1988 - Stinger

by Robert McCammon

  She was mulling it over when the telephone rang. It kept on ringing, and Stevie decided to answer it since, at the moment, she was the lady of the house. She picked it up. “’Lo?”

  “Young lady, you’re in for a spanking!” Jessie’s voice was mock furious, but genuinely relieved. “You could’ve been killed, hit by a car or something!”

  “I’m all right.” Better not to say anything about the dog, she decided.

  “I’d like to know just what you think you’re doing! I’m getting pretty tired of the way you’ve been acting today!”

  “I’m sorry,” Stevie said in a small voice. “But I heard the singing again, and I had to get it away from Mr. Creech ’cause I don’t want it to get broken.”

  “That’s not for us to decide. Stevie, I’m surprised at you! You’ve never done anything like this before!”

  Stevie’s eyes burned with tears. Hearing her mama speak this way was worse than a spanking; her mama could not hear the singing and would not understand about the playmate. “I won’t do it again, Mama,” she promised.

  “I’m very disappointed in you. I thought I’d taught you better manners. Now I want you to listen to me: I’m still at Mr. Mendoza’s, but I’m going to be home soon. I want you to stay there. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “All right.” Jessie paused; she was mad, but not mad enough to hang up and leave it like this. “You frightened me by running off like that. You could’ve gotten hurt. Do you understand why I’m upset?”

  “Yes. ’Cause I was bad.”

  “Because you were wrong,” Jessie corrected. “But we’ll talk about it when I get home. I love you very much, Stevie, and that’s why I got so angry. Do you see?”

  She said, “Yes. And I love you too, Mama. I’m sorry.”

  “Okay. You just stay there, and I’ll see you later. ‘Bye.”

  “‘Bye.” They hung up at about the same time, and at the Texaco station Jessie turned to Colonel Rhodes and said, “Meteor my ass.”

  Stevie’s tears dried. She returned to her room with the black ball, which was showing blotches of blue on its surface. Now the idea of hiding it bothered her, but she didn’t want it broken to pieces, either. She’d been bad—no, wrong—enough for one day; but what was she to do? She crossed her room and looked out her window at the sun-washed street, trying to figure out what was the right thing: to hide the black ball, in disobedience of her mother, or give it up and let it be broken open. Her mind reached a dead end beyond which she could not think, and in the next moment she decided to entertain her playmate as well as possible before Mr. Creech’s car arrived.

  She wandered over to her collection of glass figurines on a table. Within the black ball there was a line of blue, like an eyelid beginning to open. She said, “Ballerina,” and pointed to the dancing glass figure, her favorite. Then: “Horse. This one is like Sweetpea, only Sweetpea’s a real horse and this is made of glass. Sweetpea is a pal… a pal…” She still had trouble with some words. “A ’mino,” she said, giving up the struggle. She pointed to the next: “Mouse. Do you know what a mouse is? It eats cheese and doesn’t like cats.”

  At the center of the black sphere, there were little cracklings of blue like fireworks going off.

  Stevie picked her Raggedy Ann doll off the bed. “This is Annie Laredo. Say hello, Annie. Say we’re glad you came to visit today. Annie’s a rodeo girl,” she told the black ball, and then, continuing around the room, came to her bulletin board. On it were construction-paper cutouts that her father had helped her put up. She pointed to the first. “A… B…C…D…E…F…G… that’s the alphabet. Know what the alphabet is?” Something struck her as very important. “You don’t even know my name!” she said, and held the ball up before her face. She watched the stirrings of color at its center, like beautiful fish swimming inside an aquarium. “It’s Stevie. I know how to spell it. S-T-E-V-I-E: Stevie. That’s me.”

  Also on the bulletin board were pictures of animals and insects clipped from magazines. Stevie lifted the ball so her playmate could see, and touched each picture as she said the names: “Lion… that’s from the jungle. Ost… ostr… that’s a big bird. Dolphin”—she pronounced it daufin—“and those swim in the ocean. Eagle… that flies really high. Grasshopper… those jump a lot.” She came to the final picture. “Scor… scorp… a stinger,” she said, and touched it too, though it was her least favorite and her father had put it up as a reminder not to walk barefoot outside.

  What resembled tiny bolts of lightning curled up from the sphere’s center and danced across its inner surface; they connected briefly with Stevie’s fingers, and a cold tingling shot through her hand all the way to her elbow before it subsided. The sensation startled her, but it wasn’t painful; she watched the lightning bolts arc and pulse inside the ball, as its center of brilliant blue continued to grow.

  More entranced than scared, Stevie held the ball between both hands. The lightning bolts curled out and touched her hands, and for a few seconds she thought she heard her hair crackle like Rice Krispies.

  She thought that just maybe she should put it down now. There was a storm inside the black ball, and the storm was getting worse. It occurred to her that her playmate might not have liked something she showed it on her bulletin board.

  She took two steps toward the bed, intending to gently put the ball down and wait for her mother to get home.

  But she didn’t make it another step.

  The black ball suddenly burst into an incandescent, frightening blue. She started to open her fingers and drop it, but the movement was too late.

  The tiny lightning bolts shot from its surface, intertwined through her fingers, continued up her arms and shoulders, wrapped like smoke around her throat, and leapt up her nostrils, into her widened eyeballs, cocooning her head and piercing through her skull. There was no pain, but in her ears was a low murmur like distant thunder, or a steady and powerful voice unlike anything she’d ever heard. Her hair jumped with sparks, her head rocking back and her mouth opening in a soft, stunned exhalation: “Oh.”

  She smelled an odor of burning. My hair’s on fire! she thought wildly, and tried to put it out with her hands but they would no longer obey. She wanted to scream and tears were in her eyes, but the thunder voice in her head swelled up and crashed over her senses; she felt herself lifted up as if by waves, pulled down again into a blue swirling place where there was no bottom nor top. It was cool here, and quiet, far from the storm that raged somewhere else. The blue void closed around her, held her firmly, continued to draw her deeper. Only she was no longer in her skin; she seemed to be made of light, and weighed as much as a feather in the wind. It was not a fearsome thing, and she was amazed that she was not afraid—or, at least, not crying. She did not fight it, because fighting seemed a bad thing. It was a good thing to drift down in this blue place, and to rest. To rest, and to dream; because she was certain this was a place where dreams lived, and they would find her if she did not try to fight.

  She slept, as the blue currents folded around her, and the first dreams came in the shape of Sweetpea, her mother and father already astride the golden horse and urging her to join them for a long day where there was no sadness, only pure blue sky and sunshine.

  Stevie’s body fell backward, hitting the floor on its right shoulder. The ball, blue and pulsing, jarred loose from the frozen hands and rolled under the bed, where it slowly turned to ebony again.

  * * *

  11

  Transformation

  “I don’t know what kind of bullshit you’re trying to throw,” Jessie said, “but it was no meteor. You know that as well as I do.”

  Matt Rhodes smiled faintly and lit a cigarette. He was sitting across from Jessie in a back booth at the Brandin’ Iron Cafe on Celeste Street, a small but tidy place with, appropriately, branding irons adorning the walls, red-checked tablecloths, and red vinyl seats. The specialty was the Big Beef Burger, the meat patty seared with the Brandin’
Iron’s private Double X brand; the remnants of a burger lay on the plate in front of Rhodes. “Okay, Dr. Hammond,” he said when he’d gotten the cigarette going. “Tell me what it was, then.”

  She shrugged. “How am I supposed to know? I’m not in the air force.”

  “No, but you seemed to have seen the object clearly enough. Come on, give me your opinion.”

  Sue Mullinax, a big-hipped, big-boned blond woman who wore way too much makeup and had gentle, childlike brown eyes, came over with a coffeepot and poured another cup for both of them. Ten years ago, Sue had been head cheerleader at Preston High. As she walked away, she left the scent of Giorgio in her wake. “It was a machine,” Jessie ventured when Sue was out of earshot. “A secret kind of airplane, maybe. Like one of those Stealth bombers—”

  Rhodes laughed, cigarette smoke bursting from his nostrils. “Lady, you read too many spy novels! Anyway, everybody and his Aunt Nellie knows about the Stealth by now; it’s sure as hell not a secret anymore.”

  “If not a Stealth, then something just as important,” she went on, undaunted. “I saw a piece of it, covered with symbols. They could’ve been Japanese, I guess. Or maybe a combination of Japanese and Russian. I’m sure they weren’t English. Want to tell me about that?”

  The man’s smile faded. He looked out the window, showing her a hawklike profile. Not far away, the helicopter still stood in the middle of Preston Park, drawing a crowd. Captain Gunniston sat at the counter, drinking a cup of coffee and warding off questions from Cecil Thorsby, the balloon-bellied cook and owner. “I think we’re back to my original inquiry,” the colonel said after another moment. “I’d like to know what damaged your pickup truck.”

  “And I want to know what fell.” She’d decided not to tell him about the black ball until she got some answers; Stevie seemed to be safe with it, and there was no hurry to give it up.

  He sighed, stared at her through slightly slitted, hard eyes. “Lady, I don’t know who you think you are, but—”

  “Doctor,” Jessie said. “I’m a doctor. I wish you’d stop patronizing me.”

  Rhodes nodded. “Doctor it is.” Change tactics, he thought. She wasn’t as dumb as lumber, like the sheriff and mayor. “Okay. If I told you what it was, you’d have to sign a lot of top-security forms, probably even have to make the trip to Webb. The red tape’s enough to make a strong man cry, but after it’s wrapped around your neck, you’re sworn not to reveal anything on penalty of a very long free room and board courtesy of Uncle Sam.” He hesitated to let that image sink in. “Is that what you want, Dr. Hammond?”

  “I want to hear the truth. Not bullshit. I want to hear it now, and then I’ll tell you what I know.”

  He worked the knuckles of one hand and tried his best to look unutterably grim. “We snared a Soviet helicopter a few months ago. The pilot flew it to Japan and defected. The chopper’s bristling with weaponry, infrareds and sensors, and it’s got a laser targeting system we’ve been wanting to get our hands on for a long time.” He smoked his cigarette down a little further. No one else was in the cafe but Gunniston, Cecil, and Sue Mullinax, but the colonel kept his voice just above a whisper. “The technicians were running tests on the equipment at Holloman AFB in New Mexico—but there was trouble. Evidently one of the technicians who’d gotten through security was a deep-cover agent, and he grabbed the chopper and took off. Holloman asked us to help catch him, because he looked to be heading to the Gulf. Probably was going to be met by Soviet fighters from Cuba. Anyway, we shot him down. No other choice. The chopper was going to pieces just as he crossed your path; now we’ve got to pick them up and get out before the press comes hunting us.” He stabbed his cigarette into an ashtray. “That’s it. You might read the whole story in Time next week if we don’t keep the lid on.”

  Jessie watched him carefully. He was intent on crushing all signs of life from his cigarette. She said, “I didn’t see any rotors.”

  “Jesus!” Rhodes’s voice was a little too loud, and both Cecil and Gunniston looked over at their booth. “I’ve told you what I know, la—Dr. Hammond. Take it or leave it, but remember this: you’re withholding information from the United States government, and that can get you and your entire family in some real hot water.”

  “I don’t care to be threatened.”

  “I don’t care to play games! Now: did a piece of the machine hit your truck? What exactly happened?”

  Jessie finished her coffee, taking her time about it. She’d seen no rotors; how could it have been a helicopter? Still, it had all been so fast. Maybe she didn’t remember what she’d seen, or maybe the rotors had already been blown off. Rhodes was waiting for her to speak, and she knew she had to tell him: “Yes,” she said. “The truck got hit. A piece of the thing went right through our engine; you saw the hole. It was a black sphere, about so big.” She showed him with her hands. “It shot out of the thing and came straight at us. But the really weird part is that the sphere only seems to weigh a few ounces, and it’s made out of either glass or plastic but there isn’t a scratch on it. I don’t know anything about Russian technology, but if they could create a floor wax that tough, we need to get our hands on—”

  “Just a minute, please.” Rhodes had leaned forward. “A black sphere. You actually picked it up? Wasn’t it hot?”

  “No. It was cool—which was strange, because the other pieces were still smoking.”

  “Did this sphere have symbols on it too?”

  She shook her head. “No, it was unmarked.”

  “Okay.” There was a quaver of excitement in his voice. “So you left the sphere near where your truck was?”

  “No. We brought it with us.”

  Colonel Rhodes’s eyes widened.

  “My daughter’s got it right now. Over at my house.” She didn’t like the amazed expression on his face, or the pulse that beat at his temple. “Why? What is it? Some kind of compu—”

  “Gunny!” Rhodes got to his feet, and at once Gunniston was off the counter stool and standing as well. “Pay the man!” He took Jessie’s elbow, but she pulled away. He took it again, his grip firm. “Dr. Hammond, will you escort us to your house, please? As quickly as possible?”

  They left the Brandin’ Iron, and outside Jessie wrenched angrily away. Rhodes did not try to grasp her arm again but he stayed right at her side, with Gunniston a few paces behind. They went around Preston Park, avoiding the gawkers who were pestering Jim Taggart, the ’copter pilot. Jessie’s heart was pounding, and she quickened her pace to what was almost a run; the two men stayed with her. “What’s inside the sphere?” she asked Rhodes, but he did not—or could not—answer. “It’s not going to explode, is it?” Again, no reply.

  At the house Jessie was glad to see that Stevie had remembered to relock the door—she was learning responsibility—but at the same time had to spend a few precious seconds fumbling with her keys. She got the right one into the lock and opened the door. Rhodes and Gunniston followed her inside, and the captain closed the door firmly behind them.

  “Stevie!” Jessie called. “Where are you?”

  Stevie didn’t answer.

  White light streamed between the window blinds and gridded the walls. “Stevie!” Jessie strode into the kitchen. The cat-faced clock ticked, and the air conditioning hissed and labored. A chair had been left near the counter; a cupboard was open, an empty glass in the sink. Thirsty from all that running, she thought. But Stevie wouldn’t have left the house again, would she? If she had… oh, was she going to be in for trouble! Jessie went through the den—nothing disturbed in there—and into the hallway that led to the bedrooms. Rhodes and Gunniston were right behind her. “Stevie!” Jessie called again, really getting jittery now. Where could she have gone?

  She was almost to the door of Stevie’s bedroom when two hands thrust out along the floor, the fingers grasping at the beige carpet.

  Jessie abruptly stopped, and Rhodes bumped into her.

  They were Stevie’s hands, of course.
Jessie watched the sinews move in them as the fingers dug at the carpet for traction, and then Stevie’s head came into view— her auburn hair damp with sweat, her face puffy and moist, droplets of sweat sparkling on her cheeks. The hands pulled Stevie’s body further into the hallway, muscles twitching in her bare arms. She continued, inch by inch, into the hall, and Jessie’s hand flew to her mouth. Stevie’s legs trailed behind her, the sneaker gone from the left foot, as if the child might be paralyzed from the waist down.

  “Ste—” Jessie’s voice cracked.

  The child stopped crawling. Her head slowly, slowly lifted, and Jessie saw her eyes: lifeless, like the painted eyes of a doll.

  Stevie trembled, drew one leg beneath her with what appeared to be painful effort, and began to try to stand.

  “Back up,” Jessie heard Rhodes say; he grasped her arm and pulled her back when she didn’t move.

  Stevie had the other leg under her. She wavered, a drop of sweat falling from her chin. Her face was emotionless, composed, remote. And her eyes: a doll’s eyes, yes—but now Jessie could see a flicker in them like lightning: a fierceness, a mighty determination that she’d never seen before. She thought, crazily, That’s not Stevie.

  But the little girl’s body was rising to its feet. The face remained remote, but when the body had finally reached its full height, what might have been a quick smile of accomplishment darted across the mouth.

  One foot moved forward, as if balancing on a tightwire. The second, sneakerless foot followed—and suddenly Stevie trembled again and the body fell forward. Jessie didn’t have time to catch her daughter; Stevie toppled to the carpet on her face, her hands writhing in midair as if they no longer knew quite what to do.

  She lay face down, the breath hitching in her body.