Strange Highways

light above and behind him. It was growing smaller, smaller, not because the zipper was being drawn shut up there, but because the hateful beast was dragging him a long way down into the bag, which made the open end appear to dwindle the same way that the mouth of a turnpike tunnel dwindled in the rearview mirror as one drove toward the other end.
     The other end.
     Billy could not bear to think about what might be waiting for him at the other end, at the infinitely deep bottom of the purse and beyond it.
     He wished that he could go mad. Madness would be a welcome escape from the dread that filled him. Madness would provide sweet relief. But evidently part of his fate was that he should remain totally sane and acutely aware.
     The light above had shrunk to the size of a small, pale, oblate moon riding high in a night sky.
     It was like being born, Billy realized - except that, this time, he was being born out of light and into darkness.
     The albescent moonform above shrank to the size of a small and distant star. The star winked out.
     In the perfect blackness, many strange voices hissed a welcome to Billy Neeks.

     That night in late April, the bungalow was filled with distant, echoey screams of terror from so far away that, although carrying through every room of the small house, they did not reach the quiet street beyond the walls and did not draw any attention from nearby residents. The screams continued for a few hours, faded gradually, and were replaced by licking-gnawing-chewing sounds of satisfied consumption.
     Then silence.
     Silence held dominion for many hours, until the middle of the following afternoon, when the stillness was broken by the sound of an opening door and footsteps.
     "Ah," the old woman said happily as she stepped through the kitchen door and saw her purse standing open on the floor. With arthritic slowness, she bent, picked up the bag, and stared into it for a moment.
     Smiling, she pulled the zipper shut.

TRAPPED

    1

ON THE NIGHT THAT IT HAPPENED, A BLIZZARD SWEPT THE ENTIRE Northeast. Creatures that preferred to venture out only after sunset were, therefore, doubly cloaked by darkness and the storm.
     Snow began to fall at twilight, as Meg Lassiter drove home from the doctor's office with Tommy. Powdery flakes sifted out of an iron-gray sky and at first fell straight down through the cold, still air. By the time she had covered eight miles, a hard wind had blasted in from the southwest and harried the snow at a slant through the headlights of the jeep station wagon.
Behind her, sitting sideways on the rear seat to accommodate his cast-encumbered leg, Tommy sighed. "I'm going to miss a lot of sledding, skiing-ice skating too."
     "It's early in the season," Meg said. "You ought to heal up in time to have some fun before spring."
     "Yeah, well, maybe." He had broken his leg two weeks ago, and during the follow-up visit to Dr. Jacklin a short while ago, they had learned that he'd be in a cast another six weeks. The fracture was splintered - "minor but complicating comminution" - impacted as well, and it would knit more slowly than a simple break. "But, Mom, there's only so many winters in a life. I hate to waste one."
     Meg smiled and glanced at the rearview mirror, in which she could see him. "You're only ten years old, honey. In your case the winters ahead are countless - or darn close to it."
     "No way, Mom. Soon it'll be college, which'll mean a lot more studying, not so much time to have fun-"
     "That's eight years away!"
     "You always say time goes faster the older you get. And after college I'll have a job, and then a family to support.'
     "Trust me, buckaroo, life doesn't speed up till you're thirty."
     Though he was as fun-loving as any ten-year-old, he was also occasionally a strangely serious boy. He'd been that way even as a toddler, but he had become increasingly solemn after his father's death two years ago.
     Meg braked for the last stoplight at the north end of town, still seven miles from their farm. She switched on the wipers, which swept the fine dry snow from the windshield.
     "How old are you, Mom?"
     "Thirty-five."
     "Wow, really?"
     "You make it sound as if I'm ancient."
     "Did they have cars when you were ten?"
     His laugh was musical. Meg