“I’ll carry these separately,” I tell Dorian. “But before we leave, I want to take a few more photos of these trees silhouetted against the sunset.”
“Go for it.” He reaches into the bag, retrieving a lighter and a pack of cigarettes.
While he stands on the beach, smoking, I wander the tree graveyard in the fading orange glow, capturing images of stark black branches against a pink-and-gold sky. Thick clouds stray across it, as if a giant’s been pulling apart wads of smoky-blue cotton. My mind is brimming with beauty and ideas, which is exactly what Dorian intended.
There’s a particularly cool piece of driftwood I didn’t see before—dark in color, covered with starry little barnacles. I have just enough light to capture a couple photos of it.
I turn then, aiming the phone’s camera at Dorian, a tall dark figure unconsciously, elegantly posed, a speck of fire glowing at the tip of his cigarette as he inhales.
Just as I’m about to take the photo, somethingcracksbehind me.
I whirl around.
Nothing. Just black branches crisscrossed like a spiderweb against the deep orange near the horizon. The rest of the sky is washed with clear blue, deepening to indigo overhead. I’m sure lots of branches shift and crack out here every day. Nothing to worry about. But I turn back to the dunes and head toward Dorian anyway.
Another loud crack, and then a creaking, popping, groaning sound. Terror shears straight through my body, and for a second, I’m paralyzed.
More low groaning and creaking, like huge pieces of wood shifting their shape. Rustling, clicking, and the squelch of wet sand.
Oh shit.
My pace quickens to a frantic dash, a headlong rush toward Dorian. I already know what’s making that sound, and I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to have to face it, to understand that it’s real—no, no, no—
Dorian tucks his cigarette between his lips, leans down, and takes another lighter and the two large cans of enamel spray paint out of the beach bag. He tosses one of the cans and the second lighter to me, then slings the bag over his shoulder.
“What are these for?” I stare at the items he tossed to me.
“You’ll see.” Coolly, he grips his can of spray paint in one hand. With the other hand, he holds his lighter just beneath the paint can’s nozzle.
I’ve reached him now. I snatch my smaller bag from the ground, toss my phone into it, and loop the strap across my body.
“We’ll have to leave the blankets behind,” he says around the cigarette. “Ready to run, Baz?”
I still don’t want to look back, but I can’t ignore the sounds—huge, impossible sounds.
So I risk a glance.
A few of the splintered trees have dislodged themselves from the sludgy sand and assembled into something massive—a towering, spiny, bowlegged beast with ragged driftwood jaws.
“Not here,” I say. “Oh god, why are the skrikenhere,too?”
The giant skriken is three times Dorian’s height, with spiky ends to its legs. As Dorian and I start backing away, toward the spot by the bridge where we left our shoes, it voices a telltale shriek, like the scrape of nails on a chalkboard. The sound judders through my body, and I fight the urge to cover my ears.
“Keep going.” Dorian’s voice is thin, as if the screech fractured his calm a little. “Grab your shoes. Otherwise this rough ground will tear up your feet. You’ll run faster with them on.”
“What aboutyourshoes?”
“My feet will be fine. Go.”
I dive for my shoes, jamming my feet into the sandals. I hop on one foot, holding the lighter and paint can in one hand and trying to hook the little sandal strap around my heel with the other.
And of course I fall.
The tree-monster rearranges itself with heart-stopping swiftness, creating a long arm of interlaced branches that stretches out toward me, broken fingers unfurling, ready to close around my body.
But Dorian steps between me and the hand, squeezing the trigger of the paint can and thumbing his lighter at the same time.
A stream of yellow flame erupts, catching the driftwood fingers of the skriken. It recoils, screaming and flaming, rearing high into the darkening sky.
