1987 - Swan Song v4

by Robert McCammon

  The next thing he knew, Macklin was on his feet, his uniform and coat hanging in tatters around him, and he was looking down at Judd Lawry. The man was sprawled on his back amid the wreckage of the Jeep, and his body was twitching as if he were trying to crawl to safety. Judd Lawry’s head had been smashed into a misshapen mass of gore, and his broken teeth were clicking together like castanets.

  Macklin had his gun in his left hand. The false right hand with its palmful of nails was still attached to the wrist by strong adhesive bandages. Blood was streaming down his right arm and dripping down the black-gloved fingers to the concrete. He realized he’d scraped his arm open from shoulder to elbow, but other than that he seemed to be okay. The soldiers swirled around him, fighting and firing, and a bullet dug up a chunk of parking lot about four inches from his right boot. He looked around, trying to figure out how to get back to the AOE’s camp; without transportation, he was as helpless as the lowest infantryman. There was so much screaming, shouting and gunfire that Macklin couldn’t think. He saw a man pinning an AOE soldier to the ground, repeatedly stabbing him with a butcher knife, and Macklin pressed the .45’s barrel against the man’s skull and blew his brains out.

  The shock of the recoil thrumming up his arm and the sight of the body keeling over cleared the haze out of Macklin’s head; he knew he had to get moving or he would be just as dead as the Allegiance soldier in front of him. He heard another shell coming down, and terror clutched the back of his neck. Ducking his head, he started running, avoiding the knots of fighting men and leaping over sprawled and bleeding bodies.

  The explosion rained pieces of concrete down on him. He tripped, fell, crawled frantically behind the shelter of an overturned AOE armored car. Waiting for nun was a body with most of the face shot away. Macklin thought it might have been Sergeant Arnholdt. Shaken, the colonel took the clip from his .45 and replaced it with a fresh one. Bullets whined off the armored car, and he crouched against the concrete, trying to find enough courage to continue his race back to the encampment.

  Over the tumult, the cries of “Retreat! Retreat!” reached him. The third assault had failed.

  He didn’t know what had gone wrong. The Allegiance should have broken by now. But they had too many men, too many vehicles, too much firepower. All they had to do was sit tight in that damned mall. There had to be a way to get them out. There had to be!

  Trucks and cars started racing across the parking lot, heading away from the mall. Soldiers followed them, many hobbling and wounded, stopping to fire a few shots at their pursuers and then stagger on. Macklin forced himself to get up and run, and as he broke from cover he felt a tug at his coat and knew a bullet had passed through. He squeezed off four wild shots without aiming, and then he fled with the rest of his Army of Excellence as machine gun bullets marched across the concrete and more men died around him.

  When Macklin made it back to camp, he found Captain Satterlee already getting reports from the other surviving officers, and Lieutenant Thatcher was assigning scouts to guard the perimeter against an Allegiance counterattack. Macklin climbed on top of an armored car and stared at the parking lot. It looked like a slaughterhouse floor, hundreds of bodies lying in heaps around the burning wreckage. Already the Allegiance scavengers were running amid the corpses, gathering weapons and ammunition. From the direction of the mall he heard cheers of victory.

  “It’s not over!” Colonel Macklin roared. “It’s not over yet!” He fired the rest of his bullets at the scavengers, but he was shaking so much he couldn’t aim worth a damn.

  “Colonel!” It was Captain Satterlee. “Do we prepare another attack?”

  “Yes! Immediately! It’s not over yet! It’s not over until I say it’s over!”

  “We can’t take another frontal assault!” another voice contended. “It’s suicide!”

  “What?” Macklin snapped, and he looked down at whoever dared to question his orders. It was Roland Croninger, his coat spattered with blood. It was someone else’s blood, though, because Roland was unhurt, the dirty bandages still wrapped around his face. Blood streaked the lenses of his goggles. “What did you say?”

  “I said we can’t stand another frontal assault! We’ve probably got less than three thousand men able to fight! If we run head on into those guns again, we’ll lose another five hundred, and we still won’t get anywhere!”

  “Are you saying we don’t have the willpower to break through—or are you speaking for yourself?”

  Roland drew a deep breath, tried to calm down. He’d never seen such slaughter before, and he’d be dead right now if he hadn’t shot an Allegiance soldier at point-blank range. “I’m saying we’ve got to think of another way into that mall.”

  “And I say we attack again. Right now, before they can organize their defenses again!”

  “They never were disorganized, damn it!” Roland shouted.

  There was silence except for the moaning of the wounded and the crackle of flames. Macklin stared fiercely at Roland. It was the first time Roland had ever dared to shout at him, and there he was, disputing Macklin’s orders in front of the other officers.

  “Listen to me,” Roland continued, before the colonel or anyone else could speak. “I think I know a weak spot in that fortress—more than one. The skylights.”

  Macklin didn’t answer for a moment. His gaze burned balefully at Roland. “The skylights,” he repeated. “The skylights. They’re on the roof. How do we get to the fucking roof? Fly?”

  Laughter interrupted their argument. Alvin Mangrim was leaning against the crumpled hood of the red Cadillac. Steam hissed from the cracked radiator. Bullet holes pocked the metal, and rivulets of blood had leaked from the turret’s view slit. Mangrim grinned, his forehead gashed by metal splinters. “You want to get to that roof, Colonel? I can put you there.”

  “How?”

  He held up his hands and wiggled his fingers. “I used to be a carpenter,” he said. “Jesus was a carpenter. Jesus knew a lot about knives, too. That’s why they crucified him. When I was a carpenter, I used to build dog houses. Only they weren’t just ordinary old dog houses—oh, no! They were castles, like the knights used to live in. See, I used to read books about castles and shit like that, ’cause I wanted those dog houses to be real special. Some of those books said interesting things.”

  “Like what?” Roland asked impatiently.

  “Oh… like how to get to roofs.” He turned his attention to Colonel Macklin. “You get me some telephone poles, barbed wire and good sturdy lumber, and let me take a few of these wrecked cars apart. I’ll put you on that roof.”

  “What are you planning on building?”

  “Creating,” Mangrim corrected. “Only it’ll take me a white. I’ll need help—as many men as you can spare. If I can get the right parts, I can finish it in three or four days.”

  “I asked you what you were planning on building.”

  Mangrim shrugged and dug his hands into his pockets. “Why don’t we go to your trailer, and I’ll draw you a picture. Might be some spies hanging around here.”

  Macklin’s gaze ran the length of the Savior’s fortress. He watched the scavengers shooting some of the wounded AOE soldiers, then stripping the bodies. He almost screamed with frustration.

  “It’s not over,” he vowed. “It’s not over until I say it is.” And then he climbed down from the armored car and said to Alvin Mangrim, “Show me what you want to build.”

  Seventy-four

  The lair

  “Yes,” Josh said. “I think we can build it back.” He felt Glory’s arm clinging to him, and she leaned her head against his shoulder.

  He put his arm around her, and they stood together next to the burned-out ruins of the church. “We can do it,” he said. “Sure we can. I mean… it won’t be tomorrow, or next week… but we can do it. It probably won’t look like it used to, and it might be worse than it was—but it might be better, too.” He squeezed her gently. “Okay?”

  She nodded
. “Okay,” she said, without looking at him, and her voice was choked with emotion. Then she lifted her tear-streaked face. Her hand came up, and her fingers slowly moved across the surface of his Job’s Mask. “You’re… a beautiful man, Josh,” she said softly. “Even now. Even like this. Even if it never cracked open, you’d still be the most beautiful man I’ve ever known.”

  “Oh, I’m not so hot. I never was. You should’ve seen me when I used to wrestle. Know what my name was? Black Frankenstein. I’d sure fit the bill now, wouldn’t I?”

  “No. And I don’t think you ever did.” Her fingers traced the hard ridges and ravines, and then she let her hand drift down again. “I love you, Josh,” she said, and her voice trembled, but her copper-colored eyes were steady and true.

  He started to reply, but he thought of Rose and the boys. It had been so long. So long. Were they wandering somewhere, searching for food and shelter, or were they ghosts that only lived in his memories? It was torture not knowing whether they were dead or alive, and as he looked into Glory’s face he realized he would probably never know. Would it be heartless and disloyal to cut out the hope that Rose and his sons might be alive—or was it just being realistic? But he was sure of one thing: He wanted to stay in the land of the living, instead of roaming the vaults of the dead.

  He put his arms around Glory and held her tight. He could feel the sharpness of her bones through her coat, and he longed for the day when the harvest would be gathered.

  He longed also to be able to see through both eyes, and to be able to breathe deeply again. He hoped his Job’s Mask would crack soon, like Sister’s had last night, but he was afraid as well. What would he look like? he wondered. What if it was the face of someone he didn’t even know? But for now he felt fine, not even a trace of fever. It was the only time in his life he’d ever wanted to be laid low.

  Josh saw something lying on the ground in a frozen puddle about four feet away. His stomach clenched, and he said quietly, “Glory? Why don’t you go on back home now? I’ll be along in a few minutes.”

  She pulled back, puzzled. “What is it?”

  “Nothing. You just go on. I’m going to walk around for a little while and try to figure out how we can put this place back together.”

  “I’ll stay with you.”

  “No,” he said firmly. “Go home. I want to be by myself for a while. All right?”

  “All right,” she agreed. She started back to the road, then turned to him again. “You don’t have to say you love me,” she told him. “It’s okay if you don’t. I just wanted you to know what I was feelin’.”

  “I do,” he said, his voice strained and tight. Glory’s gaze lingered on him for a few more seconds, and then she started home.

  When she was gone, Josh bent down and grasped what was lying in the puddle. The ice cracked as he pulled it free.

  It was a piece of plaid wool, blotched with dark brown stains.

  Josh knew what it was from.

  Gene Scully’s coat.

  He gripped the bloody cloth in his hand and straightened up. Tilting his head to one side, he searched the ground around him. Another fragment of plaid cloth lay a few feet away, deeper into the alley that ran alongside the ruins. He picked that one up, too, and then he saw a thud and a fourth fragment, both bloodstained, ahead of him. Little pieces of Gene Scully’s coat lay scattered like plaid snow all over the ground.

  An animal got him, Josh thought. Whatever it was must have torn him to shreds.

  But he knew no animal had gotten Gene Scully. It had been a different kind of beast, maybe masquerading as a cripple in a child’s red wagon, or as a black man with a silver tooth in the front of his mouth. Scully had either found the man with the scarlet eye—or had been found.

  Go get help, Josh told himself. Go get Paul and Sister, and for God’s sake find a rifle! But he kept following the little bits of plaid coat as his heart pumped violently and his throat went dry. There was other trash on the ground, and as Josh went deeper into the alley a rat the size of a Persian cat waddled in front of him, gave him a beady-eyed glare and then squeezed into a hole. Josh heard little squeakings and rustlings all around him, and he knew this part of Mary’s Rest was infested with vermin.

  He saw frozen splatters of blood on the ground. He followed them for about fifteen more feet and stopped at a circular piece of tin that lay up against the rough brick foundations of the ruined church. More frozen blood streaked the tin, and Josh could see other bits of shredded plaid around his boots. He put his foot against the piece of tin, which was about the size and shape of a manhole cover, drew a breath and slowly let it out. Then, abruptly, he shoved the tin aside and leaped back.

  Exposed underneath it was a hole burrowed down below the church’s foundations. A cold, sour reek rose from it that made his flesh crawl.

  Found you, was Josh’s first thought.

  His second was: Get the hell out of here! Run, you flat-footed fool!

  But he hesitated, staring at the hole.

  There was no sound from within, no movement. It’s empty! Josh realized. He’s gone!

  He took a tentative step toward the hole. Then a second, and a third. He stood over it, listening. Still no sound, no movement.

  The lair was empty. The man with the scarlet eye had gone. After Swan had faced him down, he must have left Mary’s Rest. “Thank God!” Josh whispered.

  There was a rustling behind him.

  Josh whirled around, his arms up to ward off a blow.

  A rat sat atop a cardboard box, baring its teeth. It began to squeal and chatter like an irate landlord.

  Josh said, “Be quiet, you little bas—”

  Two hands—one black, one white—shot out of the hole and grasped Josh’s ankles, jerking him off his feet. Josh had no time to cry out before he slammed to the ground, the air whooshing from his lungs. Dazed, he tried to scrabble free, tried to dig his fingers into the frozen earth around the hole, but the hands gripped his ankles like iron bands and began to draw him into the depths.

  Josh was halfway into the hole before he fully registered what had happened. He started fighting, thrashing and kicking, but the fingers only tightened. He smelled burning cloth, twisted his body and saw blue flames dancing over the man’s hands. Josh’s skin was beginning to scorch, and he felt the man’s hands wet and oozing like wax gloves melting.

  But in the next second the flames weakened and went out. The man’s hands were freezing cold again, and they yanked Josh down into darkness.

  The hands left his ankles. Josh kicked, felt his left boot connect. A cold, heavy form fell on him—more like a sack of ice than a body. But the knee that pressed against his throat was solid enough, trying to crush his windpipe. Blows that almost broke his bones smashed into his shoulders, chest and rib cage. He got his hands up around a clammy throat and dug his fingers into what felt like cold putty. The thing’s fists pounded his head and face but couldn’t inflict damage through the Job’s Mask. Josh’s brain was rattled in his skull, and he was close to passing out. He knew he had two choices: fight like hell or die.

  He struck out with his right fist, his knuckles flattening against the angular line of a jawbone, and instantly he brought his left fist around to crash it into the man’s temple. There was a grunt—more of surprise than of pain—and the weight was off Josh. He struggled to his knees, his lungs dragging in air.

  A freezing arm snaked around his throat from behind. Josh reached back, grabbed the fingers and twisted them at a vicious angle; but what had been bones a second before was now like coathanger wire—it would bend but would not break. With sheer strength, Josh lifted himself up from the floor and hurled himself backward, catching the man with the scarlet eye between himself and the church’s foundation wall of rough bricks. The freezing arm slithered away, and Josh tried to scurry out of the hole.

  He was caught and hauled down again, and as they fought in the dark like animals Josh saw the man’s hands flicker, about to burst into flames—bu
t they wouldn’t catch, as if something had gone haywire with his ignition switch. Josh smelled an odor halfway between a struck match and a melting candle. But he kicked into the man’s stomach and knocked him back. As Josh got to his feet again a blow hammered across his shoulder, almost dislocating his arm, and flung him onto his face in the dirt.

  Josh twisted around to face him, his mouth bleeding and his strength running out fast. He saw the flicker of fire, and then both the man’s hands grew flame again. By their blue light, he could see the man’s face—a nightmare mask, and in it a gibbering, elastic mouth that spat dead flies like broken teeth.

  The flaming hands came toward Josh’s face, and suddenly one of them sputtered and went out like a live coal doused with water. The other hand began to burn out as well, little tongues of fire rippling along the fingers.

  Something lay beside Josh in the dirt. He saw a bloody pile of flesh and twisted bones, and around it a number of coats, pairs of pants, sweaters, shoes and hats. Nearby was a child’s red wagon.

  Josh looked back at the man with the scarlet eye, who had also been Mr. Welcome. The burning hand was almost extinguished, and the man stared at the dying flame with eyes that in a human face might have been called insane.

  He’s not as strong as before, Josh realized.

  And Josh lunged for the wagon, picked it up and smashed it into the thing’s face.

  There was a unholy bellow. The last of the flame went out as the man staggered back. Josh saw gray light and crawled for the hole.

  He was about three feet from it when the crumpled red wagon was slammed down across the back of his head. Josh had a second to remember being thrown from a ring in Gainesville, and how it felt to hit a concrete floor, and then he lay still.

  He awakened—how much later it was he didn’t know—to the sound of high-pitched giggling. He couldn’t move, and he thought every bone in his body must have snapped.