Swan Song (70 page)

Macklin didn’t answer for a moment. His gaze burned balefully at Roland. “The skylights,” he repeated. “The skylights. They’re on the roof. How do we get to the fucking roof? Fly?”

Laughter interrupted their argument. Alvin Mangrim was leaning against the crumpled hood of the red Cadillac. Steam hissed from the cracked radiator. Bullet holes pocked the metal, and rivulets of blood had leaked from the turret’s view slit. Mangrim grinned, his forehead gashed by metal splinters. “You want to get to that roof, Colonel? I can put you there.”

“How?”

He held up his hands and wiggled his fingers. “I used to be a carpenter,” he said. “Jesus was a carpenter. Jesus knew a lot about knives, too. That’s why they crucified him. When I was a carpenter, I used to build dog houses. Only they weren’t just ordinary old dog houses-oh, no! They were castles, like the knights used to live in. See, I used to read books about castles and shit like that, ’cause I wanted those dog houses to be real special. Some of those books said interesting things.”

“Like what?” Roland asked impatiently.

“Oh… like how to get to roofs.” He turned his attention to Colonel Macklin. “You get me some telephone poles, barbed wire and good sturdy lumber, and let me take a few of these wrecked cars apart. I’ll put you on that roof.”

“What are you planning on building?”

“Creating,” Mangrim corrected. “Only it’ll take me a white. I’ll need help-as many men as you can spare. If I can get the right parts, I can finish it in three or four days.”

“I asked you what you were planning on building.”

Mangrim shrugged and dug his hands into his pockets. “Why don’t we go to your trailer, and I’ll draw you a picture. Might be some spies hanging around here.”

Macklin’s gaze ran the length of the Savior’s fortress. He watched the scavengers shooting some of the wounded AOE soldiers, then stripping the bodies. He almost screamed with frustration.

“It’s not over,” he vowed. “It’s not over until I say it is.” And then he climbed down from the armored car and said to Alvin Mangrim, “Show me what you want to build.”

Seventy-Four - [True Faces]

“Yes,” Josh said. “I think we can build it back.” He felt Glory’s arm clinging to him, and she leaned her head against his shoulder.

He put his arm around her, and they stood together next to the burned-out ruins of the church. “We can do it,” he said. “Sure we can. I mean… it won’t be tomorrow, or next week… but we can do it. It probably won’t look like it used to, and it might be worse than it was-but it might be better, too.” He squeezed her gently. “Okay?”

She nodded. “Okay,” she said, without looking at him, and her voice was choked with emotion. Then she lifted her tear-streaked face. Her hand came up, and her fingers slowly moved across the surface of his Job’s Mask. “You’re… a beautiful man, Josh,” she said softly. “Even now. Even like this. Even if it never cracked open, you’d still be the most beautiful man I’ve ever known.”

“Oh, I’m not so hot. I never was. You should’ve seen me when I used to wrestle. Know what my name was? Black Frankenstein. I’d sure fit the bill now, wouldn’t I?”

“No. And I don’t think you ever did.” Her fingers traced the hard ridges and ravines, and then she let her hand drift down again. “I love you, Josh,” she said, and her voice trembled, but her copper-colored eyes were steady and true.

He started to reply, but he thought of Rose and the boys. It had been so long. So long. Were they wandering somewhere, searching for food and shelter, or were they ghosts that only lived in his memories? It was torture not knowing whether they were dead or alive, and as he looked into Glory’s face he realized he would probably never know. Would it be heartless and disloyal to cut out the hope that Rose and his sons might be alive-or was it just being realistic? But he was sure of one thing: He wanted to stay in the land of the living, instead of roaming the vaults of the dead.

He put his arms around Glory and held her tight. He could feel the sharpness of her bones through her coat, and he longed for the day when the harvest would be gathered.

He longed also to be able to see through both eyes, and to be able to breathe deeply again. He hoped his Job’s Mask would crack soon, like Sister’s had last night, but he was afraid as well. What would he look like? he wondered. What if it was the face of someone he didn’t even know? But for now he felt fine, not even a trace of fever. It was the only time in his life he’d ever wanted to be laid low.

Josh saw something lying on the ground in a frozen puddle about four feet away. His stomach clenched, and he said quietly, “Glory? Why don’t you go on back home now? I’ll be along in a few minutes.”

She pulled back, puzzled. “What is it?”

“Nothing. You just go on. I’m going to walk around for a little while and try to figure out how we can put this place back together.”

“I’ll stay with you.”

“No,” he said firmly. “Go home. I want to be by myself for a while. All right?”

“All right,” she agreed. She started back to the road, then turned to him again. “You don’t have to say you love me,” she told him. “It’s okay if you don’t. I just wanted you to know what I was feelin’.”

“I do,” he said, his voice strained and tight. Glory’s gaze lingered on him for a few more seconds, and then she started home.

When she was gone, Josh bent down and grasped what was lying in the puddle. The ice cracked as he pulled it free.

It was a piece of plaid wool, blotched with dark brown stains.

Josh knew what it was from.

Gene Scully’s coat.

He gripped the bloody cloth in his hand and straightened up. Tilting his head to one side, he searched the ground around him. Another fragment of plaid cloth lay a few feet away, deeper into the alley that ran alongside the ruins. He picked that one up, too, and then he saw a thud and a fourth fragment, both bloodstained, ahead of him. Little pieces of Gene Scully’s coat lay scattered like plaid snow all over the ground.

An animal got him, Josh thought. Whatever it was must have torn him to shreds.

But he knew no animal had gotten Gene Scully. It had been a different kind of beast, maybe masquerading as a cripple in a child’s red wagon, or as a black man with a silver tooth in the front of his mouth. Scully had either found the man with the scarlet eye-or had been found.

Go get help, Josh told himself. Go get Paul and Sister, and for God’s sake find a rifle! But he kept following the little bits of plaid coat as his heart pumped violently and his throat went dry. There was other trash on the ground, and as Josh went deeper into the alley a rat the size of a Persian cat waddled in front of him, gave him a beady-eyed glare and then squeezed into a hole. Josh heard little squeakings and rustlings all around him, and he knew this part of Mary’s Rest was infested with vermin.

He saw frozen splatters of blood on the ground. He followed them for about fifteen more feet and stopped at a circular piece of tin that lay up against the rough brick foundations of the ruined church. More frozen blood streaked the tin, and Josh could see other bits of shredded plaid around his boots. He put his foot against the piece of tin, which was about the size and shape of a manhole cover, drew a breath and slowly let it out. Then, abruptly, he shoved the tin aside and leaped back.

Exposed underneath it was a hole burrowed down below the church’s foundations. A cold, sour reek rose from it that made his flesh crawl.

Found you, was Josh’s first thought.

His second was: Get the hell out of here! Run, you flat-footed fool!

But he hesitated, staring at the hole.

There was no sound from within, no movement. It’s empty! Josh realized. He’s gone!

He took a tentative step toward the hole. Then a second, and a third. He stood over it, listening. Still no sound, no movement.

The lair was empty. The man with the scarlet eye had gone. After Swan had faced him down, he must have left Mary’s Rest. “Thank God!” Josh whispered.

There was a rustling behind him.

Josh whirled around, his arms up to ward off a blow.

A rat sat atop a cardboard box, baring its teeth. It began to squeal and chatter like an irate landlord.

Josh said, “Be quiet, you little bas-”

Two hands-one black, one white-shot out of the hole and grasped Josh’s ankles, jerking him off his feet. Josh had no time to cry out before he slammed to the ground, the air whooshing from his lungs. Dazed, he tried to scrabble free, tried to dig his fingers into the frozen earth around the hole, but the hands gripped his ankles like iron bands and began to draw him into the depths.

Josh was halfway into the hole before he fully registered what had happened. He started fighting, thrashing and kicking, but the fingers only tightened. He smelled burning cloth, twisted his body and saw blue flames dancing over the man’s hands. Josh’s skin was beginning to scorch, and he felt the man’s hands wet and oozing like wax gloves melting.

But in the next second the flames weakened and went out. The man’s hands were freezing cold again, and they yanked Josh down into darkness.

The hands left his ankles. Josh kicked, felt his left boot connect. A cold, heavy form fell on him-more like a sack of ice than a body. But the knee that pressed against his throat was solid enough, trying to crush his windpipe. Blows that almost broke his bones smashed into his shoulders, chest and rib cage. He got his hands up around a clammy throat and dug his fingers into what felt like cold putty. The thing’s fists pounded his head and face but couldn’t inflict damage through the Job’s Mask. Josh’s brain was rattled in his skull, and he was close to passing out. He knew he had two choices: fight like hell or die.

He struck out with his right fist, his knuckles flattening against the angular line of a jawbone, and instantly he brought his left fist around to crash it into the man’s temple. There was a grunt-more of surprise than of pain-and the weight was off Josh. He struggled to his knees, his lungs dragging in air.

A freezing arm snaked around his throat from behind. Josh reached back, grabbed the fingers and twisted them at a vicious angle; but what had been bones a second before was now like coathanger wire-it would bend but would not break. With sheer strength, Josh lifted himself up from the floor and hurled himself backward, catching the man with the scarlet eye between himself and the church’s foundation wall of rough bricks. The freezing arm slithered away, and Josh tried to scurry out of the hole.

He was caught and hauled down again, and as they fought in the dark like animals Josh saw the man’s hands flicker, about to burst into flames-but they wouldn’t catch, as if something had gone haywire with his ignition switch. Josh smelled an odor halfway between a struck match and a melting candle. But he kicked into the man’s stomach and knocked him back. As Josh got to his feet again a blow hammered across his shoulder, almost dislocating his arm, and flung him onto his face in the dirt.

Josh twisted around to face him, his mouth bleeding and his strength running out fast. He saw the flicker of fire, and then both the man’s hands grew flame again. By their blue light, he could see the man’s face-a nightmare mask, and in it a gibbering, elastic mouth that spat dead flies like broken teeth.

The flaming hands came toward Josh’s face, and suddenly one of them sputtered and went out like a live coal doused with water. The other hand began to burn out as well, little tongues of fire rippling along the fingers.

Something lay beside Josh in the dirt. He saw a bloody pile of flesh and twisted bones, and around it a number of coats, pairs of pants, sweaters, shoes and hats. Nearby was a child’s red wagon.

Josh looked back at the man with the scarlet eye, who had also been Mr. Welcome. The burning hand was almost extinguished, and the man stared at the dying flame with eyes that in a human face might have been called insane.

He’s not as strong as before, Josh realized.

And Josh lunged for the wagon, picked it up and smashed it into the thing’s face.

There was a unholy bellow. The last of the flame went out as the man staggered back. Josh saw gray light and crawled for the hole.

He was about three feet from it when the crumpled red wagon was slammed down across the back of his head. Josh had a second to remember being thrown from a ring in Gainesville, and how it felt to hit a concrete floor, and then he lay still.

He awakened-how much later it was he didn’t know-to the sound of high-pitched giggling. He couldn’t move, and he thought every bone in his body must have snapped.

The giggling was coming from ten or fifteen feet away. It faded out, replaced by a snorting noise that became a language of some kind-German, Josh thought it might be. He made out fragments of other tongues-Chinese, French, Danish, Spanish and more dialects that tumbled out one after the other. Then the harsh, awful voice began to speak in English, with a deep Southern drawl: “Always walked alone… always walked alone… always… always…”

Josh mentally explored his body, probing to find out what worked and what didn’t. His right hand felt dead, maybe broken. Bands of pain throbbed at his ribs and across his shoulders. But he knew he’d been lucky; the blow he’d just survived might have crushed his skull if the Job’s Mask hadn’t been so thick.

The voice changed, skittering into a singsong dialect Josh couldn’t understand, then returned to English with a flat Midwestern accent: “The bitch… the bitch… she’ll die… but not by my hand… oh, no… not by my hand…”

Josh slowly tried to turn his head. Pain shot through his spine, but his neck still worked. He gradually got his head turned toward the raving thing crouched in the dirt on the other side of the lair.

The man with the scarlet eye was staring at his right hand, where weak blue flames popped along the fingers. The man’s face was hung between masks. Fine blond hair mingled with coarse black, one eye was blue and the other brown, one cheekbone sharp and the other sunken. “Not by my hand,” he said. “I’ll make them do it.” His chin lengthened, sprouted a black stubble that turned into a red beard within seconds and just as quickly disappeared again into the writhing matter of his face. “I’ll find a way to make them do it.”

The man’s hand trembled, began to curl into a tight fist, and the little blue flames went out.

Josh gritted his teeth and started crawling for the gray light at the top of the hole-slowly and painfully, an inch at a time. He stiffened when he heard the man’s voice again, singing in a whisper, “Here we go ’round the mulberry bush, mulberry bush, mulberry bush; here we go ’round the mulberry bush, so early in the…” It trailed off into muttered gibberish.

Josh pushed himself forward. Closer to the hole. Closer.

“Run,” the man with the scarlet eye said, in a thin and weary voice. Josh’s heart pounded, because he knew the monster was speaking to him in the darkness. “Go on. Run. Tell her I’ll make a human hand do the work. Tell her… tell her…”

Josh crawled upward toward the light.

“Tell her… I’ve always walked alone.”

And then Josh pulled himself out of the hole, quickly drawing his legs up after him. His ribs were killing him, and he was fighting to stay conscious, but he knew he had to get away or he was dead meat.

He kept crawling as rats scurried around him. A bitter cold had leeched to his bones, and he expected and dreaded the grip of the man with the scarlet eye, but it didn’t come. Josh realized his life had been spared-either because the man with the scarlet eye was weakened, or because he was worn out, or because he wanted a message sent to Swan.