Winter Moon

out there: reflections of fire.
        Toby knew that his mom had set the alien on fire- she was tough, she was smart-and a current of hope thrilled through him.
        Then he noticed the second wrong thing about the bedroom. The drapes.were closed over his recessed bed.
        He had left them open, drawn back to both sides of the niche. He only closed them at night or when he was playing a game. He had opened them this morning, and he'd had no time for games since he'd gotten up.
        The air had a bad smell. He hadn't noticed it right away because his heart was pounding and he was breathing through his mouth.
        He moved toward the bed. One step, two.
        The closer he drew to the sleeping alcove, the worse the smell became.
        It was like the odor on the back stairs the first day they'd seen the house, but a lot worse.
        He stopped a few steps from the bed. He told himself he was a hero.
        It was okay for heroes to be afraid, but even when they were afraid, they had to do something.
        At the open door, Falstaff was just about going crazy.
        Blacktop was visible in a few small patches, revealed by the flaying wind, but most of the roadway was covered by two inches of fresh powder. Numerous drifts had formed against the snow walls thrown up by the plow.
        Judging by the available signs, Jack figured the crew had made a circuit through this neighborhood about two hours ago, certainly no more recently than an hour and a half. They were overdue to make another pass.
        He turned east and hurried toward the Youngblood spread, hopeful of encountering a highway-maintenance crew before he had gone far.
        Whether they were equipped with a big road grader or a salt-spreading truck with a plow on the front-or both-they would have microwave communications with their dispatcher. If he could persuade them that his story was not just the raving of a lunatic, he might be able to convince them to take him back to the house to get Heather and Toby out of there.
        Might be able to persuade them? Hell, he had a shotgun. For sure, he'd convince them. They'd plow the half-mile driveway clean as a nun's conscience to the front door of Quartermass Ranch, smiles on their faces from start to finish, as jolly as Snow White's short protectors, singing "Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it's off to work we go" if that's what he wanted them to do.
        Impossible as it seemed, the creature on the stairs appeared even more grotesque and frightful in the obscuring embrace of fire, with smoke seething from it, than it had been when she'd had a clear look at its every feature..Yet another step it rose. Silently, silently. Then another. It ascended out of the conflagration with all the panache of His Satanic Majesty on a day trip out of hell.
        The beast was burning, or at least the portion of it that was Eduardo Fernandez's body was being consumed, and yet the demonic thing climbed one more step. Almost to the top now.
        Heather couldn't delay any longer. The heat was unbearable. She'd already exposed her face too long and would probably wind up with a mild burn. The hungry fire ate across the hallway ceiling, licking at the plaster overhead, and her position was perilous.
        Besides, the Giver was not going to collapse backward into the furnace below, as she had hoped. It would reach the second floor and open its arms to her, its many fiery arms, seeking to enfold and become her.
        Heart thudding furiously, Heather hurried a few steps along the hall to the red can of gasoline. She snatched it up with one hand. It felt light. She must have used three of the five gallons.
        She glanced back.
        The stalker came out of the stairwell, into the hallway. Both the colpse and the Giver were ablaze, not merely a smoldering gnarl of charred organisms but a dazzling column of tempestuous flames, as if their entwined bodies had been constructed of dry tinder. Some of the longer tentacles coiled and lashed like whips, casting off streams and gobs of fire that spattered against the walls and floor, igniting carpet and wallpaper.
        As Toby took one more step toward the curtained bed, Falstaff finally dashed into the room. The dog blocked his path and barked at him, warning him to back off.
        Something moved on the bed behind the drapes, brushing against them, and each of the next few seconds was an hour to Toby, as if he had shifted