1987 - Swan Song v4

by Robert McCammon

  After most of the stew was gone and just the juice remained, Swan took the can outside and left it for the terrier, as well as the rest of the water from the Mason jar. The dog came to within ten feet, then waited for Swan to go back into the barn before coming any closer.

  Swan slept under one of the blankets. The horse, which Josh had christened Mule, ambled back and forth, chomping on hay and peering out through the cracked door at the dark farmhouse. The terrier continued to patrol the area for a while longer; then it found a place to shelter against one of the outside walls and lay down to rest.

  “Both of them were dead,” Leona said as Josh sat against a post with a blanket draped over his shoulders.

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No. And neither do you. We’ve got another long, hard day tomorrow.”

  She waited for a few minutes to see if he would tell her or not, but she really didn’t want to know. She pulled her blanket over her and went to sleep.

  Josh was afraid to close his eyes, because he knew what was waiting for him behind the lids. Across the barn, Mule rumbled quietly; it was an oddly reassuring sound, like the noise of heat coming through a vent into a cold room, or a town crier signaling that all was well. Josh knew he had to get some sleep, and he was about to close his eyes when he detected a small movement just to his right. He stared and saw a little roach crawling slowly over the scattered bits of hay. Josh balled up his fist and started to slam it down on the insect, but his hand paused in midair.

  Everything alive’s got its own way of speaking and knowing, Swan had said. Everything alive.

  He stayed the killing blow, watching the insect struggle tenaciously onward, getting caught in pieces of hay and working itself loose, plowing forward with stubborn, admirable determination.

  Josh opened his fist and drew his arm back. The insect kept going, out of the light’s range and into the darkness on its purposeful journey. Who am I to kill such a thing? he asked himself. Who am I to deliver death to even the lowest form of life?

  He listened to the keening of the wind whistling through holes in the walls, and he pondered the thought that there might be something out there in the dark—God or Devil or something more elemental than either—that looked at humankind as Josh had viewed the roach—less than intelligent, certainly nasty, but struggling onward on its journey, never giving up, fighting through obstacles or going around them, doing whatever it had to do to survive.

  And he hoped that if the time ever came for that elemental fist to come crashing down, its wielder might take a moment of pause as well.

  Josh drew the blanket around himself and lay down in the straw to sleep.

  Thirty-eight

  Dealing with the Fat Man

  “This is our power!” Colonel Macklin said, holding up the .45 automatic he’d taken off the dead young man from California.

  “No,” Roland Croninger replied. “This is our power.” And he held up one of the bottles of pills from Sheila Fontana’s drug cache.

  “Hey!” Sheila grabbed at it, but Roland held it out of her reach. “That’s my stash! You can’t—”

  “Sit down,” Macklin told her. She hesitated, and he rested the pistol on his knee. “Sit down,” he repeated.

  She cursed quietly and sat down in the filthy pit while the kid continued to tell the one-handed war hero how the pills and cocaine were stronger than any gun could ever be.

  Dawn came with a cancerous, yellow sky and needles of rain. A black-haired woman, a man with one hand in a dirty overcoat, and a boy wearing goggles trudged across the landscape of rotting corpses and wrecked vehicles. Sheila Fontana was holding up a pair of white panties as a flag of truce, and close behind her Macklin kept the .45 aimed at the small of her back. Roland Croninger, bringing up the rear, carrier Sheila’s knapsack. He remembered how the woman’s hair had felt in his hands, how her body had moved like a roller-coaster ride; he wanted to have sex again, and he would hate it if she made a wrong move now and had to be executed. Because after all, they’d shown her the highest chivalry last night; they’d saved her from the rabble, and they’d given her some food—dog biscuits they’d been living on from the wreck of a camper, the dog’s carcass having been consumed long ago—and a place to rest after they were done with her.

  They reached the edge of the dirtwart land and started across open territory. Ahead of them lay the tents, cars and cardboard shelters of the privileged people who lived on the lake shore. They were about halfway across, heading for a battered, dented Airstream trailer at the center of the encampment, when they heard the warning shout: “Dirtwarts coming in! Wake up! Dirtwarts coming in!”

  “Keep going,” Macklin told Sheila when she faltered. “Keep waving those panties, too.”

  People started coming out of their shelters. In truth, they were every bit as ragged and dirty as the dirtwarts, but they had guns and supplies of canned food and bottled water, and most of them had escaped serious burns. The majority of dirtwarts, on the other hand, were severely burned, had contagious illnesses or were insane. Macklin understood the balance of power. It was centered within the Airstream trailer, a shining mansion amid the other hovels.

  “Turn back, fuckers!” a man hollered from a tent’s entrance; he aimed a high-velocity rifle at them. “Go back!” a woman shouted, and someone threw an empty can that hit the ground a few feet in front of Sheila. She stopped, and Macklin pushed her on with a shove of the automatic.

  “Keep moving. And smile.”

  “Go back, you filth!” a second man, wearing the remnants of an Air Force uniform and a coat stained with dried blood, shouted; he had a revolver, and he came within twenty feet of them. “You graverobbers!” he shouted. “You dirty, lice-ridden… heathen!”

  Macklin didn’t worry about him; he was a young man, maybe in his mid-twenties, and his eyes kept sneaking toward Sheila Fontana. He wasn’t going to do anything. Other people approached them, shouting and jeering, brandishing guns and rifles, knives and even a bayonet. Rocks, bottles and cans were thrown, and though they came dangerously close, none of them connected. “Don’t you bring your diseases in here!” a middle-aged man in a brown raincoat and woolen cap hollered. He was holding an axe. “I’ll kill you if you take another goddamned step!”

  Macklin wasn’t worried about him, either. The men were puzzled by Sheila Fontana’s presence, but he recognized the lust on their faces as they surged around, hollering threats. He saw a thin young woman with stringy brown hair, her body engulfed in a yellow raincoat and her sunken eyes fixed on Sheila with deadly intent. She was carrying a butcher knife, fingering the blade. Macklin did feel a pang of worry about her, and he guided Sheila away from the young woman. An empty can hit him in the side of the head and glanced off. Someone came close enough to spit on Roland. “Keep going, keep going,” Macklin said quietly, his eyes narrowed and ticking back and forth.

  Roland heard shouts and taunting laughter behind them, and he glanced over his shoulder. Back in the dirtwart land, about thirty or forty dirtwarts had crawled from their holes and were jumping up and down, screaming like animals in expectation of a slaughter.

  Macklin smelled salt water. Before him, through the misting rain and beyond the encampment, the Great Salt Lake stretched to the far horizon; it smelled antiseptic, like the halls of a hospital. The stump of Macklin’s wrist burned and seethed with infection, and he longed to plunge it into the healing water, to baptize himself in cleansing agony.

  A burly, bearded red-haired man in a leather jacket and dungarees, a bandage plastered to his forehead, stepped in front of Sheila. He aimed a double-barreled shotgun at Macklin’s head. “That’s as far as you go.”

  Sheila stopped, her eyes wide. She waved the pair of panties in front of his face. “Hey, don’t shoot! We don’t want any trouble!”

  “He won’t shoot,” Macklin said easily, smiling at the bearded man. “See, my friend, I’ve got a gun pointed at the young lady’s back
. If you blow my head off—and if any of you dumb fucks shoot either me or the boy—my finger’s going to twitch on this trigger and sever her spine. Look at her, fellas! Just look! Not a burn on her! Not a burn anywhere! Oh, yeah, fill your eyes full, but don’t touch! Isn’t she something?”

  Sheila had the impulse to pull her T-shirt up and give the gawkers a tit show; if the war hero had ever decided to give pimping a try, he’d have racked up. But this whole experience was so unreal, it was almost like flying on a tab of LSD, and she found herself grinning, about to laugh. The filthy men who stood around her with their guns and knives just stared, and further behind them was a collection of skinny, dirty women who watched her with absolute hatred.

  Macklin saw they were about fifty feet from the Airstream trailer. “We want to see the Fat Man,” he told the guy with the beard.

  “Sure!” The other man hadn’t lowered his shotgun yet. His mouth curled sarcastically. “He sees dirtwarts all the time! Serves ’em champagne and caviar!” He snorted. “Who the fuck do you think you are, mister?”

  “My name is Colonel James B. Macklin. I served in Vietnam as a pilot, and I was shot down and spent one year in a hole that makes this place look like the Ritz-Carlton. I’m a military man, you dumb bastard!” Macklin’s face was reddening. Discipline and control, he told himself. Discipline and control makes the man. He took a couple of deep breaths; around him several people jeered at him, and someone’s spit landed on his right cheek. “We want to see the Fat Man. He’s the leader here, isn’t he? He’s the one with the most food and guns?”

  “Run ’em out!” a stocky, curly-haired woman shouted, brandishing a long barbecue fork. “We don’t want their damned diseases!”

  Roland heard a pistol being cocked, and he knew someone was holding a gun just behind his head. He flinched, but then he turned slowly around, grinning rigidly. A blond-haired boy about his age, wearing a bulky plaid jacket, was aiming a .38 right between his eyes. “You stink,” the blond-haired kid said, his dead brown eyes challenging Roland to make a move. Roland stood very still, his heart going like a jackhammer.

  “I said we want to see the Fat Man,” Macklin repeated. “Do you take us, or what?”

  The bearded man laughed harshly. “You’ve got a lot of guts for a dirtwart!” His eyes flickered toward Sheila Fontana, lingered on her body and breasts, then went back to the pistol Macklin held.

  Roland slowly lifted his hand in front of the blond kid’s face, then just as slowly brought his hand down and reached into the pocket of his trousers. The blond boy’s finger was on the trigger. Roland’s hand found what he was after, and he began to draw it out.

  “You can leave the woman and we won’t kill you,” the bearded man told Macklin. “Just walk out and go back to your hole. We’ll forget that you even—”

  A little plastic bottle hit the ground in front of his left boot.

  “Go ahead,” Roland told him. “Pick it up. Take a sniff.”

  The man hesitated, glanced around at the others who were still shouting and jeering and eating Sheila Fontana alive with their eyes. Then he knelt down, picked up the bottle Roland had tossed over, uncapped it and sniffed. “What the hell—!”

  “Want me to kill him, Mr. Lawry?” the blond kid asked hopefully.

  “No! Put that damned gun down!” Lawry sniffed the contents of the bottle again, and his wide blue eyes began to water. “Put the gun down!” he snapped, and the boy obeyed reluctantly.

  “You going to take us to the Fat Man?” Macklin asked. “I think he’d like to get a sniff, don’t you?”

  “Where’d you get this shit?”

  “The Fat Man. Now.”

  Lawry capped the vial. He looked around at the others, looked back at the Airstream trailer and paused, trying to make up his mind. He blinked, and Roland could tell the man didn’t exactly have a mainframe computer between his ears. “Okay.” He motioned with the shotgun. “Move ass.”

  “Kill ’em!” the stocky woman shrieked. “Don’t let ’em contaminate us!”

  “Now listen, all of you!” Lawry held the shotgun at his side and kept the plastic vial gripped tightly in his other hand. “They’re not burned or anything! I mean… they’re just dirty! They’re not like the other dirtwarts! I’ll take responsibility for them!”

  “Don’t let them in!” another woman shouted. “They don’t belong!”

  “Move,” Lawry told Macklin, “You try anything funny, and I swear to God you’ll be one headless motherfucker. Got it?”

  Macklin didn’t answer. He pushed Sheila forward, and Roland followed him toward the large silver trailer. A pack of people stalked at their heels, including the trigger-happy kid with the .38 revolver.

  Lawry ordered them to stop when they’d gotten ten feet from the trailer. He walked up a few bricks that had been set up as steps to the trailer’s door and knocked on it with the butt of his shotgun. A high, thin voice from inside asked, “Who is it?”

  “Lawry, Mr. Kempka. I’ve got something you need to see.”

  There was no reply for a moment or so. Then the whole trailer seemed to tremble, to creak over a few degrees as Kempka—the Fat Man who, Macklin had learned from another dirtwart, was the leader of the lake shore encampment—approached the door. A couple of bolts snapped back. The door opened, but Macklin was unable to see who had opened it. Lawry told Macklin to wait where he was, then he entered the trailer. The door shut. As soon as he was gone, the curses and jeers got louder, and again bottles and cans were flung.

  “You’re crazy, war hero,” Sheila said. “You’ll never get out of here alive.”

  “If we go, so do you.”

  She turned on him, disregarding the pistol, and her eyes flashed with anger. “So kill me, war hero. As soon as you pull that trigger, these horny bastards’ll take you apart piece by piece. And who said you could use my stash, huh? That’s high-grade Colombian sugar you’re throwing around, man!”

  Macklin smiled thinly. “You like to take chances, don’t you?” He didn’t wait for the answer, because he already knew it. “You want food and water? You want to sleep with a roof over your head and not expect somebody to kill you in the night? You want to be able to wash and not squat in your own shit? I want those things, too, and so does Roland. We don’t belong out there with the dirtwarts; we belong here, and this is a chance we’ve got to take.”

  She shook her head, and though she was infuriated at losing her stash, she knew he was right. The kid had shown real smarts in suggesting it. “You’re crazy.”

  “We’ll see.”

  The trailer’s door opened. Lawry stuck his head out. “Okay. Come on up. But you give me the gun first.”

  “No deal. The gun stays with me.”

  “You heard what I said, mister!”

  “I heard. The gun stays with me.”

  Lawry looked over his shoulder at the man inside the trailer. Then: “Okay. Come on—and be quick about it!”

  They went up the steps into the trailer, and Lawry closed the door behind Roland, sealing off the shouts of the mob. Lawry swung his shotgun up at Macklin’s head.

  A blob wearing a food-stained T-shirt and overalls was sitting at a table on the other side of the trailer. His hair was dyed orange and stood up in inch-high spikes on his scalp, and he had a beard streaked with red and green food coloring. His head looked too small for his chest and massive belly, and he had four chins. His eyes were beady black holes in a pallid, flabby face. Scattered around the trailer were cases of canned food, bottled Cokes and Pepsis, bottled water and about a hundred six-packs of Budweiser stacked up against one wall. Behind him was a storehouse of weapons: a rack of seven rifles, one with a sniperscope, an old Thompson submachine gun, a bazooka, and a variety of pistols hanging on hooks. Before him on the table, he had sifted a small mound of cocaine from the plastic vial and was rubbing some of it between his fleshy fingers. Within reach of his right hand was a Luger, its muzzle pointed in the direction of his visitors. He lifted s
ome of the cocaine to his nostrils and sniffed delicately, as if testing French perfume. “Do you have names?” he asked, in a voice that was almost girlish.

  “My name is Macklin. Colonel James B. Macklin, ex-United States Air Force. This is Roland Croninger and Sheila Fontana.”

  Kempka picked up another bit of cocaine and let it drift back down. “Where did this come from, Colonel Macklin?”

  “My stash,” Sheila said. She thought she’d seen all the repulsive things in the world, but even in the low yellow light of the two lamps that illuminated the trailer, she could hardly bear the Fat Man. He looked like a circus freak, and from each of his long, fat earlobes hung diamond-studded earrings.

  “And this is the extent of that ‘stash’?”

  “No,” Macklin replied. “Not nearly all. There’s plenty more cocaine, and all kinds of pills, too.”

  “Pills,” Kempka repeated. His black eyes aimed at Macklin. “What kind of pills?”

  “All kinds. LSD. PCP. Painkillers. Tranquilizers. Uppers and downers.”

  Sheila snorted. “War hero, you don’t know shit about goodies, do you?” She took a step toward Kempka, and the Fat Man’s hand rested on the Luger’s butt. “Black Beauties, Yellowjackets, Blue Angels, bennies, poppers, and Red Stingers. All high-quality floats.”

  “Is that so? Were you in the business, young lady?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” She looked around at the messy, cluttered trailer. “What kind of business were you in? Pig farming?”

  Kempka stared at her. Then, slowly, his belly began to wobble, followed by his chins. His entire face shook like a plateful of Jell-O, and a high, feminine laugh squeaked between his lips. “Hee hee!” he said, his cheeks reddening. “Hee hee! Pig farming. Hee hee!” He waved a fat hand at Lawry, who forced a nervous laugh as well. When he’d stopped laughing, Kempka said, “No, dear one, it was not pig farming. I owned a gun shop in Rancho Cordova, just east of Sacramento. Fortunately, I had time to pack up some of my stock and get out when the bombs hit the Bay Area. I also had the presence of mind to visit a little grocery store on the way east. Mr. Lawry was a clerk at my store, and we found a place to hide for a while in the Eldorado National Forest. The road brought us here, and other people started arriving. Soon we had a little community. Most of the people came to soak themselves in the lake. There’s a belief that bathing in the salt water washes off the radiation and makes you immune.” He shrugged his fleshy shoulders. “Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t. In any case, I kind of enjoy playing King of the Hill and the Godfather. If someone doesn’t do as I say, I simply banish them to the dirtwart land… or I kill them.” He giggled again, his black eyes sparkling merrily. “You see, I make the laws here. Me, Freddie Kempka, lately of Kempka’s Shootist Supermarket, Incorporated. Oh, I’m having a real ball!”