The Clearing by Dan Newman Page A

figure of a large man. He was bathed in perfect black on a background of almost black, and the effect on Nate’s eyes was an illusion where the silhouette appeared and disappeared with every blink and twist of his head.
    Finally the figure moved, just a tiny adjustment of balance, but enough for Nate’s brain to solve the puzzle. The figure came into sharp and sudden focus, and an instant later Nate’s conscious mind understood the gravity of the situation. The shadow raised its left arm, and light from the square glinted once across a broad blade in its hand; it was the trigger Nate needed to move.
    He lurched left on the bed, rolling once across the floral bedspread, just in time to hear a heavy grunt from the intruder and the muted thwap of something driven hard into the bedding.
    â€œHelp!” shrieked Nate as he struggled to find his feet at the side of the bed. “Help!” His hands went instinctively to the bedside table for something to defend himself with, and he launched the first thing he touched at the shadow with as much force as he could muster. The clock radio missed the target, but forced the man to duck, buying Nate a precious few seconds to reload. Next he threw the lamp, but the cord pulled taut in mid-air and brought the lamp up short, as if striking an invisible force field around his assailant. It fell vainly onto the bed and Nate shrieked again, this time something less comprehensible, more primal – it was half yell, half scream.
    In the light from the window he saw the blade flash again, long and broad like a swashbuckler’s cutlass, and the figure made a sudden move around the edge of the bed toward Nate. Like a kid at a sleepover, Nate bounded over the bed, scampering across the sheets with an agility that he’d not seen in himself in years. The bed moved suddenly and the man with the blade grunted as his knee drove solidly into the steel frame. It took the air out of his advance. The figure paused, uncertain and undecided, until he suddenly turned and bolted to the door. He heaved it open and darted through it in one motion, and ran headlong into the door on the opposite side of the corridor. He recovered quickly, and was out of sight in seconds.
    Nate stood in the shadows, stunned and in disbelief. He stared at the open door, and his eyes were drawn to the green glow of the clock radio sitting against the wall near the closet. Miraculously it was still showing the time – 3.37 in the morning – and Nate could not understand why no one had come to see what was going on in his room. Surely they would have heard his cries for help? Someone would have called the front desk, even if they didn’t want to come out and see what bloody murder was being committed themselves...
    At last he moved to the door, watching as the light from the hotel corridor poured into his room and painted a perfect rectangle of light on the floor. At the opening he paused, half expecting the intruder to be waiting in the hall, then cautiously Nate pushed his head through.
    It hit him hard in the chest, drove him back into the room and sent him sprawling onto the floor. The man followed through with his full weight and landed squarely on top of Nate, and it was three or four full seconds until Nate realised his attacker had indeed been waiting outside his door.
    Nate screamed, but nothing came out; there was no air in his lungs, driven out by the force of the blow he had taken at the doorway. He struggled to breathe, but the combination of having the wind knocked out of him and the weight of the big man made it entirely impossible. Instead he thrashed as best he could, but the intruder was large and powerful, and soon Nate was almost entirely immobilised by his attacker. Understanding that it was hopeless, Nate stopped moving and looked, for the first time, at the man who was clearly going to kill him.
    The man was dressed entirely in black, his face covered with a balaclava that left