Children of the Storm

more than before, to get between the closely grown trees, aware that, not far ahead, the darkness of the forest seemed to erupt into light, but not able to interpret this sight until they stumbled, exhausted, around the last of the thick palm boles and shuffled into the open lawn that ringed Hawk House.
        Sonya paused, unable to immediately accept the sight of that fine old house, for she was more willing to believe it was a fantasy, a figment of her imagination, than the actual place. She had hoped to reach here for so long, and she had prayed so desperately, that now she thought her mind might have fantasized what she wanted because, otherwise, she would never obtain it.
        But, fantasy or not, she could not afford to remain here and stare at it. The lawn was a good hundred and fifty yards across and, when they had gained the door of Hawk House, they might still be far from salvation. She had thought, earlier, but had refused to consider, that once they reached the Blenwell's place, they might find it boarded up and its inhabitants all out of earshot, in their own dry storm cellar. If that were the case, Peterson would catch them on the Blenwell doorstep and provide an especially ironic ending to the whole gruesome aff air.
        She started forward, walking fast, no longer able to run, with Alex stumbling by her side.
        The wind, here in the open, hit them so hard they went to their knees, as they had on the lawn of Seawatch-how long ago? Each time, they got up and went on.
        Tina was no longer in the mood to sleep, but clung to Sonya like a burr to wool, her head over the woman's shoulder, her face buried in her warm neck.
        It was Tina, because of her position, who first saw Peterson and, screaming directly into Sonya's ear, warned the woman a moment before he crashed into her and knocked her down, like a bowling ball upsetting the last pin on the alley floor. She landed in a painful tangle of overexerted arms and legs, every strained muscle crying out at this final indignity, whimpering helplessly to herself.
        She rolled to get away from him, for she felt he must have his knife with him and that he must already be driving it toward her back, and in the process of her panicked escape from this imagined nearness to a swift death, she lost hold of Tina.
        She spit out grass and mud, looked up.
        Peterson had passed her and was chasing Alex toward Hawk House, and he was almost on top of the boy.
        Involuntarily, Sonya screamed.
        Peterson clutched the collar of Alex's jacket and swung the boy around as if he were nothing more than a sack of potatoes. He threw him down and, as Alex tried to stand again, slapped him hard alongside the head, knocking him unconscious.
        Sonya got up.
        She was scared, but she was also furious.
        She had to stop him.
        But he was the one with a weapon.
        She looked around for Tina but could not, at first, catch sight of her. Then she saw that Peterson seemed to be running across the lawn without real direction, and she followed his intended path, where Tina sat in utter defeat, watching her assailant charge at her but unable to do anything to save herself. Though Peterson had not finished with the boy, he seemed maniacally determined to strike out at each of them first, as quickly as he could, no matter how great the risk that as he ran from one to the other, his first victim might escape.
        Sonya took a few steps toward Tina, then saw that she would never be able to reach the girl before Peterson did.

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    THIRTY-FIVE
        
        As he was closing the last half of the shutters over the window where he had kept his watch, Ken Blenwell caught a quick flash of movement by the edge of the palm trees and, though he was quick to attribute it to his imagination or to the storm, he pulled the shutter open part way again and had another look.
        A woman and two small children had come out of the trees and now stood at the edge of the lawn, leaning into the wind, filthy and soaked and obviously beaten. Though they were too far away for positive visual identification, he had no doubt that they were Sonya Carter and Alex and Tina Dougherty, even though it seemed impossible and unreasonable that they had come the length of Distingue, by foot, in the middle of the storm.
        They started toward Hawk House, trudging like refugees, huddled and dark and