1987 - Swan Song v4

by Robert McCammon

  “Where’s PawPaw?” Swan asked. “Where’s the giant?” She had a toothache all over her body, and she smelled breakfast cooking.

  “I’m right here,” Josh answered. “The old man’s not too far away. We’re in the basement, and the whole place caved in on—”

  “We’re gonna get out!” Darleen interrupted. “It won’t be too long before somebody finds us!”

  “Lady, that might not be for a while. We’re going to have to settle down and save our air.”

  “Save our air?” Panic flared anew. “We’re breathin’ okay!”

  “Right now, yeah. I don’t know how much room we’ve got in here, but I figure the air’s going to get pretty tight. We might have to stay in here for… for a long time,” he decided to say.

  “You’re crazy! Don’t you listen to him, honey. I’ll bet they’re comin’ to dig us out right this minute.” She began to rock Swan like an infant.

  “No, lady.” It was pointless to pretend. “I don’t think anybody’s going to dig us out anytime soon. Those were missiles that came out of that cornfield. Nuclear missiles. I don’t know if one of them blew up or what, but there’s only one reason those damned things would’ve gone off. The whole world may be shooting missiles at itself right now.”

  The woman laughed, the sound edging toward hysteria. “You ain’t got the sense God gave a pissant! Somebody had to see all that fire! They’ll send help! We gotta get to Blakeman!”

  “Right,” Josh said. He was tired of talking, and he was using up precious air. He crawled away a few feet and burrowed a place to fit his body into. Intense thirst taunted him, but he had to relieve himself, too. Later, he thought, too tired to move. The pain was getting bad again. His mind began to drift beyond PawPaw’s basement, beyond the burned cornfield toward what might remain out there, if, indeed, World War III had started. It might be over by now. The Russians might be invading, or the Americans pushing into Russia. He thought of Rose and the boys; were they dead or alive? He might never know. “Oh, God,” he whispered in the dark, and he curled his body up to stare at nothing.

  “Uh… uh… uh.” PawPaw was making a stuttering, choking noise. Then he said loudly, “Gopher’s in the hole! Amy! Where’re my bedroom slippers?”

  The little girl made another hurt, sobbing sound, and Josh clenched his teeth to hold back a scream of outrage. Such a pretty child, he thought. And now dying—like all of us are dying. We’re already in our graves. Already laid out and waiting.

  He had the sensation of being pinned to the mat by an opponent he’d not planned to meet. He could almost hear the referee’s hand slap the canvas: One… two…

  Josh’s shoulders shifted. Not yet three. Soon, but not yet.

  And he drifted into a tortured sleep with the sound of the child’s pain haunting his soul.

  Fourteen

  The holy axe

  “Discipline and control,” the Shadow Soldier said, in a voice like the crack of a belt across a little boy’s legs. “That’s what makes a man. Remember… remember…”

  Colonel James Macklin cowered in the muddy pit. There was only a slit of light, twenty feet above him, between the ground and the edge of the corrugated metal lid that covered the pit. It was enough to let (he flies in, and they buzzed in circles around his face, darting to the piles of filth that surrounded him. He didn’t remember how long he’d been down here; he figured the Charlies came once a day, and if that was true then he’d been in the pit for thirty-nine days. But maybe they came twice a day, so his calculations might be wrong. Maybe they skipped a day or two. Maybe they came three times in one day and skipped the next two days. Maybe…

  “Discipline and control, Jimbo.” The Shadow Soldier was sitting cross-legged against one wall of the pit, about five feet away. The Shadow Soldier was wearing a camouflage uniform, and he had dark green and black camouflage warpaint across his sallow, floating face. “Shape up, soldier.”

  “Yes,” Macklin said. “Shape up.” He lifted a skinny hand and waved the flies away.

  And then the banging started, and Macklin whimpered and drew himself up tightly against the wall. The Charlies were overhead, hitting the metal with bamboo sticks and billy clubs. The sound echoed, doubled and tripled in the pit, until Macklin put his hands to his ears; the hammering kept on, louder and louder, and Macklin felt a scream about to rip itself from his throat.

  “No,” the Shadow Soldier warned, his eyes like craters on the face of the moon. “Don’t let them hear you scream.”

  Macklin scooped up a handful of muck and jammed it into his mouth. The Shadow Soldier was right. The Shadow Soldier was always right.

  The banging stopped, and the metal lid was pulled to one side. Hazy sunlight stabbed Macklin’s eyes; he could see them up there, leaning over the pit, grinning at him. “’Nel Macreen!” one of them called to him. “You hungry, ’Nel Macreen?”

  His mouth full of mud and filth, Macklin nodded and sat up like a dog begging for a scrap. “Careful,” the Shadow Soldier whispered. “Careful.”

  “You hungry, ’Nel Macreen?”

  “Please,” Macklin said, muck running from his mouth. He lifted his emaciated arms toward the light.

  “Catch, ’Nel Macreen!” An object fell into the mud a few feet away, near the decaying corpse of an infantryman named Ragsdale. Macklin crawled over the body and picked the object up; it was a cake of oily, fried rice. He began to gnaw at it greedily, tears of joy springing to his eyes. The Charlies above him were laughing. Macklin crawled over the remains of an air force captain the other men had known as “Mississippi” because of his thick drawl; now Mississippi was a silent bundle of cloth and bones. In the far corner was a third corpse—another infantryman, an Oklahoma kid named McGee—slowly moldering in the mud. Macklin crouched by McGee and chewed on the rice, almost sobbing with pleasure.

  “Hey, ’Nel Macreen! You a dirty thing! Bath time!”

  Macklin whimpered and flinched, hunching his head down between his arms because he knew what was coming.

  One of the Charlies overturned a bucket of human waste into the pit, and the sludge streamed down on top of Macklin, running over his back, shoulders and head. The Charlies howled with laughter, but Macklin concentrated on the rice cake. Some of the mess had splattered onto it, and he paused to wipe it off on the tatters of his air force flight jacket.

  “There go!” the Charlie who’d dumped the bucket called down. “You creen boy now!”

  The flies were rioting around Macklin’s head. This was a good meal today, Macklin thought. This one would keep him alive a while longer, and as he chewed it the Shadow Soldier said, “That’s right, Jimbo. Eat every bit of it. Every last bit.”

  “You stay creen, now!” the Charlie said, and the metal lid was pulled back into place, sealing off the sunlight.

  “Discipline and control.” The Shadow Soldier had crept closer. “That’s what makes a man.”

  “Yes, sir,” Macklin answered, and the Shadow Soldier watched him with eyes that burned like napalm in the dark.

  “Colonel!”

  A faraway voice was calling him. It was hard to concentrate on that voice, because pain was spreading through his bones. Something heavy lay on top of him, almost snapping his spine. A sack of potatoes, he thought. No, no. Heavier than that.

  “Colonel Macklin!” the voice persisted.

  Go away, Macklin wished. Please go away. He tried to lift his right hand to wave the flies from his face, but when he did a bolt of white-hot agony was driven through his arm and shoulder, and he groaned as it continued into his backbone.

  “Colonel! It’s Ted Warner! Can you hear me?”

  Warner. Teddybear Warner. “Yes,” Macklin said. Pain lanced his rib cage. He knew he hadn’t spoken loudly enough, so he tried again. “Yes. I can hear you.”

  “Thank God! I’ve got a flashlight, Colonel!” A wash of light crept under Macklin’s eyelids, and he allowed it to pry them open.

  The flashlight’s beam probed down
from about ten feet above Macklin’s head. The rock dust and smoke were still thick, but Macklin could tell he was lying at the bottom of a pit. By slowly turning his head, the pain about to make him pass out again, he saw that the opening was hardly large enough to let a man crawl through; how he’d been compressed into a space like this he didn’t know. Macklin’s legs were drawn up tightly beneath him, his back bent by the weight, not of a potato sack, but of a human body. A dead man, but who it was Macklin couldn’t tell.

  Jammed into the pit on top of him was a tangle of cables and broken pipes. He tried to push against the awful weight to at least get his legs some room, but the searing pain leapt at his right hand again. He swiveled his head back around the other way, and with the aid of the light from above he saw what he considered a major problem.

  His right hand had disappeared into a crack in the wall. The crack was maybe one inch in width, and rivulets of blood gleamed on the rock.

  My hand, he thought numbly. The images of Becker’s exploding fingers came to him. He realized his hand must’ve slipped into a fissure when he fell down there, and then when the rock had shifted again…

  He felt nothing beyond the excruciating manacle at his wrist. His hand and fingers were dead meat. Have to learn to be a southpaw, he thought. And then a realization hit him with stunning force: My trigger finger’s gone.

  “Corporal Prados is up here with me, Colonel!” Warner called down. “He’s got a broken leg, but he’s conscious. The others are in worse shape—or dead.”

  “How about you?” Macklin asked.

  “My back’s wrenched all to hell.” Warner sounded as if he were having trouble getting a breath. “Feel like I’d split apart if my balls weren’t holding me together. Spitting up some blood, too.”

  “Anybody left to get a damage report?”

  “Intercom’s out. Smoke’s coming from the vents. I can hear people screaming somewhere, so some of them made it. Jesus, Colonel! The whole mountain must’ve moved!”

  “I’ve got to get out of here,” Macklin said. “My arm’s pinned, Teddy.” Thinking about the mangled mess of his hand brought the pain up again, and he had to grit his teeth and wait it through. “Can you help me get out?”

  “How? I can’t reach you, and if your arm’s pinned…”

  “My hand’s crushed,” Macklin told him; his voice was calm, and he felt he was in a dream state, everything floating and unreal. “Get me a knife. The sharpest knife you can find.”

  “What? A knife? What for?”

  Macklin grinned savagely. “Just do it. Then get a fire going up there and char me a piece of wood.” He was oddly dissociated from what he was saying, as if what had to be done concerned the flesh of another man. “The wood has to be red hot, Teddy. Hot enough to cauterize a stump.”

  “A… stump?” He paused. Now he was getting the picture. “Maybe we can get you out some other—”

  “There’s no other way.” To get out of this pit, he would have to leave his hand. Call it a pound of flesh, he thought. “Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Warner replied, ever obedient.

  Macklin turned his face away from the light.

  Warner crawled from the edge of the hole that had opened in the control room’s floor. The entire room was tilted at a thirty-degree angle, so he was crawling slightly downhill over broken equipment, fallen rocks and bodies. The flashlight beam caught Corporal Prados, sitting against one cracked and slanting wall; the man’s face was disfigured, and bone gleamed wetly from his thigh. Warner continued into what was left of the corridor. Huge holes had ripped open in the ceiling and walls, water pouring from above onto the mess of rocks and pipes. He could still hear screaming in the distance. He was going to have to find someone to help him free Colonel Macklin, because without Macklin’s leadership they were all finished. And there was no way his injured back would let him crawl down into the hole where the colonel was trapped. No, he was going to have to find someone else—someone small enough to fit, but tough enough to get the job done. God only knew what he would find when he crawled up to Level One.

  The colonel was counting on him, and he would not let the colonel down.

  Slowly and painfully, he picked his way over the rubble, crawling in the direction of the screams.

  Fifteen

  The world’s champion upchucker

  Roland Croninger was huddled on the crooked floor in the wreckage of what had been Earth House’s cafeteria, and over the wailing and screaming he was listening to one grim inner voice that said, A King’s Knight… A King’s Knight… A King’s Knight never cries…

  Everything was dark except for occasional tongues of flame that leapt up where the kitchen had been, and the fitful light illuminated fallen rock, broken tables and chairs, and crushed human bodies. Here and there someone staggered in the gloom like a sufferer in the caverns of Hell, and broken bodies jerked under the massive boulders that had crashed through the ceiling.

  At first there’d been a tremor that had knocked people out of their chairs; the main lights had gone out, but then the emergency floods had switched on, and Roland was on the floor with his breakfast cereal all over the front of his shirt. His mother and father had sprawled near him, and there were maybe forty other people who’d been eating breakfast at the same time; a few of them were already hollering for help, but most were shocked silent. His mother had looked at him, orange juice dripping from her hair and face, and said, “Next year we go to the beach.”

  Roland had laughed, and his father was laughing, too; and then his mother began to laugh, and for a moment they were all connected by that laughter. Phil had managed to say, “Thank God I don’t handle the insurance on this place! I’d have to sue my own—”

  And then he was drowned out by a monstrous roar and the sound of splitting rock, and the floor had heaved and tilted crazily, with such force that Roland was thrown away from his parents and collided with other bodies. A barrage of rocks and ceiling tiles caved in, and something had struck him hard in the head. Now, as he sat with his knees drawn up to his chin, he lifted his hand to his hairline and felt sticky blood. His lower lip was gashed and bleeding, too, and his insides felt deeply bruised, as if his entire body had been stretched like a rubber band and then brutally snapped. He didn’t know how long the earthquake had gone on, or how he’d come to be huddled up like a baby, or where his parents were. He wanted to cry, and there were tears in his eyes, but a King’s Knight never cries, he told himself; that was in the King’s Knight handbook, one of the rules he’d written for the proper conduct of a warrior: A King’s Knight never cries—he just gets even.

  There was something clenched in his right fist, and he opened it: his glasses, the left lens cracked and the right one completely gone. He thought he remembered taking them off, when he was lying under the table, to clean the milk off the lenses. He put them on and tried to stand, but it took a moment to coordinate his legs. When he did stand up, he bumped his head against a buckled ceiling that had been at least seven feet high before the tremors had started. Now he had to crouch to avoid dangling cables and pipes and snapped iron reinforcement rods. “Mom! Dad!” he shouted, but he heard no answer over the cries of the injured. Roland stumbled through the debris calling for his parents, and he stepped on something that gave like a wet sponge. He looked down at what might’ve been a huge starfish caught between two slabs of rock; the body bore no resemblance to anything remotely human, except it did wear the tatters of a bloody shirt.

  Roland stepped over other bodies; he’d seen corpses only in the pictures of his father’s mercenary soldier magazines, but these were different. These were battered featureless and sexless but for the rags of clothes. But none of them were his mother and father, Roland decided; no, his mom and dad were alive, somewhere. He knew they were, and he kept searching. In another moment he stopped just short of plunging into a jagged chasm that had split the cafeteria in two, and he peered into it but saw no bottom. “Mom! Dad!” he shoute
d to the other side of the room, but again there was no reply.

  Roland stood on the edge of the chasm, his body trembling. One part of him was dumbstruck with terror, but another, deeper part seemed to be strengthening, surging toward the surface, shivering not with fear but with a pure, cold excitement that was beyond anything he’d ever felt before. Surrounded by death, he experienced the pounding of life in his veins with a force that made him feel lightheaded and drunk.

  I’m alive, he thought. Alive.

  And suddenly the wreckage of the Earth House cafeteria seemed to ripple and change; he was standing in the midst of a battlefield strewn with the dead, and fire licked up in the distance from the burning enemy fortress. He was carrying a dented shield and a bloody sword, and he was about to go over the edge into shock, but he was still standing and still alive after the holocaust of battle. He had led a legion of knights into war on this rubbled field, and now he stood alone because he was the last King’s Knight left.

  One of the battered warriors at his feet reached out and grasped his ankle. “Please,” the bloody mouth rasped. “Please help me…”

  Roland blinked, stunned. He was looking down at a middle-aged woman, the lower half of her body caught under a slab of rock. “Please help me,” she begged. “My legs… oh… my legs…”

  A woman wasn’t supposed to be on the battlefield, Roland thought. Oh, no! But then he looked around himself and remembered where he was, and he pulled his ankle free and moved away from the chasm’s edge.

  He kept searching, but he couldn’t find his father or mother. Maybe they were buried, he realized—or maybe they’d gone down into that chasm, down into the darkness below. Maybe he’d seen their bodies but couldn’t recognize them. “Mom! Dad!” he yelled. “Where are you?” No reply, only the sound of someone sobbing and voices in keening agony.

  A light glinted through the smoke and found his face.

  “You,” someone said, in a pained whisper. “What’s your name?”