Avenel, not Hamlet's dad, certainly not Casper.
    I was surprised to find my balance restored. Maybe the brief disruption of equilibrium hadn't been a reaction to the spinning lights and shadows, but had been merely another transient effect similar to the pressure that, earlier, had muffled our voices and made breathing difficult.
    The hot breeze—and the stink it carried—disappeared.