1987 - Swan Song v4

by Robert McCammon

  It hit in front of her, and as it shattered into a thousand pieces of glittering junk her scream stopped with a strangled moan.

  “Oh,” she whispered. “Oh… no.”

  Sister Creep stared at the dead child in the Spanish woman’s arms. My little girl is dead, she remembered. I was drunk, and I picked her up at a birthday party, and I drove right off the road into a ditch. Oh, God… oh, dear Jesus. A sinner. A drunken, wicked sinner. I killed her. I killed my little girl. Oh, God… oh, God, forgive me…

  Tears scorched her eyes and ran down her cheeks. In her mind whirled fragments of memory like dead leaves in a high wind: her husband wild with rage, cursing her and saying he never wanted to see her again; her own mother, looking at her with disgust and pity and telling her she was never meant to bear a child; the doctor at the sanitarium, nodding his head and checking his watch; the halls of the hospital, where grotesque, shambling, insane women chattered and shrieked and fought one another over combs; and the high fence that she had climbed over, in the dead of night and in swirling snow, to reach the woods beyond.

  My little girl is dead, she thought. Dead and gone, a long time ago.

  The tears almost blinded her, but she saw well enough to know that her little girl had not suffered as this one in the Spanish woman’s arms had. Her little girl had been laid to rest under a shade tree atop a hill; this one would lie forever in a cold, damp basement in a city of the dead.

  The Spanish woman lifted her head and looked at Sister Creep through haunted eyes. She blinked and slowly reached through the rain to touch Sister Creep’s cheek; a tear balanced on the tip of her finger for a second before it dropped.

  “Give her to me,” Sister Creep whispered. “I’ll take her.”

  The Spanish woman looked again, longingly, at the corpse, and then the tears ran from her eyes and mingled with the black rain on her face; she kissed the dead child’s forehead, cradled it against her for a moment—and then she held the corpse toward Sister Creep.

  She took the body as if she was accepting a gift and started to stand up.

  But the Spanish woman reached out again and touched the crucifix-shaped wound at Sister Creep’s neck. She said wonderingly, “Bendito. Muy bendito.”

  Sister Creep stood up, and the Spanish woman slowly crawled out of the water and lay on the floor, huddled and shivering.

  Jack Tomachek took the corpse from Sister Creep and went off into the darkness.

  Beth said, “I don’t know how, but you did it.” She bent down to offer the Spanish woman the bottle of ginger ale; the woman took it from Beth and finished it.

  “My God,” Artie Wisco said, standing behind her. “I just realized… I don’t even know your name.”

  “It’s…” What? she wondered. What’s my name? Where do I come from? Where is that shade tree that shelters my little girl? None of the answers would come to her. “You can call me…” She hesitated. I’m a bag lady, she thought. I’m nothing but a bag lady with no name, and I don’t know where I’m going—but at least I know how I got here.

  “Sister,” she replied. “You can call me… Sister.”

  And it came to her like a shout: I’m not crazy anymore.

  “Sister,” Artie repeated. He pronounced it “Sista.” “That ain’t much of a name, but I guess it’ll do. Glad to know you, Sister.”

  She nodded, the shadowy memories still whirling. The pain of what she’d remembered was still with her and would remain, but that had happened a long time ago, to a weaker and more helpless woman.

  “What are we going to do?” Beth asked her. “We can’t just stay here, can we?”

  “No. We can’t. Tomorrow Artie and I are going through the Holland Tunnel, if it hasn’t caved in. We’re walking west. If you three want to go with us, you’re welcome.”

  “Leave New York? What if… what if there’s nothing out there? What if everything’s gone?”

  “It won’t be easy,” Sister said firmly. “It’ll be damned hard and damned dangerous. I don’t know what the weather’s going to do, but we start with one step, and that’s the only way I know to get anywhere. Right?”

  “Right,” Artie echoed. “You’ve got good shoes, Beth. Those shoes’ll take you a long way.”

  We’ve got a long way to go, Sister considered. A very long way—and God only knows what we’ll find out there. Or what will find us.

  “Okay,” Beth decided. “Okay. I’m with you.” She put the flame of her lighter out again to save fuel.

  But this time it didn’t seem nearly as dark.

  Four

  Land of the Dead

  The biggest tomb in the

  world / Belly of the beast /

  The most wonderful light /

  Summer’s over / Tunnel

  trolls / Protect the child /

  Dreamwalking / New turn

  of the game

  Nineteen

  The biggest tomb in the world

  The man with bloody strips of shirt bandaged around the stump of his right wrist moved cautiously along the wrecked corridor. He didn’t want to fall down and start that stump bleeding again; it had been dribbling for hours before it had finally crusted over. He was weak and lightheaded, but he pushed himself onward because he had to see for himself. His heart was pounding, and the blood sang in his ears. But what his senses fixed on was an acute itching between the first and second fingers of the right hand that wasn’t there anymore. The itching of that phantom hand was about to drive him crazy.

  Beside him was the one-eyed hunchback, and in front of him, carrying the flashlight and negotiating a path, was the boy with the cracked eyeglasses. In his left hand the boy gripped a meat cleaver, its blade rimmed with Colonel Jimbo Macklin’s dried blood.

  Roland Croninger stopped, the beam of his light spearing through the haze before him.

  “There it is,” Teddybear said. “There it is. See? I told you, didn’t I? I told you!”

  Macklin moved forward a few paces and took the flashlight from Roland. He played it over the wall of boulders and slabs that completely blocked the corridor in front of them, looking for a chink, a weak place, an area to apply leverage, anything. There wasn’t a space large enough for a rat to squeeze through. “God help us,” Macklin said quietly.

  “I told you! See? Didn’t I tell you?” Teddybear Warner babbled. Finding this blockage had snapped the last of the willpower that was holding him together.

  Beyond that wall of rock lay Earth House’s emergency food supply and equipment room. They were cut off from everything—the spare flashlights and batteries, toilet paper, flares, everything.

  “We’re fucked,” Teddybear giggled. “Oh, are we fucked!”

  Dust filtered down through the flashlight beam. Macklin raised it and saw the jagged fissures that cleaved the corridor’s ceiling. More of the corridor might cave in at any time. Cables and wires dangled, and the iron reinforcement beams that were supposed to have supported Earth House through a nuclear attack were entirely cut through. Teddybear’s giggling was mixed with sobs, and as Macklin realized the full extent of the disaster he could no longer stand the sound of human weakness; he ground his teeth, his face contorting in rage, and he turned to strike Teddybear across the face with his itching right hand.

  But he had no right hand, and as he reared his arm back there was a searing, ripping pain, and fresh blood dripped through the bandages.

  Macklin cradled his injured arm against his body and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. He felt sick, about to throw up or pass out. Discipline and control, he thought. Shape up, soldier! Shape up, damn you!

  When I open my eyes again, he told himself, that wall of rock won’t be there. We’ll be able to walk right on through the corridor to where the food is. We’ll be okay. Please, God… please make everything okay.

  He opened his eyes.

  The wall of rock remained. “Anybody got any plastic explosive?” Macklin asked; his voice echoed in the corridor.

  It was a
lunatic voice, the voice of a man down in the bottom of a muddy pit with bodies sprawled all around him.

  “We’re going to die,” Teddybear said, giggling and sobbing, his one good eye wild. “We’ve got the biggest tomb in the world!”

  “Colonel?”

  It was the boy speaking. Macklin shone the light in Roland’s face. It was a dusty, blood-splattered, emotionless mask.

  “We’ve got hands,” Roland said.

  “Hands. Sure. I’ve got one hand. You’ve got two. Teddybear’s two aren’t worth shit. Sure, we’ve got hands.”

  “Not our hands,” Roland replied calmly. An idea had come to him, clear and precise. “Their hands. The ones who are still alive up there.”

  “The civilians?” Macklin shook his head. “We probably couldn’t find ten men able to work! And look at that ceiling. See those cracks? The rest of it’s about to fall. Who’s going to work with that hanging over their heads?”

  “How far is it from that wall to the food?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe twenty feet. Maybe thirty.”

  Roland nodded. “What if we tell them it’s ten feet? And what if they don’t know about the ceiling? Do you think they’d work, or not?”

  Macklin hesitated. This is a kid, he thought. What does this kid know about anything?

  “We three are going to die,” Roland said, “if we can’t get to that food. And we won’t get there if we can’t make someone else do the work. Maybe the ceiling will fall, maybe it won’t. But if it does fall, we won’t be the ones underneath it, will we?”

  “They’ll know the ceiling’s weak. All they have to do is look up and see those goddamned cracks!”

  “They can’t see them,” Roland said quietly, “in the dark. And you’re holding the only light, aren’t you?” A smile touched the corners of his mouth.

  Macklin blinked slowly. There seemed to be a movement in the gloom, over Roland Croninger’s shoulder. Macklin adjusted the flashlight beam a few degrees. Crouched down on his haunches was the Shadow Soldier, wearing his camouflage uniform and a helmet with green netting; beneath the black and green warpaint, his face was the color of smoke. “The boy’s right, Jimbo,” the Shadow Soldier whispered. He rose to his full height. “Make the civilians do the work. Make them work in the dark, and tell them it’s only ten feet to the food. Shit, tell them it’s six feet. They’ll work harder. And if they break through, fine. If not… they’re only civilians. Drones. Breeders. Right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Macklin answered.

  “Huh?” Roland saw that the colonel seemed to be looking at something just over his right shoulder, and he was using that same fawning voice that he’d used when he was in delirium down in the pit. Roland looked around, but of course there was nothing there.

  “Drones,” Macklin said. “Breeders. Right.” He nodded and pulled his attention away from the Shadow Soldier back to the boy. “Okay. We’ll go up and see if we can find enough to make a work detail. Maybe some of my men are still alive, too.” He remembered Sergeant Schorr running wildly from the command center. “Schorr. What the hell happened to him?” Teddybear shook his head. “What about Dr. Lang? Is he still alive?”

  “He wasn’t in the infirmary.” Teddybear made an effort not to look at that wall of rock. “I didn’t check his quarters.”

  “We’ll check them, then. We may need him and whatever painkillers he can scrounge up. I’m going to need more bandages, too. And we need bottles—plastic bottles, if we can find them. We can get water out of the toilets.”

  “Colonel, sir?” Roland immediately got Macklin’s full attention. “One more thing: the air.”

  “What about the air?”

  “The generator’s out. The electrical system’s gone. How are the fans going to pull air into the vents?”

  Macklin had been building a hope, however faint, that they might survive. Instantly it crumbled. Without the fans, no air would be circulated through Earth House. The dank air that Earth House now held would be all they could expect, and when the carbon dioxide levels grew high enough they would die.

  But how long that would take, he didn’t know. Hours? Days? Weeks? He couldn’t let himself think beyond the moment, and the most important thing right now was finding a drink of water, a bite of food, and a work detail. “We’ve got plenty of air,” he said. “Enough for everybody, and by the time it starts getting thin we’ll have found a way out of here. Right?”

  Roland wanted to believe, and he nodded. Behind him, the Shadow Soldier nodded, too, and said to Macklin, “Good boy.”

  The colonel checked his own quarters, just up the corridor. The door had been torn off its hinges and part of the ceiling had collapsed; a hole had opened in the floor, swallowing his bed and the bedside table in its depths. The bathroom was a wreck as well, but Macklin’s flashlight found a few handfuls of water remaining in the toilet bowl. He drank from it, and then Roland and Teddybear took their turns. Water had never tasted so sweet.

  Macklin went to the closet. Everything had collapsed inside and lay on the floor in a heap. He got down on his knees and, holding the flashlight in the crook of his arm, began to go through the mess, looking for something he knew must be there.

  It took him a while to find it. “Roland,” he said. “Come here.”

  The boy stood behind him. “Yes, sir?”

  Macklin gave him the small Ingram machine gun that had been on the closet shelf. “You’re in charge of that.” He stuffed bullet clips into the pockets of his flight jacket.

  Roland slid the handle of the holy axe down inside his belt and held the Ingram gun in both hands. It wasn’t heavy, but it felt… righteous. Yes. Righteous and important, like some vital signet of empire that a King’s Knight ought to be in charge of.

  “Do you know anything about guns?” Macklin asked him.

  “My dad takes me…” Roland stopped. No, that wasn’t right. Not right at all. “I used to go shooting at a target range,” he replied. “But I’ve never used anything like this.”

  “I’ll teach you what you need to know. You’re going to be my trigger finger when I need one.” He shone the light at Teddybear, who was standing a few feet away and listening. “This boy stays near me from now on,” he told Teddybear, and the other man nodded but said nothing. Macklin didn’t trust Teddybear anymore; Teddybear was too close to going over the edge. But not the boy. Oh, no—the boy was strong-minded and smart, and it had taken sheer guts for him to crawl down into that pit and do what had to be done. The kid looked like a ninety-pound weakling, but if he was going to crack he would’ve cracked by now.

  Roland put the gun’s sling around his shoulder and adjusted it so it was tight and he could get to the weapon in a hurry. Now he was ready to follow the King anywhere. Faces surfaced from the muddy waters of his memory—a man and a woman—but he pushed them down again. He didn’t want to remember those faces anymore. There was no use for it, and it only weakened him.

  Macklin was ready. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s see what we can find.” And the one-eyed hunchback and the boy with cracked eyeglasses followed him into the darkness.

  Twenty

  Belly of the beast

  “Lady,” Jack Tomachek said, “if you think we can get through that, you belong in Bellevue.”

  Sister didn’t reply. A bitter wind was blowing in her face off the Hudson River, and she narrowed her eyes against stinging needles of ice that were whirling down from the black clouds above them, stretching from horizon to horizon like a funeral shroud. Sickly yellow rays of sunlight found holes in the clouds and moved like search lamps from a grade-B prison escape movie, then were extinguished when the holes closed. The river itself was turbid with corpses, floating trash and the hulks of burned boats and barges, all moving sluggishly southward to the Atlantic. Across the frightful river, the oil refinery fires were still blazing, and thick black smoke swirled in a maelstrom over the Jersey shore.

  Behind her stood Artie, Beth Phelps and the Spanish woman, all
of them wrapped up in layers of curtains and coats to ward off the wind. The Spanish woman had cried most of the night, but her eyes were dry now; all her crying was done.

  Below the ridge they stood on was the entrance to the Holland Tunnel. It was jammed with vehicles whose gas tanks had exploded, but that wasn’t the worst of it; the worst, Sister saw, was that the remains of those cars were about wheel-rim-deep in dirty Hudson River water. Somewhere inside that long and dark tunnel the ceiling had ruptured, and the river was streaming in—not enough, yet, to collapse it like the Lincoln Tunnel, but enough to make the passage a dangerous slog through a swamp of burned cars, bodies and God only knew what else.

  “I’m not up to swimming,” Jack said. “Or drowning. If that bastard fell in on our heads, we could kiss our asses goodbye.”

  “Okay, what’s a better suggestion?”

  “We go east, to the Brooklyn Bridge. Or we go across the Manhattan Bridge. Anything but in there.”

  Sister pondered that for a moment. She held her leather bag close to her side, and within it she could feel the outline of the glass circle. Sometime during the long night she’d had a dream of the thing with the burning hand, stalking through the smoke and ruins, its eyes searching for her. She feared that thing more than the half-flooded tunnel. “What if the bridges are gone?”

  “Huh?”

  “What if both those bridges are gone?” she repeated calmly. “Look around and tell me if you think those spindly bridges could survive what blew down the World Trade Center and the Empire State Building.”

  “They might have. We won’t know unless we see.”

  “And that’ll be another day gone. By that time, the tunnel might be completely flooded. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I don’t mind getting my feet wet.”

  “Uh-uh.” Jack shook his head. “No way I’m going in there, lady! And you’re nuts if you do. Listen, why do you want to leave Manhattan, anyway? We can find food here, and we can go back to the basement! We don’t have to leave!”