Sue punched the accelerator and popped the clutch, parting the goats that were climbing up the bumper. The Jeep's knobby tires gave a satisfying bump as they rolled over one of the creatures. Most of the people, at least those who weren't being eaten by goats, had fled into the woods.
"I've always hated them damned critters," Sarah said. "Never could trust something with eyes that looked twenty ways at once."
Sue wasn't sure where the gunfire was coming from, but she figured moving fast and crazy was the best course of action. A man fell to his knees, clutching his belly, and goats converged on him. Sue figured it was too late to save the man, but not the others. She guided the Jeep toward the redheaded woman on the rock just as the Circuit Rider and Gordon tangled, and Gordon performed his St. Vitus dance of death.
"Did you see that?" Sarah asked.
"No, and neither did you. I don't want to spend the rest of my days in therapy."
"You ain't crazy. I guess you've just been officially welcomed to Solom."
Sue brought the Jeep to a halt beside the girl and Odus, who was woozy but appeared to be in no danger of sudden death. Unless one of those stray bullets caught him. Sarah opened the door and crawled into the back, leaving room for the girl to help Odus into the Jeep.
"Where's my horse?" Odus said, as groggy as if he were on a two-pint drunk.
"Went up in smoke along with Harmon Smith," Sarah said.
The driver's-side mirror took a bullet and shattered. The gun fell silent, and Sue figured the shooter was reloading.
"Hurry, Mom!" the girl yelled, and the redhead jumped off the stone and pushed the girl into the Jeep. Clinging to the roll bar, half of her body hanging out with the door flapping against her, Katy said, "Roll!"
Sue did.
Alex had a terrible dream. In the dream, he'd been brought to a secret bunker in Roswell, New Mexico. He was escorted by two men in blue uniforms, each wearing enough brass and doodads to win an "Unsung Heroes" contest. They led him down a long concrete tunnel, whose recessed lights threw off a smoky blue color. The air was stale, as if it had been recycled for weeks. A set of double metal doors slid open and Alex was escorted into an office.
An oval office.
The president sat behind a large cherry desk, the wood surface so polished that the president's shit-eating, frat-boy grin and pointy chin were reflected.
"Welcome, Agent Eakins," the president said in a Texas drawl as he stood. "The United States owes you a great debt of gratitude, or a date regret of attitude, dude, or something like that."
The president reached over the desk to shake Alex's hand. There was only one thing to say. So Alex said it.
"Vote Libertarian, you weasel-eyed fuck-face."
He jerked awake from the nightmare to find himself in the tree, his arms wrapped around a branch, the AKR cold at his side. The sun was just now dragging its lazy orange ass over the horizon. Blue jays squawked and wrens twittered in the trees. The forest was otherwise quiet, besides the soft rustle of wind in the last of the dying leaves.
Weird Dude was gone, and the scarecrow creep was lying in a puddle of blood in the center of the granite stone. A couple of vehicles were still parked at the edge of the clearing, their headlights faded to a weak pumpkin glow.
Below him were the white-and-brown lumps of dead goats. Somewhere during the spree, the goats' protective powers must have worn off, proving that even the almighty government was fallible.
Also scattered on the churned-up ground were a dozen or so people, lying still in the dawn, their clothes moist with dew. A few of them had visible wounds in their bodies, but Alex couldn't tell if they'd taken friendly fire or had been chomped by mutant goats. For all he knew, the feds had pulled a Ruby Ridge and taken down some innocents, then slipped back to Washington without apology, leaving someone else to clean up the mess.
Strangely, the sight was a calming one. This was reality. He could handle it. Just don't ever put him in a government bunker and he could deal.
He reached into his pocket and worked up a joint, then fired it with his Bic. As he bathed in the luxuriant blue smoke, he considered the old saying that revenge was a dish best served cold.
Alex decided he liked the taste either way.
"Told you we'd get through it together," Katy said.
"Yeah, but now what?" Jett applied a crumbly smear of purple lipstick. She decided she didn't need eye shadow today; the weary pouches were offensive and startling enough. Mom had let her skip school. They decided to regroup at the Smith house, where Sue had dropped them off.
"Well, first off, I guess we better tell your dad."
"Cool. Are you guys getting back together?"
"Honey, if I ever taught you anything, it was not to repeat your mistakes."
"Well, look at the ass-wipe you married the second time around."
"Watch your language. I'll be sure not to ever marry another psychotic, wife-killing maniac who likes to dress up like a scarecrow. How's that?"
"It will do, for starters."
They sat on the porch, though the morning was cool. Katy didn't feel like going in the house, though she was sure Rebecca would never be back. Rebecca had followed the rest of them into the netherland where the Circuit Rider's flock grazed for all eternity. Gordon might be there, too, for all she knew. The future wasn't fixed. It was, if anything, a great crippled wheel, dipping here and there, throwing off those who didn't cling tightly enough.
A merry-go-round broke down.
"Sure is peaceful without all those goats around," Katy said
"Yeah. Almost makes me want to check out the barn, just to be sure none of them are lurking around. You know how in the cheesy horror movies, the end is never really the end."
"We're staying out of the barn, little lady." Katy swept Jett's bangs from her forehead and planted a kiss. 'Tell you what. You put on some music, and I'll make us a bite to eat."
"No Smith family recipes?"
"Promise."
As Katy prowled the fridge between the butter and the olives, the biting riff of a Replacements tune blasted from the shell of Jett's room: "Merry-Go-Round."
Maybe the crazy carnival ride still had a few turns on it after all.
Arvel Ward opened his cellar door. He'd spent a sleepless night downstairs, the bare bulb burning, the air ripe from the earthen floor's odor, jars of jelly and pickled okra lining the shelves. As morning's first light leaked through the narrow, high-set windows, the warmth of joy replaced the autumnal chill in his heart.
He'd survived
The Circuit Rider may have walked up the stairs and taken Betsy, just as the preacher had taken his brother Zeke all those years ago, but Arvel had made it. Arvel was safe until the next round of the circuit, and with any luck and by the grace of God he'd find a natural grave before then. There was comfort in the sleep of dirt and worms, but until then he would get along as best he could, living right and keeping his tools clean.
Arvel went into the living room. When he'd gone into hiding the night before, he'd forgotten his chewing tobacco, and the ache was on him strong. He opened the foil pouch with trembling fingers and stuffed a wad of shredded leaves inside his cheek. The nicotine bit sweet and hard
He almost swallowed the wad when he turned and saw the Circuit Rider sitting on the couch. Betsy had draped an oversize knitted doily over the back of it, and somehow the preacher seemed even more of an intrusion, sitting there among the tidy pillows.
"Not expecting company?" the Circuit Rider said, thumbing the wide brim of his black hat. The preacher smelled of spoiled meat and rotted cloth, and his fingernails were dark with dirt, as if he'd clawed his way up from the grave. Up close, Arvel could see the holes in the Circuit Rider's wool suit. There was no flesh behind them, only an emptiness that stretched as long as every nightmare road ever traveled.
Arvel spat out the tobacco, but his involuntary swallow sent a slug's length of bitter juice down his throat.
"It ain't my turn," Arvel sai
d. "Take Betsy. She's upstairs, helpless as a cut kitten, and she ain't going to put up much of a struggle."
"Neither will you."
Arvel backed away, wondering if he could reach the fireplace poker and if the steel bar would do any good against a creature that seemed to be built of nothing. "You can't take me," Arvel said, nearly giggling in relief. "The sun done come up."
The Circuit Rider stood seven feet tall and gangly. "I don't make the rules, Arvel," he said
"But you've already claimed a soul for this trip around."
"I've claimed nothing. Solom has."
'It ain't my turn." The tears were hot and wet on his cheeks, the living room blurred and Arvel took in the familiar surroundings of his house, a place that he knew he'd never see again. At least, not from this side of the border between dead and alive.
"Hush, now, or you'll wake Betsy. She needs her rest." The Circuit Rider gave a tired benevolent smile and reached his long, waxy fingers toward Arvel.
Harmon Smith unhitched Old Saint from the lilac bush. Harmon considered letting the horse munch on the fading, frost-browned flower bed a little longer, but Betsy had suffered enough already. She'd need the busywork to distract her from the loss of her husband, whose body lay cooling on the kitchen floor, near where the goat had attacked Betsy. If the authorities were summoned they might rule it a heart attack, or they might say it was an accidental fall. Most likely, they'd say, "That's Solom."
Calling them "authorities" was a silly, mortal concept anyway. Only one authority existed, and Its hand had set the wheel in motion. But such things didn't trouble the Circuit Rider. His duty was given, and he was a good servant. He hauled himself up into the familiar cup of Old Saint's saddle.
"Come on, Saint, we've got places to be," he said, giving a gentle lift to the reins. He didn't have to point toward a destination. The horse, fat on souls and shrubs, knew the route as intimately as Harmon did.
Narrow is the gate and hard the road that leads to life and light, truth and heaven, but all other roads are open and endless. And on these trails, the Circuit Rider travels alone.
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The Farm Page 40