Rick looked at Miranda. She shook her head, adding her opinion to Paloma’s. He was ripped between what he knew was the sensible thing and what he considered to be his duty as leader of the Rattlers. Gang law said that if one of the brothers needed help, you gave it without question. He took a deep breath of smoke-tainted air and released it. The whole town smelled like scorched metal and burning tires. “Mrs. Garracone,” he said, “will you take my grandmother and sister to the church with you? I don’t want them being alone.”
“No!” This time Paloma did stand up. “No, for the love of God, no!”
“I want you to go with Mrs. Garracone,” he said calmly. “I’ll be all right.”
“No! I’m begging you!” Her voice broke, and new tears ran down her wrinkled cheeks.
He walked across the crooked floor to her and put his arm around her. “Listen to me. If you believed I was still out there, and alive, you’d want someone to go in after me, wouldn’t you?”
“There are others who can do it! Not you!”
“I have to go. You know that, because you taught me not to turn my back on my friends.”
“I taught you not to be a fool, either!” she answered, but Rick could hear in her voice that she had grudgingly accepted his decision.
He held her for a moment longer, and then he said to Miranda, “Take care of her,” and he let his grandmother go. Paloma seized his hand, squeezed it tightly, and the cataract-covered eyes found his face. “You be careful. Promise it.”
“I promise,” he said, and she released him. He turned toward Father Ortega. “All right. Let’s get it done.”
Mrs. Garracone left with Paloma and Miranda, heading to the Catholic church on First Street. Armed with a flashlight, Father Ortega led Rick, Zarra, and Joey Garracone in the opposite direction, along smoky Second Street toward the blown-down fence of the autoyard and the fires beyond.
At the yard’s edge, they stopped to survey a landscape of destruction: car parts had been thrown into tangled heaps of metal, piles of tires billowed dense black smoke, and what had been either wooden or brick buildings were either smashed flat or turned to rubble.
And overshadowing all was the black pyramid, its base sunken into the earth.
“I wouldn’t do what you’re thinking,” someone warned. Sitting on the hood of his Mercedes was Mack Cade, smoking a thin cheroot and regarding the ruins like a fallen emperor. Typhoid crouched at his feet, and Lockjaw sat in the backseat. Cade still wore his Panama hat; his tanned face, wine-red shirt, and khaki trousers were streaked with soot. “Nothing in there worth going after.”
“My dad’s in there!” Joey answered adamantly. “We’re gonna bring him out!”
“Sure you are.” Cade spewed a thread of smoke. “Kid, there’s nothing left but bones and ashes.”
“You shut your filthy mouth!”
Typhoid stood up and growled darkly, but Cade rested one booted foot on the dog’s back. “Just telling it like it is, kid. There are some drums of paint and lubricant that haven’t blown up yet. That’s what I’m waiting on. You want to get yourselves killed, you go right ahead.”
“You know where Leon Garracone was working,” Ortega said. “Why don’t you do something worthwhile for once in your life and help us find him?”
“Garracone, Garracone …” He thought for a moment, trying to place a face with the name. They all looked alike to him. “Oh, yeah! Garracone was always bitching for a raise. He worked in the engine shop. That’s what’s left of it.” He pointed, and through the haze they could make out a heap of broken bricks about fifty yards in.
“John Gomez got out,” Ortega said, undaunted. “He’s cut up and burned, but he’s alive. Leon could still be—”
“Sure. Dream on, padre. Anyway, what the hell is Garracone to you?” He removed the cheroot from his mouth and flicked it away. The gold chains around his neck made a tinkling noise as he moved.
“Leon is my friend. Which is something I don’t suppose you understand.”
“I’ve got all the friends I need, thanks.” Cade had a staff of five Mexican servants at his house, a live-in teenage mistress—a little coked-up go-go dancer from San Antonio—and a fat-bellied cook named Lucinda, but his real friends were always with him. The two dogs never judged him, or pressured him, or gave him bad vibrations. They were always ready to rip the throats out of his enemies, and they obeyed without question: to him, that was true friendship. “Jurado, you’ve got more sense than this. Tell ’em how crazy they are, man.”
“We’ve got to see for ourselves.”
“You’ll see, all right! Man, didn’t you get a look at that flying bastard? There’s something alive in that fucker!” He motioned toward the pyramid. “You go out there and it’ll chew your asses up too!”
“Let’s go,” Ortega urged. “This leech is useless.”
“My mama didn’t raise any fools!” Cade retorted as the others started into the autoyard, watching their steps over the twisted sheet-metal fence and the wicked coils of concertina wire. “I’ll tell Noah Twilley where to find your bodies!” But they paid him no more attention and moved into the yard past heaps of razor-sharp metal and smoking debris. Soon afterward, they heard the blare and crash of Cade’s tape deck, cranked up loud enough to blast God’s eardrums: Alice Cooper, wailing about dead babies in a cupboard.
The sandy ground was littered with parts of engines and cars, charred wooden planks, bricks, and other junk. Zarra lagged behind to poke around the warped chassis of what appeared to have been a Porsche, thrown upside down by the concussion. Father Ortega saw a man’s bloodstained shirt lying nearby, but he didn’t call attention to it. The dark smoke of smoldering tires hung close to the earth, unstirred by a breeze, and piles of wreckage glowed fierce red at their centers. The black pyramid loomed frighteningly close. Rick hesitated, looking up toward the column of light that whirled around and around with hypnotic effect at its apex, then got his legs moving again.
But he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. It was a sense he’d developed by necessity, to guard against a ’Gade coming up behind him at school and taking him down with a kidney punch. The back of his neck prickled and he kept glancing around, but nothing moved through the smoke. It was more than being watched, he decided; it was a sensation of being taken apart, measured, dissected like a frog in biology class. “Creepy in here,” Zarra muttered, walking just to Rick’s right, and Rick knew Zarra must be feeling it too.
They crossed the yard to the jumble of bricks and metal beams that Cade had pointed out. Not far away was a mound of cars and pickup trucks that had been crunched together like a bizarre sculpture. Joey Garracone got down on his knees in the sand and started tossing broken bricks aside and calling for his father.
“You and Zarra start on the other side,” Ortega suggested, and they went around the collapsed building—where they came face-to-face with a burned-up corpse lying next to a crumpled sky-blue Corvette. The corpse’s head was smashed in, and broken teeth gleamed in the gaping mouth. Whoever he was, he had reddish-blond hair; a white man, not Joey’s father. The heavy, sickly-sweet odor of burned meat reached them, and Zarra gasped. “I’m gonna volcano, man!” He turned and ran away a few yards, bending his head toward the ground. Rick clamped his teeth together, walked past the dead man, and stood waiting for the dizzy sickness to pass. It did, mercifully, and then he was ready to work. Zarra came back, his face yellow.
They began to search through the ruins of the engine shop, clearing away some of the mountain of bricks. After about ten minutes of work, Ortega uncovered another dead man: it was Carlos Hermosa—Ruben’s father—and the way the man’s body was contorted Ortega knew the spine and neck must be broken. Joey stared for a moment at the corpse, his face covered with dust and sweat, and then he silently continued his labor. Ortega made the sign of the cross and kept tossing bricks aside.
The work was hard. It looked to Rick as if the whole building—which had been a flat-roofed structure abo
ut forty feet long—had caved in on itself. He moved a length of pipe, and broken bricks tumbled down along with a charred sneaker that he at first thought might have a foot in it but was empty, its owner either buried or blown out of his shoe by the concussion.
He came to a metal beam that Zarra helped him shift with back-wrenching effort, and after the beam was laid aside Zarra looked at him and said quietly, “Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“Listen!”
Rick did, but all he could hear was Cade’s tape deck playing.
“Hold it. I don’t hear it anymore.” Zarra walked into the wreckage, searching for the sound he’d heard. He bent down, tossed more bricks and rubble away. Then: “There! You hear that, man? Over this way!”
“I didn’t hear anything.” Rick went to where Zarra was and waited. A few seconds passed—and then, muffled and indistinct, came the clink of metal against metal. It was a steady rhythm, coming from somewhere deep within the ruins, and Rick realized somebody was signaling. “Hey! Father!” he shouted. “Over here!”
Ortega and Joey came running, their clothes and skin filmed with dust. Zarra picked up a piece of pipe and hit it against a brick a few times, and they all heard the answering knocks from below. Ortega got down on his knees, shining the flashlight in amid the bricks in search of an airspace. Zarra kept signaling, and the clinking noise came back to him.
“It’s Domingo Ortega!” the priest shouted. “Can you hear me?”
They waited, but heard no response. “Help me,” Ortega said, and he and the boys began to work at a fever pitch, digging their way down through three or four feet of rubble. Within minutes their hands were scraped raw, and blood seeped from cuts in Rick’s palms. Ortega said, “Hold it,” and leaned forward, listening. There was the sound of metal on metal again, someone hammering at a pipe. “Can you hear me down there?” Ortega hollered.
A weak, raspy shout drifted up: “Yeah! Oh Christ, yeah! Get us outta here!”
“Who are you? How many are with you?”
“Three of us! I’m Greg Frackner! Will Barnett and Leon Garracone are down here too!”
“Papa!” Joey yelled, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Papa, it’s Joey!”
“We’re down in the work pit, and there’s all kinds of shit wedged in on top of us,” Frackner continued. “I can see your light, though!”
“Are you hurt?”
“Broken arm, I reckon. Ribs don’t feel too swift either. Will’s coughin’ up blood, and Leon’s passed out again. I think his legs are busted. What the hell hit us, man? A bomb?”
Ortega avoided the question. “Can you move at all?”
“A little bit, but it’s mighty tight in here. We’re breathin’ okay, though.”
“Good.” It was clear to Ortega that they were going to need more muscle power to get the three men out. “Just take it easy, now. We’re going to have to go back for some picks and shovels.”
“Whatever it takes, man! Listen … can you leave the light where I can see it? I keep thinkin’ I hear somethin’ diggin’ down here. Like underneath us. I’m scared of rats. Okay?”
“Okay,” Ortega said, and wedged the flashlight in between two bricks so its beam would shine down into the airspace. “We’ll be back!” he promised, and he grasped Joey’s shoulders and pulled the boy up too.
They started back across the autoyard, under the violet glow and the motionless black clouds, and Rick had that crawly sensation of being watched again. He turned toward the pyramid.
A man was standing about twenty feet away. He was lean, tall, and broad around the shoulders; he stood slightly hunchbacked, and his arms dangled limply at his sides. Rick was unable to tell much about the man’s face, other than that it looked to be wet. The man wore dark pants and a striped short-sleeve shirt, the clothes covered with dirt. He was just standing there, his head cocked slightly to one side, watching them. “Father?” Rick said, and Ortega heard the raw nerves in Rick’s voice and stopped; he looked back, and then all of them saw the hunchbacked man who stood like a statue.
Ortega’s first thought was that it was one of Cade’s workmen who’d just dug himself out of the ruins. He stepped forward. “You all right?”
“Who’s the guardian?” the man asked, in a thick, slow drawl that had an undercurrent like the whistle of steam from a teakettle.
The priest’s steps faltered. He couldn’t see much of the man’s face—just some slicked-down gray hair and a damp and gleaming slab of forehead—but he thought he recognized the voice. Only the voice usually said What can I fit you for, padre? It was Gil Lockridge, Ortega realized. Gil and his wife Mavis had owned the Boots ’n Plenty shoestore for over ten years. But Gil wasn’t so tall, Ortega thought. And he wasn’t so large around the shoulders, nor was he hunchbacked like this man was. But … it was Gil’s voice. Wasn’t it?
“I asked you a question,” the man said. “Who’s the guardian?”
“Guardian?” Ortega shook his head. “Guardian of what?”
The man drew in a long lungful of air and released it—a long release—with a noise that reminded Rick of the way that sidewinder had rattled when he’d reached into the box for the Fang of Jesus. “I don’t like bein’ …” There was a hesitation, as if he were searching for the correct phrase. “Bein’ trifled with. I don’t like it a’tall.” He took two strides forward, and Ortega backed away. The man stopped, and now Ortega could see some kind of ooze sliding off the man’s lantern-jawed face. Gil’s eyes were black, sunken, terrible. “I know the one I’m lookin’ for is here. I know there’s a guardian. Maybe it’s you.” The eyes fixed on Zarra for a second. “Or maybe it’s you.” A glance at Rick. “Or is it you?” The gaze returned to Father Ortega.
“Listen … Gil … how’d you get out here? I mean … I don’t understand what you’re—”
“The one I’m seekin’ is a subversive criminal,” the man went on. “An enemy of the collective mind. I don’t know how you deal with criminals on this”—he looked around with a sinuous movement of the neck and said contemptuously—“world, but I’m sure you understand the concepts of law and order. I intend to bring the creature to justice.”
“What creature?” It hit him then: what Colonel Rhodes had said about Stevie Hammond. “The little girl?” he asked before he could think about what he was saying.
“The little girl,” the voice repeated. The eyes had taken on a keen glint. “Explain.”
Ortega stood very still, but his insides had twisted into knots. He damned his tongue; there was an awful hunger on the wet and waxy face of the man-thing that stood before him. It was not Gil Lockridge; it was a mocking imitation of humanity.
“Explain,” the thing commanded, and took a gliding step forward.
“Run!” Ortega shouted to the boys; they were frozen with shock, couldn’t move. “Get away!” he yelled, and as he backed up he saw a length of pipe lying on the ground beside his left foot. He picked it up and held it threateningly over his head. The thing was almost upon him, and he had no choice; he hurled the broken pipe at the Gil Lockridge face with the strength of panic.
The pipe smashed into the moist features with a noise like a hammer whacking a watermelon. The right cheek split open from eye to corner of mouth, and gray fluid dripped out. The face showed no reaction, no pain. But there was a slight smile on the crooked mouth now, and needlelike teeth glinted inside the cavity. The rattling voice said with a hint of pleasure, “I see you speak my language.”
There was a ripping sound: the tearing of brittle cloth. Little crackling noises like a hundred bones breaking and rearranging themselves within seconds. Joey Garracone screamed and ran, but Rick and Zarra stood their ground, transfixed with terror. The man’s hunched back was swelling, bowing his spine downward; his eyes were riveted to Ortega, who moaned and retreated on trembling legs.
The thing’s shirt split open, and a bulbous lump rose at the end of the spine. It tore through the pale counterfeit skin and re
vealed black, interlocking scales similar to those on the pyramid. From its lower end uncoiled a dripping, segmented tail about five feet long and triple the thickness of Zarra’s bullwhip; the tail rose into the air with a clicking, bony sound, and at its tip was a football-sized nodule of metallic spikes.
“No,” Rick heard himself croak—and the grinning, split-open face ticked toward him.
Father Ortega turned to run; he got two strides away before the monster leapt after him. The spiked tail whipped forward in a deadly blur, caught the side of the priest’s head, and demolished it in an explosion of bone and brains. Ortega fell to his knees, his face a crimson hole, and slowly, with exquisite grace, toppled into the sand.
The monster whirled around, crouched and ready, the tail flicking back and forth with fragments of Ortega’s head clinging to the spikes.
Zarra let out a choked shriek, backed away, and stumbled over a pile of rubble. He went down hard on his tailbone, sat there gaping as the creature took a step toward him.
Rick saw automotive parts scattered all around him; there was no time to judge if he should run or not, because in another few seconds that spiked tail would be within range of Zarra. Rick picked up a twisted hubcap and flung it, and as it sailed at the monster’s head the tail flicked out almost lazily and knocked the piece of metal aside.
Now Rick had the creature’s undivided attention, and as it stalked toward him Rick hefted a car’s door from the sand and held it before himself like a shield. “Run!” he shouted to Zarra, who started crawling frantically on his hands and knees. “Go!”
The tail swept at Rick. He tried to dance out of its way, but the thing hit his makeshift shield and threw off a shower of sparks; the impact lifted him off his feet and hurled him onto his back on the ground. His hands still gripped the dented-in car door, which lay on top of him, and as he struggled up, his head ringing, the monster advanced in a crouch and the tail swung again.
The Monster Novels: Stinger, the Wolf's Hour, and Mine Page 30