“He’s a loose cannon,” Dillon admitted.
“We may need to take care of him,” said Okoya.
Dillon waved it off. “Yeah, yeah—I’ll take care of everybody.”
“No,” said Okoya. “That’s not what I mean.”
Dillon stood, finding an unexpected seriousness in Okoya’s face that he couldn’t decipher. Then Dillon burst out laughing. “Very good! You had me going there. And I thought you didn’t have a sense of humor!”
Okoya laughed too, dismissing his own grave expression.
“Ruling the world is easy,” said Okoya. “Comedy’s hard.”
They chuckled a few moments more, then Okoya became pensive. Reflective.
“You remind me of someone I once knew in the Greek Isles. He was a lot like you at your age—although not nearly as gifted.”
“The Greek Isles?”
“Just because I came from a reservation, it doesn’t mean I haven’t traveled.”
Dillon took a pointedly invasive look at Okoya, to once again divine the source of his worldliness—but all he found were the simple patterns of a rural life. But that was somehow untrue. It was merely a facade, someone else he was hiding behind.
“Who are you, Okoya?”
The expression on Okoya’s face changed then, becoming open and unambiguous. “I’m someone who wants to put the world in the palm of your hand.”
Okoya left, and as night fell, Dillon found himself still transfixed by the view, eerily lit by a rising blood moon.
He resolved to remain there till dawn, preparing his mind for the task at hand. Meditating on himself, Dillon thought of the network of connections already spreading forth, linking Dillon and the Shards with signs and wonders in millions of people’s minds, as they turned on their evening news. Tomorrow those numbers would flare, as the world became witnesses to the impossible—a miraculous wake-up call too huge to deny.
Forty-five days from now, there would be no doubters. That day would see an end to war, disease, and despair. There would never be another Shiprock Massacre—he would see to that. His binding strength would be a protective sheath around the world.
He looked again to the view before him. Lake Mead stretched to a rocky shore, and before it, the concrete expanse of Hoover Dam arced across a deep ravine, holding in the lake.
Dillon smiled.
Tomorrow this troubled, crumbling world would believe in miracles.
19. BLIND RUN
* * *
DREW CAMDEN WAS NO SLEUTH. CONSTANTLY DISTRACTED and uncharacteristically clumsy, he was poorly suited to spy on Okoya. However, the carrot Michael had hung in front of him was powerful motivation.
He positioned his bedroll in view of Okoya’s tent, into which the mysterious Indian had retreated after dinner. For hours he listened to irritating songs around the campfires, and heard stories. Storytellers were emerging in this new order, weaving lofty dramas about the Shards that had no basis in fact whatsoever: how the Shards were ancient and ageless; how their semblance of youth was only a guise. Drew didn’t bother to contradict them.
Other followers had been assigned the task of receiving new arrivals, who drifted in from the Boulder Highway in a steady osmotic flow. By two in the morning, most everyone but the posted watch had settled down.
The night was much colder than it should have been, and the sky up above was punctuated by a brilliant spray of stars. If Michael and the others were illuminated with the fragmented soul of a star, Drew wondered as he lay there, what did that make him? What did that make everyone else? Tiny, insignificant smithereens? He wondered how long until the shards would find people too small for their attention.
Well, thought Drew, better take my share of favors now, before Michael’s pedestal gets too high.
There was a flap of fabric, and Drew rolled over to see Okoya step from his tent. Drew slipped out of his sleeping bag and followed, taking his video-cam with him. He kept his distance as Okoya strolled among the sleeping campers. There seemed to be no destination; he merely meandered, glancing from face to face of the ones who slept beneath the open air—as if looking for someone.
Finally, Okoya stopped by a clutch of sleeping bags behind a larger tent, out of view from everyone else.
Drew watched as Okoya knelt, then put a hand behind a sleeping woman’s neck, and tilted her head slightly back, as if he were about to resuscitate her. Then, the space between Okoya and the woman arced with a wave of soft, crimson light that lit their faces for a few moments, then faded.
The woman rolled over, and pulled her sleeping bag up to her shoulders, never waking up. Okoya moved to the man beside her, repeating the same procedure.
Drew wasn’t sure what he was witnessing—but he did know that he must have hit the jackpot. Whatever this was, it was information for Michael—and that meant Michael had to make good on his promise.
Okoya moved on to a third camper.
All it would take to clinch this would be a video! The light created by Okoya’s strange encounters would create enough of an image to see. Drew quietly raised the camera to his eyes, slid his thumb over the red button and pressed it.
The machine beeped twice as it went from standby to record . . . . And in the silence, those two tones might as well have been the chimes of Big Ben. The glow died suddenly, and Okoya’s head turned as smoothly as an owl’s, directly to Drew.
Drew suddenly felt like a small rodent caught in Okoya’s owlish gaze, and he bolted. Tripping over campers, barreling into tents, he tried to make it to where the Shards slept.
“Michael,” he called. “Michael, help me!” But he realized that he had lost his sense of direction in the large circle of buses, and didn’t know where he was. Whichever way he turned, Okoya was behind him. There was a narrow space between two buses, and Drew raced for it. Regardless of what had changed in his heart, head, and character, he still had the body of a runner, and flight was now the only defense he had.
He burst through the circle of buses, escaping into the open desert beyond—his legs churning as he fixed on glowing lights just over the jagged hills . . . .
MICHAEL, TORY, LOURDES, AND Winston slept beneath a large canopy set against their bus. The ground was covered with tapestries torn from the walls of San Simeon, and they slept on beds taken from the castle as well.
As the night scraped along, Tory lay awake, plagued by Winston’s words.
“Big deal. Dillon would have brought me back.”
Did that make it acceptable, then, to take his life? Did murder suddenly have no meaning? No consequence?
“Big deal.”
She thought back to that first moment she and Winston had found Okoya sitting beside them in the coffee shop. That wasn’t a chance meeting, was it? Somehow Okoya had known who they were—and now she realized that Okoya was using them . . . but toward what end? She sat up in bed, throwing off the covers, and let the frosty night chill her bones, because comfort was now an enemy. It had kept her complacent for far too long.
Michael slept in another bed a few feet away, wrapped in several dense quilts, yet she could hear his teeth chattering. Tory realized that it was his own cold that filled the night air.
“Michael?”
She went over to him and peeled the covers away from his face. He was awake, and looked awful, as if the life had been drained out of him.
“Michael, what’s wrong? Are you sick?” And then it occurred to her that he couldn’t be sick. None of them could.
“Hungry,” Michael rasped out.
“I’ll get you something to eat.”
But he grabbed her arm before she could leave. “No,” he said. “Not that kind of hunger.”
She met his eyes, and she knew what he meant. Although there was a loud part of her mind that was screaming denial, she forced herself to listen to a quieter voice within herself, that told her what she had been afraid to hear. “This is about Okoya, isn’t it?”
Michael gritted his teeth to keep them from c
hattering. “Listen to me, Tory: A year ago, when we killed our parasites, we thought we came away unhurt—but we were wrong. Those things left holes in us that we didn’t know how to fill. So we invited Okoya into our lives to fill them for us, plugging up those holes.”
“With what?”
“I don’t know . . . but it’s in the music and perfumes. It’s in the words Winston reads, and the food Lourdes eats.”
He’s delirious, Tory thought. He has to be. . . . But her voice of denial was losing its bite in the face of what Michael said. How many mornings had she woken up to luxuriate in a hot bath scented with oils Okoya had supplied? It would whet her appetite for every indulgence the day had to offer. And when she was hungry, it was no longer food she desired, but the charged aroma of purity Okoya was more than happy to provide. Tory had heard of holy men who never ate, and who were said to draw their sustenance from the air itself. Was this transcendental appetite part of the Shards’ curious physiology? And if so, what had they been dining on?
“You did the right thing when you left the bus this afternoon,” Tory told Michael. “Okoya is . . . I don’t know what Okoya is—but she’s not our friend. It’s not our friend.”
Michael rolled over in bed then, and Tory caught sight of his face—pale and wan—just as it was a year before when his soul had harbored the blue-flamed beast.
Okoya is like that beast, thought Tory, but different. Not a parasite, but a predator—which is far more dangerous.
She took his hands into hers and tried to warm them but it did no good. “Are you going to be all right?”
“Sing to me, Tory,” he whispered. “Something bright. Something warm.”
And so she slipped beneath the covers with him, holding him to share her warmth, and with her lips to his ear she began to gently sing. She sang to him until she could feel the slightest warmth begin to return to his fingers, and the sting of chill begin to leave the night air. Perhaps it lacked the feeding emotional flood of Okoya’s music, but it was something.
“We have to find Dillon and warn him about Okoya,” Tory told him.
Just then came the clattering sound of tent stakes flying and the tearing of nylon.
“Michael! Michael, help me!” yelled a far-off voice.
There was a commotion way across the campsite—the shouts of people suddenly woken as someone crashed over them.
“Oh no!” said Michael. “It’s Drew!”
He heaved himself out of bed, finding the strength to walk. Tory led the way, pulling Michael along with her.
“I told him to watch Okoya—to find out what he was up to.”
They crashed over the debris of overturned tents, until they came out of the circle of buses. About twenty yards out, was a red blinking light. They ran toward it, to find Drew’s video camera lying in the sand.
In the distance, two figures sprinted across the desert, one in pursuit of the other.
“We’ll never catch them,” said Michael, but even so, he threw his legs out before him, running as best he could.
“Let me help you.” Tory put her arm around his waist and threw her weight into his stride. Together they forged toward the lights of Hoover Dam.
OKOYA’S WILL WAS MORE powerful than anyone’s on Earth—but there were limitations to his stolen human body. Although he drove that body to pursue Drew Camden, Drew was a fast runner, and Okoya could not overtake him—but he did not lose sight of him, either. He pursued Drew past the jagged hills—where Dillon slept alone that night, dreaming of greatness—until he reached the two-lane highway that rode along the ridge of Hoover Dam. Drew was already at the dam, in a panic. Under the bright spotlights, he tried to flag down help, but traffic was sparse this time of night—and what few cars came his way, had no intention of stopping for a lunatic waving his arms in the middle of the road.
Okoya ran onto the dam’s paved rim at full speed, as Drew hurried to a metal doorway and pounded on it—but it would not give. However, a guard farther away had seen him, and crossed the road toward Drew. Okoya picked up his speed to intercept.
“What’s this all about?” said the guard, obviously thinking he could get this situation under control.
“He’s trying to kill me!” screamed Drew.
“Hold on, son,” said the guard. “No one’s going to—”
Okoya reached them, and wasted no time. He took the guard out with a single punch to his Adam’s apple. The guard crumpled, and Drew took off again, climbing the waist-high stone guardrail on the canyon side of the dam. Drew balanced himself precariously, as Okoya grabbed for his feet. Then Drew leapt—disappearing over the edge.
It was almost eight hundred feet to the bottom of Black Canyon, and Okoya was sure that Drew had taken his own life, saving Okoya the trouble . . . until Okoya climbed the guardrail, and saw Drew heading down a narrow flight of metal stairs leading to a catwalk that hugged the dam’s curved face. Okoya resumed his pursuit. Down below, Drew reached a rusted metal door in the middle of the massive face of the dam—it was where the catwalk ended. Okoya practically glided down the steps toward him as Drew kicked the door again, and again, until its rusted lock gave way, and the door burst inward into darkness.
Okoya frowned. Luck had no business being with this boy tonight, and Okoya resolved to make Drew’s end doubly cruel because of it. Okoya followed him into the narrow concrete-lined access corridor. Its walls were wet with seepage and there were no lights in the tight, claustrophobic space. The distant vibrations of the power plant down below made it impossible for Okoya to hear Drew’s footsteps. He knew Drew would head toward the power plant, where there would be night workers to hide behind.
Fine, thought Okoya. See how he does in the dark.
Okoya strode forward, confident within the blindness . . . . For darkness was not a stumbling block to the Bringer, but a comfort, and a reminder of home.
MICHAEL AND TORY ARRIVED at the dam five minutes behind them, and as they reached the road, they saw Drew and Okoya immediately. Their moving figures on the catwalk stood out across the halogen-lit face of the dam. Tory was about to race toward them, but Michael grabbed her hand.
“No,” he said. “This way.” And he thanked God for the fact that his father was a heavy gambler, for he had dragged Michael to Las Vegas countless times as a child, and had visited Hoover Dam more than once. He remembered enough to know that the best way into the dam wasn’t through the dam itself, but through an elevator shaft in the adjacent Visitors Center, that descended 520 feet into the bedrock of the canyon.
They broke out a window of the Visitors Center, climbed through, quickly found an elevator, and began a long drop into the bowels of the Earth.
DREW RACED BLINDLY THROUGH the black corridors, smashing into walls, his hands out in front of him. He tumbled down a staircase, slipped down some sort of spillway, then plummeted through a shaft that deposited him in an unseen, foul-smelling muck. With hands stretched before him, he groped forward until finding a hint of light, which led him to yet another stairway heading down.
Finally, Drew came flying out through an open gate and landed with a metallic clang against a platform that hung above the massive, moaning turbines of the great power plant. He could hear the rush of water, as Lake Mead once again became the Colorado River, surging through the powerful turbines, generating electricity. As he had hoped, there were workers down there—enough to protect him. Even if they didn’t believe a word of his story, at least he would be safe.
He made a move to head down the ladder, when he was grabbed from behind. He turned, and Okoya gripped Drew by his shirt, lifting him up, and held him out over the platform railing. Drew screamed, trying to draw the attention of anyone down below, but the drone of the generators was just too loud for him to be heard. Now the only thing keeping Drew from falling to his death was Okoya’s angry grip.
“Please!” begged Drew. “I’ll do anything, anything! I won’t tell anyone what I saw. I’ll spy on Michael and the others for you—would
you like that? Just please, please don’t hurt me!”
“Your cowardice disgusts me.”
Drew was certain that Okoya would release his grip and let him die a painful, coward’s death. But instead, something else happened.
Red tendrils lashed out from Okoya’s eyes, gripping something deep within Drew . . . tearing it from him . . . and in that moment, Drew Camden ceased to exist.
MICHAEL AND TORY ARRIVED just in time to see it happen, and there was nothing they could do.
“Put him down!” screamed Michael. The soulless Drew still squirmed in panic in Okoya’s grip, his legs dangling out over the generator floor fifty feet below.
“Thank goodness you’re here!” said Okoya. “He’s a traitor! He tried to sabotage Dillon’s plan.” He lifted Drew back over the railing, and dropped him on the platform. Drew scrambled away to a safe corner behind Michael and Tory.
“Stop the lies,” Tory said. “We know what you are.”
Okoya then flashed them his superior grin. “Do you?”
“I’ve seen the soulless shells you leave behind,” Michael said, taking a step closer. His legs shook, and his muscles felt as if they’d been flayed, but he forced himself to stand firm against Okoya.
Okoya dropped all pretenses then. “Your kind dines on flesh,” he said; “mine dines on spirit. Are we all that different?”
“We’re nothing like you,” growled Michael.
“Are you so sure?” Okoya got a radar fix on Michael’s eyes, as he had done so many times before. “You, Tory, and the others have now risen to the top of the food chain . . . just like me.” He looked at Tory. “Feeling hungry, Tory? Feeling dirty? You’ve grown beyond the need for normal food—you know that, don’t you?”
Tory took a shuddering step back.
“And what about you, Michael? There’s no strength left in you at all. I can give you what you hunger for—the food of the gods—if you’re willing to admit to yourself how much you desire it.”
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