The giggling was coming from ten or fifteen feet away. It faded out, replaced by a snorting noise that became a language of some kind—German, Josh thought it might be. He made out fragments of other tongues—Chinese, French, Danish, Spanish and more dialects that tumbled out one after the other. Then the harsh, awful voice began to speak in English, with a deep Southern drawl: “Always walked alone… always walked alone… always… always…”
Josh mentally explored his body, probing to find out what worked and what didn’t. His right hand felt dead, maybe broken. Bands of pain throbbed at his ribs and across his shoulders. But he knew he’d been lucky; the blow he’d just survived might have crushed his skull if the Job’s Mask hadn’t been so thick.
The voice changed, skittering into a singsong dialect Josh couldn’t understand, then returned to English with a flat Midwestern accent: “The bitch… the bitch… she’ll die… but not by my hand… oh, no… not by my hand…”
Josh slowly tried to turn his head. Pain shot through his spine, but his neck still worked. He gradually got his head turned toward the raving thing crouched in the dirt on the other side of the lair.
The man with the scarlet eye was staring at his right hand, where weak blue flames popped along the fingers. The man’s face was hung between masks. Fine blond hair mingled with coarse black, one eye was blue and the other brown, one cheekbone sharp and the other sunken. “Not by my hand,” he said. “I’ll make them do it.” His chin lengthened, sprouted a black stubble that turned into a red beard within seconds and just as quickly disappeared again into the writhing matter of his face. “I’ll find a way to make them do it.”
The man’s hand trembled, began to curl into a tight fist, and the little blue flames went out.
Josh gritted his teeth and started crawling for the gray light at the top of the hole—slowly and painfully, an inch at a time. He stiffened when he heard the man’s voice again, singing in a whisper, “Here we go ’round the mulberry bush, mulberry bush, mulberry bush; here we go ’round the mulberry bush, so early in the…” It trailed off into muttered gibberish.
Josh pushed himself forward. Closer to the hole. Closer.
“Run,” the man with the scarlet eye said, in a thin and weary voice. Josh’s heart pounded, because he knew the monster was speaking to him in the darkness. “Go on. Run. Tell her I’ll make a human hand do the work. Tell her… tell her…”
Josh crawled upward toward the light.
“Tell her… I’ve always walked alone.”
And then Josh pulled himself out of the hole, quickly drawing his legs up after him. His ribs were killing him, and he was fighting to stay conscious, but he knew he had to get away or he was dead meat.
He kept crawling as rats scurried around him. A bitter cold had leeched to his bones, and he expected and dreaded the grip of the man with the scarlet eye, but it didn’t come. Josh realized his life had been spared—either because the man with the scarlet eye was weakened, or because he was worn out, or because he wanted a message sent to Swan.
Tell her I’ll make a human hand do the work.
Josh tried to stand but fell on his face again. It was another minute or two before he could find the strength to heave himself to his knees, and then he was finally able to stand up like a tottering, decrepit old man.
He staggered along the alley to the road and started walking toward the bonfire that burned in front of Glory’s shack. But before he made it, his strength gave out; he toppled like a redwood to the ground, and he did not see Robin and Mr. Polowsky running toward him.
Thirteen
A Five-Star General
The Waste Land /
Roland’s prize / What the
Junkman saw / Friend /
Swan’s decision / Robin
being cool / Bitter ashes /
The tide of death and
destruction / Iron claws /
The masters of efficiency
Seventy-five
The Waste Land
Roland Croninger lifted a pair of binoculars to his goggled eyes. Snow was whirling through the freezing air and had already covered most of the corpses and wrecked vehicles. Fires were burning around the mall’s entrance, and he knew the Allegiance soldiers were keeping watch as well.
He heard the slow rumble of thunder up in the clouds, and a spear of blue lightning streaked through the snow. He swept his gaze across the parking lot, and his binoculars revealed a frozen hand reaching from a mound of snow, a pile of bodies locked together in icy death, the gray face of a young boy staring at the dark.
The wasteland, Roland thought. Yes. The wasteland.
He lowered the binoculars and leaned against the armored car that shielded him from sniper fire. The sound of hammers at work was carried past him by the wind. The wasteland. That’s what God’s prayer for the final hour was about. He’d been trying to remember where he’d heard it before, only it hadn’t been a prayer then, and it wasn’t Sir Roland who’d heard it. It was a memory from the child Roland’s mind, but it wasn’t a prayer. No, not a prayer. It had been a poem.
He’d awakened that morning on the bare mattress in his black trailer and thought of Miss Edna Merritt. She was one of those spinster English teachers who must have been born looking sixty years old. She’d taught Advanced Freshman English back in Flagstaff. As Roland had sat up on his mattress he’d seen her standing beside the hand-crusher, and she was holding an open copy of The New Oxford Book of English Verse.
“I am going to recite,” Miss Edna Merritt announced, in a voice so dry it made dust seem damp. And, cutting her eyes left and right to make sure the Advanced Freshman English class was attentive, she’d begun to read: “Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,/ The lady of situations./ Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,/ And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,/ Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,/ Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find/ The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.” And when she’d finished, she’d announced that the entire class was going to do a research paper on some facet of T. S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land,” a small portion of which she had just recited.
He’d made an A on the term paper, and Miss Edna Merritt had written in red on the title page, “Excellent—Shows interest and intelligence.” He’d thought that it showed he was a superfine bullshitter. Bet old Miss Edna’s down to the bones by now, Roland mused as he stared across the parking lot. Bet the worms ate her from the inside out.
Two possibilities intrigued him. One, that Brother Timothy was crazy and had been leading the American Allegiance to West Virginia in search of a fever dream; and two, that there was somebody on Warwick Mountain who called himself God and spouted poetry. Maybe he had some books up there or something. But Roland recalled a puzzling thing that Brother Gary had said, back in Sutton: “God showed him the black box and the silver key and told him how the world will end.”
The black box and the silver key, Roland thought. What did that mean?
He let the binoculars dangle on their strap around his neck, and he listened to the music of hammering. Then he turned around to look beyond the encampment, where Alvin Mangrim’s creation was being constructed by the light of bonfires about a mile away, and out of the line of sight of Allegiance sentries. The work had been going on for three days and three nights, and Colonel Macklin had supplied everything that Mangrim needed. Roland couldn’t see it through the heavy snowfall, but he knew what it was. It was a damned simple thing, but he wouldn’t have thought of it, and even if he had, he wouldn’t have known how to put one together. He didn’t like or trust Alvin Mangrim, but he had to admit that Mangrim had brains. If such a thing was good enough for a medieval army, it was certainly good enough for the Army of Excellence.
Roland knew the Savior must be getting jittery by now, wondering when the next attack would come. They must be in there singing their chants good and loud by—
Searing pain tore through Roland’s face, and he pressed hi
s palms against the bandages. A shuddering moan escaped his lips. He thought his head was going to explode. And then, beneath his fingers, he felt the growths under the bandages move and swell outward, like pressure seething below the crust of a volcano. Roland staggered with pain and terror as the entire left side of his face bulged outward, almost ripping the bandages loose. Frantically, he pressed his hands against his face to keep it from coming apart. He thought of the cracked fragments on the King’s pillow, and what had been revealed beneath, and he whimpered like a child.
The pain ebbed. The movement of the bandages stopped. And then it was over, and Roland was all right. His face hadn’t cracked apart. He was all right. This time the pain hadn’t lasted as long as usual, either. What had happened to Colonel Macklin was a freak thing, Roland told himself. It wouldn’t happen to him. He was content to wear these bandages for the rest of his life.
He waited until he’d stopped shaking. It wouldn’t do for anyone to see him that way. He was an officer. Then he began walking briskly across the camp toward Colonel Macklin’s trailer.
Macklin was seated behind his desk, going over reports from Captain Satterlee about how much fuel and ammunition remained. The supplies were rapidly dwindling. “Come in,” he said when Roland knocked at the door. Roland entered, and Macklin said, “Close the door.”
Roland stood before his desk, waiting for him to look up—but dreading it, too. The skeletal face, with its jutting cheekbones, exposed veins and muscles made Macklin look like walking death.
“What do you want?” Macklin asked, busy with his merciless figures.
“It’s almost ready,” Roland said.
“The machine? Yes. What about it?”
“We’ll attack when it’s finished, won’t we?”
The colonel put aside his pencil. “That’s right. If I can have your permission to attack, Captain.”
Roland knew he was still stung from their disagreement. It was time now to mend the rift, because Roland loved the King—and also because he didn’t want Alvin Mangrim to be in the King’s favor and himself cast out in the cold. “I… want to apologize,” Roland said. “I spoke out of turn.”
“We could’ve broken them!” Macklin snapped vengefully. “One more attack was all we needed! We could’ve broken them right then and there!”
Roland kept his eyes lowered in submission, but he knew damned well that another frontal attack would only have slaughtered more AOE soldiers. “Yes, sir.”
“If anybody else had spoken to me like that, I would’ve shot them down on the spot! You were wrong, Captain! Look at these goddamned figures!” He shoved the papers at Roland, and they flew from the desk. “Look how much gasoline we’ve got left! Look at the ammunition inventory! You want to see how much food we have? We’re sitting here starving, and we could’ve had the Allegiance’s supplies three days ago! If we’d attacked then!” He slammed his black-gloved hand down on the desk, and the oil lantern jumped. “And it’s your fault, Captain! Not mine! I wanted to attack! I have faith in the Army of Excellence! Go on! Get out!”
Roland didn’t move.
“I gave you an order, Captain!”
“I have a request to make,” Roland said quietly.
“You’re in no position to make requests!”
“I’d like to request,” Roland continued doggedly, “that I lead the first assault wave when we break through.”
“Captain Carr’s leading it.”
“I know you gave him permission. But I’d like to ask you to change your mind. I want to lead the first wave.”
“It’s an honor to lead an assault wave. I don’t think you’re deserving of an honor, do you?” He paused and then leaned back in his chair. “You’ve never asked to lead an assault wave before. Why now?”
“Because I want to find someone, and I want to capture him alive.”
“And who might that be?”
“The man who calls himself Brother Timothy,” Roland replied. “I want him alive.”
“We’re not taking prisoners. They’re all going to die. Every one.”
“The black box and the silver key,” Roland said.
“What?”
“God showed Brother Timothy the black box and the silver key and told him how the world will end. I’d like to know more about what Brother Timothy says he saw on that mountaintop.”
“Have you lost your mind? Or did they brainwash you when you went in there?”
“I agree that Brother Timothy is probably insane,” Roland said, keeping his composure. “But if he’s not—then who’s calling himself God? And what’s the black box and the silver key?”
“They don’t exist.”
“Probably not. There might not even be a Warwick Mountain. But if there is… Brother Timothy could be the only one who knows how to find it. I think capturing him alive might be worth the effort.”
“Why? Do you want the Army of Excellence to go looking for God, too?”
“No. But I want to lead the first assault wave, and I want Brother Timothy taken alive.” Roland knew it sounded like an order, but he didn’t care. He stared fixedly at the King.
There was silence. Macklin’s left hand squeezed into a fist, then slowly unclenched. “I’ll think about it.”
“I’d like to know right now.”
Macklin leaned forward, his mouth curved into a thin and terrible smile. “Don’t push me, Roland. I won’t stand to be pushed. Not even by you.”
“Brother Timothy,” Roland said, “is to be taken alive. We can kill everyone else. But not him. I want him able to answer questions, and I want to know about the black box and the silver key.”
Macklin rose like a dark cyclone slowly unfurling. But before he could answer, there was another knock at the trailer’s door. “What is it?” Macklin shouted.
The door opened, and Sergeant Benning came in. He immediately felt the tension. “Uh… I’ve brought a message from Corporal Mangrim, sir.”
“I’m listening.”
“He says it’s ready. He wants you to come see it.”
“Tell him I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“Yes, sir.” Benning started to turn away.
“Sergeant?” Roland said. “Tell him we’ll be there in five minutes.”
“Uh… yes, sir.” Benning glanced quickly at the colonel and then got out as fast as he could.
Macklin was filled with cold rage. “You’re walking close to the edge, Roland. Very close.”
“Yes, I am. But you won’t do anything. You can’t. I helped you build all this. I helped you put it together. If I hadn’t amputated your hand in Earth House, you’d be dust by now. If I hadn’t told you to use the drugs to trade with, we’d still be dirtwarts. And if I hadn’t executed Freddie Kempka for you, there’d be no Army of Excellence. You ask my advice, and you do what I say. That’s how it’s always been. The soldiers bow to you—but you bow to me.” The bandages tightened as Roland smiled. He’d seen the flicker of uncertainty—no, of weakness—in the King’s eyes. And he realized the truth. “I’ve always kept the brigades operating for you, and I’ve even found the settlements for us to attack. You can’t even allocate the supplies without going to pieces.”
“You… little bastard,” Macklin managed to say. “I should… have you… shot…”
“You won’t. You used to say I was your right hand. And I believed it. But that was never true, was it? You’re my right hand. I’m the real King, and I’ve just let you wear the crown.”
“Get out… get out… get out…” Macklin felt dizzy, and he grabbed the edge of the desk to steady himself. “I don’t need you! I never did!”
“You always did. You do now.”
“No… no… I don’t… I don’t.” He shook his head and looked away from Roland, but he could still feel Roland’s eyes on him, probing to his soul with surgical precision. He remembered the eyes of the skinny kid who’d been sitting in Earth House’s Town Hall during the newcomers’ orientation, and he remem
bered seeing something of himself in them—determined, willful and, above all, cunning.
“I’ll still be the King’s Knight,” Roland said. “I like the game. But from now on, we won’t pretend it’s you who makes the rules.”
Macklin suddenly lifted his right arm and started to swipe the nail-studded palm across Roland’s face. But Roland didn’t move, didn’t flinch. Macklin’s skeletal face was twisted with rage, and he trembled but did not deliver the blow. He made a gasping sound, like a punctured balloon, and the room seemed to spin crazily around him. in his mind he heard the hollow, knowing laughter of the Shadow Soldier.
The laughter went on for a long time. And when it was over, Macklin’s arm dropped to his side.
He stood staring at the floor, his mind on a filthy pit where only the strong survived.
“We should go see Mangrim’s machine now,” Roland suggested, and this time his voice was softer, almost gentle. The voice of a boy again. “I’ll give you a ride in my Jeep. All right?”
Macklin didn’t answer. But when Roland turned and walked to the door, Macklin followed like a dog humbled by a new master.
Seventy-six
Roland’s prize
Headlights darkened, three rows of Army of Excellence vehicles moved slowly across the parking lot as howling winds blew snow in blinding crosscurrents. Visibility was cut to nine or ten feet in all directions, but the blizzard had given the AOE a chance to clear some of the debris off the parking lot with two of its three bulldozers. They’d shoved the frozen corpses and twisted metal into huge heaps on either side of what the AOE infantrymen now called “Death Valley.”
Roland rode in his Jeep at the center of the first row, with Sergeant McCowan behind the wheel. Under his coat he wore a shoulder holster with a .38 in it, and at his side was an M-16. On the floorboard, behind his right boot, were a flare gun and two red flares.
1987 - Swan Song v4 Page 75