by Hill,Joe
Harper realized that Nick was standing next to her, staring below with a sleepy, dazed expression. She reached for his shoulder and turned him so his face was pressed to her breast, much as she had done almost a year ago to a boy named Raymond Bly, who wanted to look out a window and see what was happening in the school playground. She didn’t want Nick to see what happened next—although she herself could not look away.
Renée held herself flat and very still on the roof of the fire truck. Her right arm was the only thing moving—she was feeling around with one hand. Her fingers found the edge of the compartment she had opened up when she was looking for a way to raise the ladder. She reached inside and grasped the handle of a fire ax.
The Marlboro Man came up like Jack out of his box, his mouth stretched wide in a humorless animal grin, pointing the gun over the roof. Renée brought the ax down on his wrist and he fell back screaming. He left his hand behind on the roof, still squeezed tightly around his pistol. Renée batted it with the blade of the ax, knocking it away from her. The Marlboro Man’s right hand skidded over the edge of the roof and out of sight.
The Marlboro Man howled, his voice a low, deep cry of fury and hurt that seemed to echo up from the bottom of a well.
Renée sat on her knees, on the edge of the roof. She turned her head and looked toward the cab. Renée shouted something, but Harper was too far away to hear exactly what she said. Once she thought she heard Renée calling for Gil. Renée sat there for what seemed a long time, although in fact it was only a matter of seconds. Then she turned herself about and began to work the crank once more. Turning it with a kind of dull exhaustion now.
The Marlboro Man screamed and screamed again.
The Freightliner produced a kind of grinding cough and began to back up. Another shudder ran through the entire church as the plow pulled loose from the hole it had made, and debris came spilling out into the soccer field.
The big truck backed fifty yards from the chapel, then slammed to a stop. Jamie had put a spiderweb fracture in the windshield on the driver’s side, and Harper had a sudden thought: Jamie had managed to hurt Jakob, had taken something out of him. Had maybe even come close to killing him.
Allie dropped the rifle and sank to a crouch.
“I’m out,” she yelled. “No more bullets.”
The handles of the fire ladder bumped into sight as it made its slow, hitching way up to the railing. The Fireman stood—rocking a little on his heels—reached over the side, and steadied it.
“Go. Down. Now. You first,” the Fireman said, nodding at Harper.
“Nick—” she said.
“Allie will have to take him on her back.”
“I’ve got him,” Allie said, crawling around the catwalk to Nick.
On the other side of the church, the Freightliner began to move, rumbling toward the base of the bell tower.
Harper didn’t like heights, and the thought of putting her leg over the side made her feel dizzy. But she was already straddling the railing, reaching with one bare foot for the first rung.
She glanced over her shoulder, searching for the ladder, and saw the fire engine forty feet below, looking small enough to pick up with one hand, and for a moment it seemed to her the entire bell tower was nodding like a flower, about to dump her. She clenched her hands on the stone railing and shut her eyes.
“You can do this, Harper,” the Fireman said, and kissed her cheek.
She nodded. She wanted to say something cute and daring, but she couldn’t swallow, let alone speak.
Harper swung her other leg over the side.
She moved her right foot down to the second rung, let go of the stone railing, grabbed wildly, got her hands on the ladder. The whole thing wobbled unsteadily beneath her.
On the far side of the building, she heard the distinct sound of the Freightliner chunking into a new gear as it sped up.
She had descended not more than five rungs when the Fireman helped Allie over the side, Nick clinging to her back. Allie scrambled after Harper, wearing Nick as lightly as she might’ve worn a backpack for school.
The Fireman put a leg over the railing, planted one boot on the top rung. His other foot found the second rung. He reached down and put one hand on the ladder itself, stood there clinging to the very, very top of it.
The Freightliner hit the north side of the chapel doing nearly fifty miles an hour. It turned at the last instant, swiping away the entire front corner of the church, throwing enough wood and stone and glass to fill a dump truck.
The steeple lurched, steadied for a moment—and caved in. One moment it was there. The next it wasn’t. It dropped in on itself, the stone railing, the balusters, the bell tower roof, the beams, the wooden catwalk. It collapsed with a wrenching boom that Harper felt in her chest, like a throb in the blood. All at once the top of the fire ladder swung in empty air. John Rookwood hung suspended at the pinnacle. A black gush of smoke spun up from the ruin, obscuring him in a whirl of spark-filled darkness.
A blast of cold wind that smelled of the sea carried some of that smoke away a moment later, and the Fireman was gone.
Harper opened her mouth to scream, but then her gaze found him, already ten rungs down from the top and making his way hand over hand toward the earth below. The ladder shook and bounced in the open air. Allie was moving so quickly she was almost stepping on Harper’s hands.
Harper made her effortful way toward the engine below. Lower down, the ladder still had some roof to lean against. The southern half of the church remained intact. Harper didn’t know she had reached the roof of the truck until she felt metal under her bare feet. She stepped off the ladder on shaking legs and looked around for Renée. She wasn’t on top of the engine anymore, had climbed down at some point.
Now Harper felt shivery and weak, cold even in her bones. The shuddering was moving from her legs to the rest of her body. Her first thought was that she was going into shock. Then it occurred to her it might be something else entirely. John had said casting flame used up calories and oxygen and afterward you were dazed and ill and could easily get into trouble if you didn’t find a place to rest.
She went unsteadily to the rear of the truck, where there was an old short ladder of rusted iron. She climbed down it to the bumper and stepped off, and her legs collapsed on her without warning. She sat ungracefully in the wet grass. Sparks and smoke whirled slowly above her, like a carousel coming to a halt.
She forced the feeling of weakness back and used the bumper to stand.
“Oh, you cunt! My hand! My HAND!”
Harper came around the side of the fire engine, moving toward the screaming. The Marlboro Man was on his back in the grass, arching his spine and digging his heels into the mud. He looked like he was trying to push his way across the dirt on his back. He held his right wrist with his left hand. There was no right hand. There was only a broken bit of pink bone sticking out, where the hand belonged.
Harper stepped over him to get to Renée, who was leaning in the open driver’s-side door. When Harper got there, Renée was cradling Gilbert Cline in her arms. Blood still leaked from the bullet wound in his neck, but without much enthusiasm. There was blood all over the front seat.
Harper noticed—almost absently—a severed hand, still clutching a gun, set carefully in on the dash. Renée had thoughtfully picked it up and put it where the Marlboro Man couldn’t go after it in an attempt to get his Glock back.
“We were almost to the end of Watership Down,” Renée said. “Gil said he never thought he could like a story about talking animals so much. I said life was strange, I never expected to fall in love with a man who stole cars.” She was not weeping and spoke with great clarity. “He hot-wired the truck. We couldn’t find the keys. While he was doing it, he told me he was just more proof that most criminals went right back to what they knew best as soon as they got out. He said he was sorry t
o be adding to the recidivism rate. It took me a moment to realize he was joking. He was very dry. He didn’t even smile at his own jokes, let alone laugh at them. Didn’t give you any clues he was being funny. Oh, Harper, I don’t want to try and live without him. I feel like I spent my whole life unable to taste food. Then Gil came to camp and suddenly everything had flavor. Everything was delicious. And then that awful man shot him and Gil is dead and I’ll have to go back to not being able to taste things again. I don’t know if I can do that.”
Harper wished there was something to say. Maybe there was, and she was just too wobbly and light-headed to think what. Instead she put her arm around Renée and clumsily kissed her ear. Renée closed her eyes and lowered her head and wept in a very quiet, private way.
The Marlboro Man shrieked.
Harper turned and saw Allie standing over him. Allie had her brother in her arms again. She had paused, Harper thought, to kick the Marlboro Man in the ribs.
“Oh, you fuckin’ bitch, you’re gonna burn, and I’m gonna jack off on your charred fuckin’ tits,” the Marlboro Man said.
“You want to jack off,” Allie said, “you’re going to have to learn how to do it with your left hand, stumpy.”
“I don’t think he should live,” Renée said, wiping her face. “Not when so many other people are dead. It doesn’t seem fair.”
“Do you want me to kill him?” the Fireman said. Harper hadn’t realized he was on the ground, standing behind her. He was swaying himself, and looked as bad—maybe worse—than she felt. Sweat crawled on his wasted, white face. His eyes, though, were as dark as crow feathers, and perfectly serene.
He put a hand on the fire ax that leaned against the side of the truck.
Renée thought it over, then shook her head. “No. I guess not. I suppose I’m very weak and foolish, not to get even while I can.”
“It makes you the furthest thing from weak I can imagine,” the Fireman said. He looked back at Allie, who had joined them. “You’ll have to drive the fire truck, Allie. And you’ll have to find somewhere you can hide all of you, somewhere nearby. I’ll meet up with you later.”
“What are you talking about?” Harper asked him. “You’re coming with us.”
“Not now. Soon.”
“That’s crazy. John. You can’t be on your own. You can hardly stand.”
He waved this notion away, shook his head. “I’m not seeing double anymore. That has to be a sign of progress.” And when he saw her expression, he insisted, “I’m not abandoning you. Any of you. I swear I’ll be with you in no more than a day. Two at most.”
“How will you find us?” Harper asked.
“Nick will send for me,” the Fireman said, looking over Allie’s shoulder into Nick’s swollen, filthy, dazed face.
The Fireman did something with his hands, moving them here and there. Nick blinked slowly and seemed to nod. Harper thought the Fireman had said something about birds.
Renée said, “We’ll have to squeeze in with Gil. I hope that’s all right. I won’t leave him here.”
“No,” Harper said. “Of course you won’t.”
Renée nodded, then climbed up on the running board and gently eased Gilbert aside, making room behind the steering wheel.
The Fireman turned and strode across the matted grass. He crouched over the Marlboro Man.
“You,” the Marlboro Man said. “I know who you are. You’re going to die. My man Jakob is going to spread your faggot British ass all over the road. He’s going to paint the highway with you. Jakob loves killing the burners—he says it’s the first thing in his life he’s ever done really well. But he’s looking forward to doin’ you most of all. He wants to do it while she watches.”
“Jakob likes finishing off burners, does he?” the Fireman asked. He lifted his left hand and a trickle of green flame fluttered like a silk ribbon from the tip of his index finger. The Fireman gazed into it in a sleepy, speculative way, then blew it out, leaving the tip of his finger gray with ash. The Fireman lowered his hand and spread the ash across the Marlboro Man’s forehead, drawing a cross. The Marlboro Man flinched. “Well. You better get up and get moving then, soon as you can. Because you’re one of us now, friend. That ash is full of my poison. Maybe, if you’re lucky, you’ll find a few other people who are infected who will shelter you and look after you, as the folk in this camp once did for us. Maybe—but I doubt it. I think most people will close their doors in your face the moment you open your big mouth to ask for their help. You have a quite recognizable voice.”
The Marlboro Man kicked his feet against the ground and slid six inches across the dirt, shaking his head frantically, and began to shriek. “No! No no no, you can’t! You can’t! Listen to me! Listen!”
“Actually,” the Fireman said, “I think I’ve heard more than enough. The only thing worse than listening to men like you on the radio is meeting you in real life. Because out here in the world there’s just no simple way to change the station.” And he kicked him—lightly, almost humorously—under the jaw. The Marlboro Man’s head snapped back and his teeth clapped shut on the tip of his tongue, and his scream became a high, hideous, inchoate keening.
The Fireman started away, staggering a little, his coat flapping about him.
“If I don’t see you by tomorrow night,” Harper shouted at him, “I’ll come looking for you.”
He glanced back over his shoulder and gave her a crooked smile. “Just when I thought I was out of the frying pan. Try not to worry. I’ll be with you again soon enough.”
“Come on, Ms. Willowes,” Allie said. Allie was in the truck now, behind the steering wheel, hand on the door and leaning out to look down at her. “We have to go. There’s still men with guns out there. There’s still that plow.”
Harper jerked her head in a nod, then cast her gaze around for a last look at John. But he wasn’t there. The smoke had claimed him.
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11
The fire truck bashed aside the wreck of the Chevy Intimidator with an almost casual indifference, sent it spinning toward the circle of stones. It struck one of the monoliths with a ringing clang. Marty Casselman was approaching the overturned Chevy when the fire engine struck it. He dived out of the way, but the Uzi in his right hand went off in a chattering blast, and the spray blew off three of his toes.
The big Freightliner was backing away from the half-collapsed bonfire that had once been a chapel. The driver saw the fire truck banging away up the hill, but by the time Jakob got the Freightliner turned around, his wife, Renée Gilmonton, and the two children with them were long gone.
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12
Allie pulled the truck to a stop where the dirt lane met Little Harbor Road.
“Where to now?” she asked.
Harper looked out the passenger-side window toward the rusting blue hulk of the school bus. The headlights were on. A skinny girl of about fifteen, with a shaved head slumped behind the steering wheel. Someone had left a machete in the back of her skull.
Nick reached up to touch Harper’s chin, physically turning her head toward him. He was sitting in her lap. He stank of burnt hair, and it looked as if he had gone bobbing for apples in red Kool-Aid, his face was so stained and sticky with blood—but his eyes were more alert now. He spoke with his hands.
“Nick says he knows a place we can go,” Harper said, then narrowed her eyes. She replied with some gestures of her own: “What place?”
“Trust me,” Nick told her in sign language. “It’s safe. No one will find us. It’s where I hid everything I stole.” He met her gaze with a haunted solemnity. “I’m the thief.”
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Book Nine Engine
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1
In the minutes after midnight—as March became April—the fire engine rushed along Little Harbor Road, following it all the way to where it ended at Sagamore Avenue. Nick gestured for Allie to turn right. They had gone less than a mile before Nick began to signal for her to stop.
Allie turned into the entrance of South Street Cemetery, a graveyard as old as the colonies and half a mile wide. She stopped in front of the black gates, which were held shut by a length of heavy chain and padlock. Nick opened the passenger door and leaped out of Harper’s lap.
Nick gripped the chain in one hand and bowed his head. Liquid metal hissed and dripped between his fingers into the dirt. The chain fell apart in two sections and he pushed the gate open, his hand still smoking. Allie drove through and then waited. Nick reached back through the bars, wound the two halves of the chain into a loose knot, and gripped it firmly. There was more smoke and his eyes were as red as coals and when he let go he had welded the links together again.
South Street Cemetery was a kind of city, in which most of the residences were located underground. Nick guided them along its streets and alleys, its winding suburbs and open pastures. They continued until they had reached the dirt road that ran along the back of the cemetery. A second, more modest sort of graveyard awaited in the wet grass and underbrush: a dozen cars in various states of collapse, filthy, burnt out, sitting on their rims. Several were half-submerged in weeds, islands of rust in a shallow sea of poison sumac.
To one side of this final resting place for unmourned cars was a squat and ugly cement building with a tin roof. Cobwebbed windows peeked out from under the eaves. At one end of the building was a pair of corrugated aluminum garage doors. The center of operations for the grounds crew, Harper surmised . . . back in the days when South Street Cemetery still had a grounds crew. The knee-high grass growing right up to the front steps suggested it had been a while since anyone punched their card for work.