Bono stopped and swore. His face was crunched with frustration, his lips tight. “No, no, no!” he repeated, his voice weak. “Do you understand what this means, Sam! Do you know what this is?”
Sam thought only a moment. “EMP,” he answered, his voice sick with dread.
Bono turned a slow circle, concentrating on the utter darkness all around him. He checked his cell phone. No signal. He looked down the freeway. Not a single car moved. The moon was a bright red, and his eyes were adjusting to the darkness. Through the fence he saw a stalled ambulance on the eastbound lane. The back door was open and there was movement around it, men in scrubs, and a wheeled gurney on the ground. “Welcome to 1850,” he said.
Sam looked at him. “Can it really be that bad?”
“Look around you.”
“I don’t think—”
“You have no idea,” Bono cut him off tartly. “You have absolutely no idea. None of us do.”
The two men stood in silence. Bono reached into a side pocket on his pack and pulled out a narrow flashlight.
“Save it,” Sam told him. “Getting batteries is about to become a huge issue. We’ll need to save the light.” He flipped off his own flashlight, letting his eyes get used to the dark.
“I thought the EMP would fry the circuits?”
“We were underground,” Sam explained. “Our gear has been protected.”
“So our cell phones will work.”
“Yeah, but all of the cell towers and circuits above ground will be fried. They’ll make good paperweights, but that’s about all they’re worth right now.” He pulled his cell from his pocket and started a throwing gesture, but Bono caught his arm.
“Keep it,” he told him. “For one thing, you’ve got a good battery and good circuits. Who knows what that’s worth? More important, they most likely positioned the nuclear detonations to hit the east coast. The interior of the country, the south, out west maybe, it might not be so bad.”
Sam grunted, turned off his phone to save the battery, and shoved it away.
A woman came toward them from the freeway on their right. “Who is that?” she called desperately. “Where did you get that light? What’s going on here?” She pulled herself over the cement guardrail and moved toward them. “I’ve got my babies in the car with me—we’re trying to make our way up to Philly to my mom’s place.” She got close enough to see their uniforms. “Russian soldiers!” she cried and stepped back, her face tight with fear.
Sam ignored her. What did she think this was, a Hollywood script? “Come on, Bono, let’s go,” he said.
Turning, they ran parallel to the fence, heading toward the station a little more than a thousand feet ahead.
The platforms rose on each side. It was crowded, a hundred people mulling here and there. The two soldiers emerged from the darkness, Sam’s flashlight illuminating the way. They stopped at the cement barricade and climbed onto the platform. Sam stood and looked around. “What do we do?” he asked.
Bono didn’t hesitate. “Your mom’s house,” he said. “That’s why we came here, and that mission hasn’t changed. We go there, see what’s up, and then form a plan.”
Sam didn’t move, his mind racing. EMP. No electrical grid. Every car with electronic ignition, basically everything made after 1978 or so, would be inoperable. No jets. No transportation. No phones. No mail. No gas. No food. Soon no water. No medical equipment that couldn’t be operated by hand. No TV, radio, newspapers, Internet. Nothing. It was as if the entire nation had been transported back in time. Then he thought of Bono’s wife and little girl, the two of them waiting for him a little more than seven hundred miles to the west.
But now . . . with all this . . . how was he going to get to Memphis? Sam shook his head sadly.
Bono wasn’t going to get there. He wasn’t going home.
He swallowed hard, feeling responsible again for keeping Bono away from his family. “Bono, I’m so, so sorry, man . . .”
Bono knew what Sam was thinking. His mind was on the same thing.
“This is better anyway,” Bono struggled to say. “I would have been out there on my own. Who knows where, who knows under what circumstances? The last place I’d like to be after an EMP is out on the road. It’s better that I’m here.”
Sam shook his head. He didn’t buy it. Every mile, any mile, toward his wife would have been preferable to this. “There’s got to be a way,” he stammered. “There’s got to be a way to get you down to Memphis, Bono. We’re going to get you there. I swear to you, baby, we’re going to get you home.”
Bono shook his head. “It isn’t going to happen.”
“Yes it is, man. There’s got to be a way.”
“I could walk there. That would only take a month.”
“No, Bono, we’re going to get you home.”
“Come on,” Bono said. “We’ll think about that later. Right now, let’s get to your parents’ place.”
He glanced around the platform, the hair rising on his neck. Something about it, something evil, made him shiver as he stood in the middle of the anxious crowd. Living under constant threat to his life had developed his sense of danger, and his senses were screaming now. There was no reason or explanation, but he had learned to trust the quiet voice inside his head. He had felt it and listened to it many times over the previous years, and he knew he was alive now because of it. “It’s a dangerous time right now,” he said, his survival instincts kicking into gear. “None of these people have any idea what is going on, but they’ll expect the worst case and they’ll act accordingly. Everyone goes bonkers when the lights go out, you know what I’m saying, especially after what happened in D.C. It’s every man for himself right now. We’d better get off the streets.”
Sam turned and started walking. “This way,” he said.
Forty feet down the platform, a group of men started moving toward them. The four men approached together, their shoulders touching, their eyes staring straight ahead, dull and lifeless. Two wore shaved heads. Lots of homemade tattoos were scattered over their flesh. One of them had to be a meth-head: his lips were dry and cracked, his front teeth rotting, his face thin and taut, his eye sockets sunk deeply into his skull. His skin, wrinkled as an old man’s, made him look like walking death.
Sam stepped aside to avoid them but the four men adjusted their path, moving to confront the two soldiers. They bumped into Sam with great force, almost knocking him over. He stumbled and caught himself. “Watch it!” Meth-man said.
Sam ignored him and turned to let them pass. Bono quickly moved to stand beside him.
“I said freaking watch it!” Meth-man cried again. His eyes were wild now, burning bright and crazy. Whatever demons were inside him were screaming in his head.
“Take it easy,” Sam replied, his voice soft. “I don’t want any trouble here, okay? It’s cool, man, it’s all good. You guys have a great night.”
One of the skinheads reached into his pocket. “Who the bloody ’ey are you talking to!” he cried.
“Great,” Sam muttered sarcastically but loudly enough to be heard. “We stinking lose our electricity and all the freaks spill out into the streets.”
“Come on,” Bono answered carefully. Pulling on Sam’s shoulders, he took a wary step back. Sam felt the pressure of Bono’s grip and almost grimaced at the pain. Bono was scared; Sam could feel it in the force of his steely grip.
Meth-man reached under his jacket, apparently for a weapon, but Bono didn’t give him a chance. Half a second later, the soldier’s pearl-handled pistol was in his hand. He took a lightning step forward and shoved it into Meth-man’s face, nudging the cold steel into the fleshy skin between his eyes. One of the skinheads moved and Sam lurched forward, grabbed his arm, twisted, and bent it while jerking his knee up into the attacker’s elbow. The bone snapped with a sickening crunch and the man fell back, screaming in pain. The other men backed up ten steps, removing themselves from the fight. Meth-man screamed while dropping to his knees.
“Don’t hurt us, don’t hurt us,” he cried in pretended pain. “U.S. soldiers like to kill us. Please don’t hurt us. We are sorry. Please, do you have to be so mean!”
Sam listened, completely disgusted, as Bono shoved the gun again, forcing the tiny barrel into the man’s skin.
“Stand up. Turn around. Walk away!” Bono commanded in a powerful voice. Something about the way he said it caught Sam’s attention—it was as if another man were speaking—and he shot a glance toward his friend. Bono’s eyes were clear and burning, his face bathed in burnished moonlight. “If you turn back around, I will kill you. Do you understand!” he said.
Meth-man nodded, his eyes dull and empty as death.
Bono slowly lowered his weapon and looked right into the eyes of the attacker with a piercing, unwavering steadiness. “I command you now to leave us!” he said in the same powerful voice.
“Bono, what are you doing?” Sam whispered as Bono dropped the handgun to his side. “Keep that weapon on him or he’ll jump you . . .”
“I command you to leave us!” Bono said again. “Go back now to your hellhole. Go back and grovel with your own.”
The man stood, hesitated, sneered at Bono, then turned and started walking, followed by his friends.
Frightened now, Sam reached for Bono’s left hand, took the handgun, and kept it pointed at the back of the attackers’ heads. “Come on,” he whispered urgently. “Let’s get out of here.”
Bono didn’t move. Sam held the handgun at the ready position, waving it slowly back and forth, aiming at the four men, then turned toward his friend. Bono’s face was ashen. He looked exhausted. Completely drained. Sam glanced down and saw that Bono’s hands were shaking like winter leaves in the wind; he couldn’t have hit anything with those quivering hands anyway.
Something had happened here. Something Sam didn’t understand. “Are you okay, man?” he whispered slowly.
Bono shook his head, his eyes wide with terror. “That was him,” he whispered back in a fear-choked voice. “I saw it in his eyes. I saw him in his face. That wasn’t just a man there. That was something . . . someone else . . .”
A terrible shiver ran down the center of Sam’s back. A deep cold seeped inside him—empty, lonely, and terribly sad. The blackness was dark and utterly complete. He swallowed hard, his throat dry, his chest clenched.
He felt it. He knew it. And for the first time in his life he was truly afraid.
Bono took his gun back from Sam and shoved it under his jacket again. “Drugs did that to them,” he whispered. “They have so surrendered their bodies over to the power of the evil one that they don’t control themselves any longer.”
The four men had reached the end of the platform where it met the tracks, their images illuminated by the moon and stars. At the edge of the cement barricade three of them dropped and kept on walking, but the fourth one stopped and turned around.
“My name is Balaam!” he cried. “I remember you, my brothers, and I will see you again.”
The coldness deepened, sinking into Bono’s soul. He started to speak, but the human form dropped onto the train tracks and walked into the dark.
The two men stood in silence, unable to speak. The crowd continued to mull around them as if they hadn’t seen anything.
“Come on,” Bono said. “Let’s get to your home.”
The two men started running.
And they did not look back.
Behind them, the dark angel stood and watched them from the edge of the tracks. After the two soldiers had merged into the darkness, he turned around and laughed.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Interstate 65
Fourteen Miles Southeast of Chicago
Mary Shaye Dupree and Sara Brighton approached Sara’s automobile slowly, calling from the darkness as they walked. “Hey there, that’s my car, what are you doing?” Sara cried.
Walking side by side, the two women emerged from the dark. The moon had risen enough to illuminate the outline of their frames, but the darkness and open country made them seem so very small.
Two men were talking near the back of their car, rummaging through the trunk. Sleeping bags and clothes had been scattered up and down the road. Both of the back passenger windows had been broken, and shattered pieces of glass reflected in the yellow-reddish light. The air was cool now and Sara felt a damp breeze against her neck. She shivered as she placed her hands defiantly on her hips. “What have you done to my car!” she demanded.
The two men froze a moment, then slowly turned, taking the two women in. Sara returned their cold stares, her eyes flashing in the dim light. Cold and hard, she stood her ground, her shoulders firm. Mary glanced in her direction, then turned and squared her small shoulders too.
Inside her stomach, Sara was as tense as piano wire. She forced herself to breathe without screaming, swallowed the enormous knot inside her throat, and fought to keep the panic down. She knew it was ridiculous. She didn’t care how tall she stood, how much she scowled, or how loudly she raised her voice—she and Mary were two small, middle-aged women standing in the dark. No way were they going to intimidate these men.
The strangers glared. They were young, somewhere in their twenties, and dressed in work clothes and boots. One of them laughed, a lusty, ugly sound. “I’m sorry,” he mocked, “is this stuff yours?”
“Yes, of course it’s mine. Now perhaps you could explain what you’re doing rummaging through my clothes!”
The man hesitated, then glanced past her shoulder. “You alone?” he demanded.
“No,” Sara answered far too quickly. “Both of our husbands are back there, just a little way down the road.”
The man smiled, his shoulders relaxing at the obvious fabrication. He glanced toward his buddy, snorted, and turned back. “You got an awful lot of stuff here.” He kicked a loose pile of clothes that had been thrown at his feet. “Looks like you’re pretty much prepared for anything.”
Sara didn’t answer, her eyes still glaring in the night.
“We figure if you got all this stuff, you’re on a long trip. Maybe you’re never going back to where you came from. Which means you got some money—and we want it.”
Sara swallowed. “We’ve got a little. Maybe fifty or sixty dollars.”
The man scoffed and stepped toward her. “I’ll bet you got a whole lot more than that . . .”
Mary started reaching for her purse. “I’ve got a little here,” she cut in.
Sara watched, her anger boiling. She simply couldn’t hold back. “Money!” she shouted at their ignorance. “Are you that stupid? Do you think money has any value now!”
The man stopped, shot another look toward his friend, unsure of what she was saying, then turned and took a long step toward her. “Money! Yeah, stupid wench, I want your money.”
Mary saw his eyes, cold and hungry and slippery in the dark, and shuddered. “It’s okay, I’ve got some money,” she offered again in desperation. “It isn’t much, but you can have it. Whatever I have, it’s yours.”
“No!” Sara shouted. “You put that money back.” She turned toward the young men. “Do you two guys understand? Do you have any idea what has happened here! Haven’t you even looked around . . .”
The man took another step and stared menacingly into her eyes. “I don’t like you,” he hissed, his breath stale with alcohol and smoke.
Sara met his stare. Mary shot an elbow to her ribs.
Sara stared a moment longer, then dropped her eyes. “All right,” she whispered. “You can have our money. But that is the only thing that you may take.”
The young man pulled back and slapped her hard across the face, sending her tumbling to her knees. She cried out, then held her voice, raising her hands toward her cheek. Reaching down, he grabbed her by the hair and pulled her to her feet.
Luke and Ammon jumped the two men at exactly the same time, emerging from the darkness like two wild animals, screaming and pounding their fists and legs. Ammon hit his mot
her’s attacker at a flat-out run. Lowering his head, he buried his skull into the small of the man’s back. He heard a sudden huuufff as he knocked every ounce of breath out of the attacker, then kept driving, his legs pounding, pushing the man to the ground, his shoulders crushing against his ribs. He and Luke were holding baseball-sized rocks in their hands and he brought his fist down against the attacker’s head, feeling the man go limp. Beside him, he heard a high-pitched cry as his brother knocked the second man to his knees. Sara jumped into the fight, kicking and scratching at her attacker’s legs, the only piece of him she could reach. Ammon held him tight, his arm around his neck, and kept on squeezing until the attacker’s head fell against his chest.
Washington, D.C.
Sam and Bono stood outside the Brighton home. It had been more than a year since Sam had been there, but it all looked the same and for a moment he time-warped, feeling as if he’d never been gone at all. The old southern oaks and sycamores in the front yard whispered to him, their huge branches moving gently with the night wind. The grass was long, longer than Sam had ever seen it, with at least two weeks’ worth of growth. The late summer leaves were beginning to drop, leaving patchy shadows across the walk. The house was dark, the windows staring at them, blank and expressionless in the moonlight. Although it looked the same, there were a few hints that Sam’s family hadn’t been there for at least several days: the swirl of twigs and dry leaves that cluttered the corner of the porch, a single newspaper on the sidewalk, the utter darkness inside. Sam moved to the front door, tested it, and found it locked. He turned to his right and felt along the wooden railing on the front porch. Under the third rail was a small crack in the wood where his family always hid an extra house key for an emergency.
Searching, Sam suddenly stopped, his mind going back to his first day in the old Brighton home in southern Virginia: Sara showing him his bedroom, his own closet, the shelf where they kept the clean towels, the Ping-Pong table in the game room. The final stop on the tour had been the front porch. She had given him his own key, urged him not to lose it, then showed him where they hid the spare in case he ever got locked out.
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