Swan Song

by Robert R. McCammon

  “Thanks for the warning,” Sister said.

  “Oh, we didn’t come out here to warn you. We followed you to keep you from getting killed.” Robin climbed down the boulder, and the other boys did the same. They stood around the fire, warming their hands and faces. “It wasn’t hard. You left a trail that looked like a plow had gone through. Anyway, you forgot something.” He opened the other duffel bag, reached into it and brought out the second jug of moonshine that Hugh had given Paul. “Here.” He tossed it to Sister. “I think there’s enough left for everybody to have a swig.”

  There was, and the moonshine’s fire heated Sister’s belly. Robin sent the three boys out to stand guard around the camp. “The trick is to make a lot of noise,” Robin said after they’d gone. “They don’t want to shoot anything, because the blood would drive the other animals crazy out there.” He sat down beside the fire, pulled his hood back and took his gloves off. “If you want to sleep, Sister, you’d better do it now. We’ll have to relieve them on watch before light.”

  “Who put you in charge?”

  “I did.” The firelight threw shadows in the hollows of his face, glinted off the fine hairs of his beard. His long hair, still full of feathers and bones, made him look like a savage prince. “I’ve decided to help you get to Mary’s Rest.”

  “Why?” Paul asked. He was wary of the boy, didn’t trust him worth a damn. “What’s in it for you?”

  “Maybe I want some fresh air. Maybe I want to travel.” His gaze flicked toward Sister’s satchel. “Maybe I want to see if you find who you’re looking for. Anyway, I pay my debts. You people helped me with one of mine, and I owe you. So I’ll get you to Mary’s Rest in the morning, and we’ll call it even, right?”

  “Okay,” Sister agreed. “And thank you.”

  “Besides, if you two get killed tomorrow, I want the glass ring. You won’t be needing it.” He leaned against the boulder and closed his eyes. “You’d better sleep while you can.”

  A rifle shot echoed from the woods, followed by two more. Sister and Paul looked at each other uneasily, but the young highwayman lay motionless and undisturbed. The noise of rifle fire continued intermittently for another minute or so, followed by the angry shrieks of what sounded like several animals—but their cries were fading as they retreated. Paul reached for the moonshine jug to coax out the last drops, and Sister leaned back to contemplate tomorrow.

  63

  “FIRE! ... FIRE!”

  The bombs were falling again, the earth erupting into flames, humans burning like torches under a blood-red sky.

  “Fire! ... Somethin’s on fire!”

  Josh shook loose from his nightmare. He could hear a man’s voice shouting “Fire!” out in the street. At once he was on his feet and striding to the door; he threw it open, looked out and saw an orange glow reflected off the clouds. The street was empty, but Josh could hear the man’s voice off in the distance, raising the alarm: “Fire! Somethin’s on fire!”

  “What is it? What’s on fire?” Glory’s face was stricken as she peered out the door beside him. Aaron, who could not be separated from Crybaby, pushed between them to see.

  “I don’t know. What’s over in that direction?”

  “Nothin’,” she said. “Just the Pit, and—” She stopped suddenly, because both of them knew.

  The barn where Josh had left Mule was on fire.

  He pulled his boots on, put on his gloves and his heavy coat. Glory and Aaron raced to bundle up as well. Red embers burned in the stove’s grate, and Rusty was sitting up from his bed of rags; his eyes were still dazed, and cloth bandages were plastered to the side of his face and the wound at his shoulder. “Josh?” he said. “What’s goin’ on?”

  “The barn’s on fire! I locked the door, Rusty! Mule can’t get out!”

  Rusty stood up, but his legs were weak and he staggered against the wall. He felt like a deballed bull, and he was furious at himself. He tried again but still didn’t have the strength to even get his damned boots on.

  “No, Rusty!” Josh said. He motioned toward Swan, who lay on the floor under the thin blanket that Aaron had given up. “You stay with her!”

  Rusty knew he’d collapse before he got ten paces from the shack. He almost wept with frustration, but he knew also that Swan needed to be watched over. He nodded and sank down wearily to his knees.

  Aaron darted on ahead, and Josh and Glory followed as fast as they could. Josh found some of the speed he had once shown on the football field at Auburn University in making the two hundred yards between the shack and the barn. Other people were out in the street, running toward the fire as well—not because they wanted to extinguish it, but because they could get warm. Josh’s heart almost cracked; over the roar of flames that covered all but the structure’s roof, he could hear Mule’s frantic cries.

  Glory screamed, “Josh! No!” as he barreled at the barn door.

  Swan said something in a soft, delirious voice, but Rusty couldn’t make it out. She tried to sit up, and he put his hand on her shoulder to restrain her. Touching her was like putting his hand to the stove’s grate. “Hold on,” he said. “Easy now, just take it easy.”

  She spoke again, but her speech was unintelligible. He thought she said something about corn, though that was all he could even halfway understand. Now the remaining eyehole in the mask of growths was almost sealed over. She’d been fading in and out of consciousness since Josh had brought her in at daylight from the field, and she’d alternately shivered and thrashed free of the blanket. Glory had wound cloth bandages around Swan’s raw hands and tried to feed her some watery soup, but there wasn’t a thing any of them could do for her now except try to make her more comfortable. Swan was so far gone she didn’t even know where she was.

  She’s dying, Rusty thought. Dying right in front of me. He eased her back down again, and he heard her say something that might have included “Mule.”

  “It’s all right,” Rusty told her, his own swollen jaw making speech difficult. You just rest now, everythin’s gonna be all right in the mornin’.” He sure wished he could believe that. He’d come too far with Swan to watch her fade away like this, and he cursed his own weakness. He felt about as sturdy as a wet sponge, and his mama sure hadn’t raised him to live on rat meat soup. The only way he could get that stuff down was to pretend it came off the bones of little bitty steers.

  A loose board popped out on the shack’s porch, beyond the closed door.

  Rusty looked up. He expected either Glory, Aaron or Josh to enter—but how could that be? They’d just been gone a few minutes.

  The door did not open.

  Another board popped and whined.

  “Josh?” Rusty called.

  There was no reply.

  But he knew someone was standing out there. He was too familiar with the noise the loose boards made when stepped on, and he’d already sworn he was going to find a hammer and nails somewhere when he got his strength back and tighten those bastards down before they drove him batty.

  “Anybody there?” he called. He realized somebody might be coming to steal the few items Glory possessed: her needles, her cloth or even the furniture. Maybe the hand crank printing press that occupied a corner of the room. “I’ve got a gun in here!” he lied, and he rose to his feet.

  There was no more sound of movement beyond the door.

  He walked to it on unsteady legs. The door was unlatched.

  He reached for the latch and he sensed a terrible, gnawing cold on the other side of the door. A dirty cold. He started to slip the latch home.

  “Rusty,” he heard Swan rasp.

  The entire door suddenly crashed inward, tearing off its wooden hinges and catching him squarely on his bad shoulder. He cried out in pain as he was flung backward and to the floor halfway across the room. A figure stood in the doorway, and Rusty’s first impulse was to leap to his feet to protect Swan; he got as far as his knees before the agony of his reopened shoulder wound made him pitch forwa
rd on his face.

  The man walked in, a pair of muddy hiking boots clumping on the floor. His gaze swept the room, saw the wounded man lying in spreading blood, the thinner figure curled up and shivering, obviously near death. And there it was, over in the corner.

  The printing press.

  That wasn’t a good thing, he’d decided when the flies had brought him back images and voices from all over Mary’s Rest. No, not good at all! First you had a printing press, and then you had a newspaper, and after that you had opinions and people thinking and wanting to do things, and then ...

  And then, he thought, you were right back to the situation that had gotten the world where it was right now. Oh, no, not good at all! They had to be saved from making the same mistake twice. Had to be saved from themselves. And that was why he’d decided to destroy the printing press before anything was printed on it. That thing was as dangerous as a bomb, and they didn’t even realize it! And that horse was dangerous, too, he’d reasoned; a horse made people think about traveling, and wheels, and cars—and that led right up to air pollution and wrecks, didn’t it? They’d thank him for setting the barn on fire, because they could eat cooked horsemeat in just a little while.

  He was glad he’d come to Mary’s Rest. And just in time, too.

  He’d seen them come to town in their Travelin’ Show wagon, had heard that big one hollering for a doctor. Some people just had no respect for a quiet, peaceful town. Well ... respect was going to be taught. Right now.

  His boots clumped toward Swan.

  Josh hit the flaming barn door with the full force of two hundred and fifty pounds, Glory’s scream still ringing in his head.

  For a bone-jarring second he thought he was back on the football field and had run smack dab into one of those huge linebackers. He thought the door wasn’t going to give, but then wood split and the barn door caved in, carrying him into the midst of an inferno.

  He rolled away from burning timbers and got to his feet. Smoke churned before his face, and the awful heat almost crushed him. “Mule!” he shouted. He could hear the horse bucking and shrieking but couldn’t see him. Flames leaped at him like spears, and fire was starting to fall like orange confetti from the roof. He charged toward Mule’s stall, his coat beginning to smolder, and the smoke took him.

  “My, my,” the man said softly. He’d stopped just past the thin figure on the floor, his attention drawn to an object on the pine wood table. He reached out with a slender hand and picked up a mirror with two carved faces on its handle, each looking in a different direction. He intended to admire the new face he’d created, but the glass was dark. A finger traced the carved faces. What kind of mirror had a black glass? he wondered—and his new mouth twitched just a fraction.

  This mirror gave him the same sensation as the ring of glass. It was a thing that should not be. What was its purpose, and what was it doing here?

  He didn’t like it. Not at all. He lifted his arm and smashed the mirror to pieces against the table, and then he twisted the double-faced handle and flung it aside. Now he felt so much better.

  But there was another object on the table, too. A small leather pouch. He picked it up and shook its contents into his palm. A little kernel of corn, stained red with dried blood, fell out.

  “What is this?” he whispered. A few feet away, the figure on the floor quietly moaned. He gripped the kernel in his hand and slowly turned toward the sound, his eyes red and gleaming in the low firelight.

  His gaze lingered on the figure’s bandaged, clawed hands. A swirl of heat shimmered around the man’s right fist, and from within it there was a muffled pop. He opened his hand and pushed the bit of popcorn into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully on it.

  He’d seen this figure yesterday, after he’d watched their wagon being torn apart. Yesterday the hands had not been bandaged. Why were they bandaged now? Why?

  Across the room, Rusty lifted his head and tried to focus. He saw a tall, slender man in a brown parka approaching Swan. Saw him standing over her. Pain wracked him, and he was lying in a puddle of blood. Gonna pass out again, he knew. Gotta move ... gotta move ...

  He began crawling through his blood.

  His good eye almost blinded by the smoke, Josh saw a swirl of motion ahead. It was Mule—panicked, rearing and bucking, unable to find a way out. The blanket on his back was smoking, about to burst into flames.

  He ran to the horse and was almost trampled under Mule’s hooves as the horse frantically reared and came down again, twisting in one direction and then the other. Josh could only think of one thing to do: He lifted both hands in front of the horse’s muzzle and clapped them together as hard as he could, like he’d seen Swan do at the Jaspin farm.

  Whether the noise brought Swan to mind or just snapped his panic for a second, Mule stopped thrashing and stood steady, his eyes watering and wide with terror. Josh wasted no time; he grabbed Mule’s mane and pulled him out of the stall, trying to lead him to the door. Mule’s legs stiffened.

  “Come on, you dumb fool!” Josh yelled, the heat scorching his lungs. He planted his boots in burning straw, his joints cracking as he hauled Mule forward. Pieces of flaming wood fell from above, striking him on the shoulders and hitting Mule’s flanks. Cinders spun before his face like hornets.

  And then Mule must have gotten a whiff of outside air, because he lunged so fast Josh only had time to throw his arms around the horse’s neck. His boots were dragged across the floor as Mule powered through the flames.

  They burst through the opening where the barn door had been, out into the cold night air with sparks trailing from Josh’s burning coat and the flames in Mule’s mane and tail.

  The man in the brown parka stood looking at those bandaged hands. “What have y’all been up to while my back’s been turned?” he asked in a deep-South drawl. The printing press was forgotten for the moment. A mirror that showed no reflection, a single kernel of corn, bandaged hands ... those things bothered him, just like the glass ring did, because he didn’t understand them. And there was something else, too; something about the figure on the floor. What was it? This is a nothing, he thought. A less-than-zero. A piece of shit passing through the sewage pipe of Mary’s Rest.

  But why did he sense something different about this figure? Something ... threatening.

  He lifted his right hand. Heat shimmered around the fingers; one of them burst into flame, and the flame spread. In another few seconds his hand was a glove of fire.

  The solution to things he did not understand was very simple: Destroy it.

  He began to reach down toward the growth-encrusted head.

  “No.”

  It was a weak whisper. But the hand that clamped around the man’s ankle still had strength in it.

  The man in the brown parka looked at him incredulously, and by the light of the flaming hand Rusty saw his face: heavily seamed and weather-beaten, a thick gray beard, eyes that were so blue they were almost white. Touching the man sent freezing waves through Rusty’s bones, and he wanted more than anything on earth to draw his hand back, but the cold shocked his nerves and kept him from passing out. Rusty said, “No ... don’t you touch Swan, you bastard.”

  He saw the man smile faintly; it was a pitying smile, but then it passed the point of pity.

  The man reached down and clamped his burning hand to Rusty’s throat.

  And Rusty’s neck was encircled with a noose of fire. The man lifted him off the floor as Rusty screamed and kicked, and the fire pumped out of that hand and arm like napalm, sizzling Rusty’s hair and eyebrows. His clothes caught, and he realized at a cold center within his pain and panic that he was becoming a human torch— and that he had only seconds to live.

  And then after him, it would be Swan’s turn.

  Rusty’s body jerked and fought, but he knew he was finished. The smell of himself afire made him think of the greasy French fries at the Oklahoma state fair when he was a kid. The flame was going bone-deep now, and as his nerves began to sputte
r the pain locked up, as if a point of no return had been passed.

  Mama said somethin’, Rusty thought. Said ... said ...

  Mama said fight fire with fire.

  Rusty embraced the man with the burning sticks of his arms, entwining his fingers at the man’s back. The fingers melded like chains, and Rusty thrust his flaming face into the man’s beard.

  The beard caught fire. The face bubbled, melting and running like a plastic mask, exposing a deeper layer the color of modeling clay.

  Rusty and the man whirled around the room like participants in a bizarre ballet.

  “Lord God!” shouted one of two men who were looking in, drawn by the open doorway on their jaunt to the burning barn. “Lord God A’mighty!” The second man screamed, backed up and fell on his rump in the mud. Other people were running over to see what was happening, and the man in the burning rags of a brown parka could not thrust the flaming dead man away from him, and his new disguise was ruined, and they were about to see his true face.

  He gave a garbled roar that almost shook the cabin and ran through the doorway out into the midst of them. He was still roaring as he ran up the street on melting legs in the embrace of a charred cowboy.

  Glory helped Josh pull out of his burning coat. His ski mask was smoking, too, and before she could think twice about it, she reached up and yanked it off.

  Dark gray growths, some the size of Aaron’s fists, almost completely covered Josh’s face and head. Tendrils had interlocked around his mouth, and the only clear area except for his lips was a circle in the crust through which his left eye, now bloodshot from the smoke, stared at Glory. His condition wasn’t as bad as Swan’s, but it still made Glory gasp and retreat a step.

  He had no time to apologize for not being a beauty. He ran for Mule, who was bucking wildly as other onlookers scattered, and grabbed up a handful of snow; he clutched Mule’s neck and crushed out the flames in his mane. Then Glory had a handful of snow and was pressing it to the horse’s tail, and Aaron had some, too, and many of the other men and women were scooping up snow and rubbing it against Mule’s sides. A thin, dark-haired man with a blue keloid grabbed Mule’s neck opposite Josh, and after a minute of struggle they got the horse calmed down enough to stop bucking.