Carolyn was in a generous mood. She touched Erwin on the shoulder, spoke in English. “Not yet.” Then, in Pelapi, to Margaret. “Sure. Why not?”
“Do you remember the way David died? The first time?”
“Yeah. But Margaret, I wouldn’t—”
“I would like to go home that way. Through the bull. The way David went.”
Carolyn squinted at her, unsure if she had heard right. “Can you say that again?”
“I would like to be roasted in the bull. Father said it would be my final lesson. I believe that I am ready.”
“Margaret…why would you possibly want such a thing?”
“You don’t know?” She sounded disappointed.
“No. I really don’t.”
“David never understood either. I wanted to hear him, you know, but…he couldn’t get through. Not anymore. Not for a long time. But you and I are sisters, it seems. So perhaps…” Margaret frowned at her, searching for words. “I’m very far now. Far from all of you, far from myself. I am in the outer darkness, you see.” She blinked, imploring. “I have wandered for so very long. You understand this much?”
Carolyn gave a small nod. “I do.”
“I often think of the bull, though. Do you think of the bull?”
“Sometimes.”
“You remember how it glowed? How the fire made it orange, under the moon, and David sang?”
Carolyn’s mouth was dry. “I remember.”
“If someone were to light a fire like that for me…I think I might feel it. Even here in the outer darkness, I might feel it. And…if it were bright enough, and burned very long…perhaps I could follow it back.” Margaret, pale and atrocious, aged about thirty, gave a wistful smile. “Back to myself, you see. I might even have a song called out of me. I think there might be one left to call.” She looked to Carolyn with the ghost of hope dancing in her eyes. “Just one. That’s all I ask. Do you think? Perhaps?”
“Yes,” Carolyn said quietly. “Perhaps.”
“You’ll do it then?”
They looked at each other. Maggots squirmed in Margaret’s hair. When we were children, she had the best toys, Carolyn thought. Pretty little dolls. She let me borrow them sometimes. “Yes. If that’s what you want.” Then, in English: “Erwin, put the gun away. New plan. Margaret has a last request.”
“I ain’t shooting her?”
“No. That’s not insane enough, apparently.”
The muscles at Erwin’s temples jumped. “What, then?”
“It’s easier to show you. There should be a wheelbarrow in that garage over there. Can you and Steve grab it for me? And some stove lengths, from the wood pile in back? We’ll meet you at the top of the hill.”
Erwin eyed her. “Ah-ite.” He uncocked his pistol and put the safety on. After a moment’s hesitation, he held it out to Carolyn, butt first. “Wanna borrow this?”
Margaret boinged up and down on the balls of her feet like a small child at a candy counter.
“Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll need it.”
—
THE DEAD ONES polished the bull every few days. Even under the faint light of the distant streetlamp it had a certain glow.
Fifteen minutes later, sweating, Erwin dragged the wheelbarrow up the last of the railroad-tie stairs cut into the bluff. His cart was full of knotty pine, dry and sticky with sap. He set it down next to the bull and wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Then, rapping his knuckles against the bronze, “What’s this thing?”
“That,” Carolyn said, “is the worst barbecue grill in the world.”
Margaret hadn’t been able to wait. She was lugging logs from the wood pile by hand, her small body bent under the load. She carried them to the bull two at a time and arranged them just-so. Seeing Erwin’s mound of pine, she smiled.
“We having a cookout?” Erwin sounded suspicious and…something else.
Hearing his voice, Carolyn thought of the diamond pattern of rattlesnake scales, almost but not quite hidden under autumn leaves. She considered sending him away. He’s not David, but he’s not nothing, either. “Not exactly. It’s…something we do. Sort of a ritual.”
Erwin’s right hand drifted to his left shoulder, rubbed it. There was, she knew, a number 4 branded there. Everyone in his unit had gotten them in Afghanistan. Erwin would understand about ritual.
Margaret dropped her armload of broken limbs. She flashed Erwin a greedy smile and plucked a split log from his wheelbarrow.
Erwin considered this. “Yeah. OK. Want me to lug summa that wood?”
“Sure. That’d be great.”
The four of them settled into a rhythm, Steve and Erwin filling the cart, Erwin pushing and dumping it. Carolyn was supposed to be helping Margaret, but Margaret had some theoretically optimal vision of a wood pile in her mind, and she kept slapping Carolyn’s hand away.
After twenty minutes or so, Margaret stepped back and looked at the pile. “This is enough.”
“Margaret, are you sure you—”
“Yes. Any higher and it will be over too soon.” Margaret took hold of the hatch, but she was a slight woman. The tendons in her neck stood out as she strained to open it, but the most she could manage was a couple of inches. Carolyn walked over to help. Together they raised it past the tipping point. The thick bronze clanged against the bull’s back. “Are you sure this is what you want?”
“Oh yes.” Her voice was eager.
Carolyn spoke to Erwin in English. “Can you give her a hand up?”
“What?”
“Part of the ritual.”
“Uh-huh.” Erwin squinted at Carolyn, suspicious, then at Margaret. Margaret nodded, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Erwin knelt and made a sling out of his hands. Margaret lifted one bare, dirty foot, then hesitated. “Here,” she said, and held out her Zippo to Carolyn. “For you.”
Carolyn didn’t want to touch the thing. “It’s OK. I’ve got my own.”
“Take it.”
“Really, I—”
“Take it. You’ll need it sooner or later.” Margaret smiled. Her teeth were black. “You’re like me now.”
Carolyn felt a little squirt of horror at that but squelched it. Just get this over with. She took the lighter with two fingers, touching it as little as possible.
Margaret scrambled into the bull.
“I don’t understand,” Steve said.
“I don’t either. Not really. But this is what she wants.”
Margaret’s eyes shone wide and white against the black grease inside—excited, but not wanting to hope for too much.
“She wasn’t always like this,” Carolyn said. “When we were little she…she had a really big dollhouse. We’d play, sometimes.” She sighed. “Can one of you give me a hand with the hatch?”
“What are you doing?” Erwin asked. But he knew. He was American, not stupid.
“What does it look like? Give me a hand.”
“Yeah, um, no. I can’t let you do that,” Erwin said.
Carolyn sighed, exasperated. Maybe Steve could help? No. Just push. You can do this.
“You wanna put her down, that’s fine. I’ll shoot her myself. But you can’t burn her. ’Tain’t right to do that to a person.” Erwin glared at her. “Smart lady like you oughtta know that.”
“I’m with Erwin on this one,” Steve said.
Carolyn frowned, tapped her teeth with her fingernail. “If you guys don’t want to be involved, that’s fine. I don’t blame you. Help me with the hatch and I’ll meet you by the gate.”
“I can’t let you do that,” Erwin said again.
Carolyn turned to him. She spoke gently, as if explaining something to a small child. “Erwin…this isn’t a negotiation. There’s no ‘let.’ Are you going to help or not?”
Erwin didn’t move.
Carolyn rolled her eyes, then turned back to the bull. She strained against the lid, arms quivering with effort. She didn’t quite lift it past the tipping poi
nt before her strength failed. The hatch fell back open with a clang, deafeningly loud. The sound rolled out over Garrison Oaks like a gong. Down in the neighborhood, doors began to open. She heard one of the dead ones call out, saying, “Here you dogs! Get out of that trash.” But its voice was uneasy.
Behind her, there was a tiny click as Erwin thumbed off the safety of his pistol. “I can’t let you do that,” he repeated.
She heard a low, bass rumbling. It was still distant, but it was closing fast. “Put down the pistol, Erwin.”
“I’m thinking no,” Erwin said.
Naga looked up at the sky and roared. Down in the neighborhood the dogs had come out to join the dead ones. At the sound of Naga’s voice, a couple of them barked. One of the dead ones called out, “Heeeere kitty-kitty.”
All of a sudden the night was very bright, very loud. A low-flying helicopter came around the curve of the ridge line. It had a search light, hot and white. Stubby wings on the side bristled with bombs, missiles, guns.
“What is that?” Carolyn called out, shouting to be heard above the rotors.
“AH 64,” Erwin said. “Apache gunship.”
A moment later a second helicopter appeared as well. The two of them hovered over the clearing of the bull, searchlights blazing. The air filled with pine straw, dirt, leaves, small twigs. The light was painfully bright.
Margaret peeped out of the bull to see what was happening. She said something, too soft for Carolyn to hear, then lay back down inside.
“What are they doing?” Steve asked.
One of the helicopters had a PA system. “SET DOWN YOUR WEAPONS. SET DOWN YOUR WEAPONS AND STEP AWAY FROM THE DOG.”
Naga roared again. Steve patted her shoulder. “She’s not a dog!” Naga brushed Steve’s waist with her shoulders and swished her tail, grateful. Carolyn smiled. They really do get on well together.
“They’re looking for me, I ’spect.” Erwin set his pistol down and waved at the pilots. Then, yelling over the rotor wash, “That’s a M230 chain gun. Thirty-millimeter rounds.” He held his fingers apart to illustrate. “I saw a guy get hit in the chest with one of them. All that was left was his legs.”
“Tell them to go away,” Carolyn said.
“Can’t. No radio. They wouldn’t lissen, anyway.”
“You’re sure you want it this way?”
Steve touched Erwin on the shoulder. “Erwin, I think you really ought to—”
Erwin shook his head. “Nothing I can do.”
“OK,” Carolyn said. “Fine.” She turned back toward the neighborhood and spoke quietly, to no one in particular. “Orlat keh talatti.”
“What?” Steve shouted.
“ ‘Project and defend.’ ”
VI
At first there was nothing.
Then, from the dark recesses of Garrison Oaks, came the sound of…what? Something is coming, Steve thought with a shiver. Some terrible thing. He heard it even over the helicopters, low at first, but building—the deep scream of nails wrenched from wood, the clatter and tinkle of breaking glass, thick pine cracking to splinters.
The light from the streetlamps was poor, and of course there was no moon. Even so, squinting down the street, he got a distinct sense of motion in the shadows. Whatever it is, it’s big. He caught a flash of motion and looked over at Erwin. He sees it too.
The worry lines around Erwin’s eyes were deep and well worn. He turned to the helicopter with the loudspeaker and waved his arms over his head. “G’wan! Get the fuck outta here!”
“Close your eyes,” Carolyn said to Steve.
“What?”
The helicopters were ignoring Erwin. He changed to a more complicated hand signal. “Go on before she—”
“Steve. Close your eyes.”
But she didn’t wait—she stepped behind him and clapped her hand over his eyes. A bare instant later, there was a bright flash, as if a camera the size of a football field had gone off.
“Ah, fuck,” Erwin said. “I’m blind.”
“It’s just temporary,” Carolyn said. “It wasn’t aimed at you. Give it a few minutes and you’ll be fine.”
The pitch of the helicopters’ rotors began rising, the engines cycling up toward a scream.
“Are they leaving?” Steve asked, too quiet to be heard outside his own head.
“What?” Erwin said.
“IT’S JUST TEMPORARY,” Carolyn said.
“WHAT? I CAN’T UNNERSTAND YA. TOO LOUD.”
The searchlight that had been on them wavered a bit, then fell away entirely. Blinking, Steve looked up at the Apache. It banked to one side as if it had been called away on some urgent business. Then, neatly and professionally, it pointed its nose down, accelerated—it was surprisingly quick—and crashed into the road a hundred yards or so away. Even at this distance, the heat of the fireball was immense.
“Fuck!” Steve said. “Holy fucking fuck!”
“Ah, shit,” Erwin said. “Was that what I think it was?”
A moment later the other helicopter performed a similar move—nose down, a quick acceleration, then a tidy, professional crash. In the light of the fireball Steve recognized the bluff he had jogged around that morning. Suddenly the night was uncomfortably warm. Without the rotor wash, it was once again possible to converse normally.
“I said, it’s only temporary.”
“What’s only temporary?” Steve asked.
“Erwin’s blindness. It’s a vehicle. The signal is bespoke—it only kills hostiles, but it’s blinding for everyone.”
“Bespoke,” Steve said. “What?”
“It means ‘tailored,’ ” Erwin said. “What signal?”
“The light you saw. It’s a defense mechanism. It radiates out from the optic nerve and activates the slave neurons.”
“What?”
“Slave neurons. They make you suggestible. The light activates them—once they’re part of the architecture of thought, a person will do as they’re told.”
“Like them bank tellers?” Erwin said.
I wouldn’t have thought of that, Steve thought. Once he heard it, though, it made perfect sense. That Erwin’s a clever guy.
“Exactly.”
“What were the pilots told to do?” Steve asked.
“An expeditious suicide. Painless if possible, but immediate.” Carolyn paused. “If you care, they probably didn’t suffer. I’m told the overall experience is quite pleasant.”
Steve felt sick. Slave neurons? “Jesus, Carolyn. Those guys were just doing their jobs. I mean, they probably had families, little kids and—”
She shrugged. “It was their choice.”
“Carolyn, they—”
“That’s the risk in working to be a dangerous person,” she said. “There’s always the chance you’ll run into someone who’s better at it than you.”
Erwin’s lips peeled back over his teeth in a flash of raw, simian aggression. Carolyn watched, sphinxlike.
Steve stood between them. Dangerous people, indeed. “Hey,” he said. “What’s that?”
“What?” Erwin said.
“There’s something moving back there. In the sky. I can see it blotting out the lights from town, but I can’t quite make out what it is.” He turned to Carolyn. “Is it…like, your mother ship? Something like that?”
She ignored him and spoke to Erwin. “Are your eyes any better?”
“A little, yeah,” Erwin said. “I don’t think she’s an alien, kid.”
“Good. You should be fine in a few more minutes. Steve, head back down the hill. I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.”
Steve glanced at the bull, uneasy. “Carolyn, I really don’t think you should—”
“Just go, Steve. I know you don’t understand, but it’s what Margaret wants. I’m going to give her that.” Then, softening, “But you won’t want to see it. Wait for me, at the bottom of the hill. I’ll be along.”
“What about Erwin?”
“He’ll be fine
in an hour or so.”
“Where are we going?”
“Home.”
VII
“C’mon, Naga.” Steve turned his back on Carolyn and Erwin and headed down the stairs. Back on Highway 78 he took a couple of steps toward a burning helicopter, thinking to look for survivors. But even from this distance the heat from the fires was enough to curl the hair on his arms. No one could have survived that. He walked a little closer anyway, morbidly fascinated—then he heard a quick series of explosions. Pop! Pop-pop-pop!
Ammunition cooking off. “Ah, shit.”
He turned and fled, hunched over, to the Garrison Oaks sign. He took cover with his back to the decorative stone column. He saw a bunch of people milling around in the neighborhood, and some dogs, too. They didn’t seem interested in him.
A few minutes later a clanging gong sound rolled down from the top of the hill. I guess Carolyn figured a way to shut the hatch. Morbidly curious and suppressing a shiver, he stood and looked back up the hill. There was a new fire up there, smaller than the burning helicopters. Carolyn was walking toward him, silhouetted against its yellow flame.
She was alone.
“What did you do?” Steve said as she walked up. “Did you—”
She shook her head. “It’s done. That’s all. Come on.” She walked past him without breaking stride. It was dark in the neighborhood. After only a few steps she was in shadow.
“What about Erwin?”
“He wouldn’t come. He wants to be with his people. Come on, Steve.”
Steve took a last look at the top of the hill. The third fire was blazing merrily now, a proper bonfire. He thought of Margaret’s hand, pale skin against black bronze. He shuddered again. It occurred to him that the burning helicopters would also work very well as a roadblock. No one’s getting through that until morning, at least, he thought. It’s just the two of us now.
That was true in a way, but they were not alone. The dead ones were out—dozens of them, maybe hundreds—men, women, and children. They were dressed in decades-old rags—polyester, ancient denim, and paisley. One kid held an Atari joystick. The cord hung limp between his bare, dirty feet. It looked like it had been chewed. He looked up at Steve and said, “It’s time for Transformers.”
The Library at Mount Char Page 31