Part 10 (1/2)

Brenda's singing died. He heard her sob quietly. The air was beginning to whistle around the crowbar, a dangerous sound. Inside the room, Brenda's hair danced and her clothes were plucked by invisible fingers. A storm of air whirled around her, being drawn into the walls. She was transfixed by the sight of J.J.'s white baby teeth in his brown, wrinkled face: the face of an Egyptian prince. ”Brenda!” Johnny's voice was firm now. ”Come on!” She drew the sheet back up to J.J.'s chin; the sheet crackled like a dead leaf. Then she smoothed his dried-out hair and backed toward the door with insane winds battering her body.

They both had to strain to dislodge the crowbar. As soon as it came loose, Johnny grasped the door's edge to keep it from slamming shut. He held it, his strength in jeopardy, as Brenda squeezed through. Then he let the door go. It slammed with a force that shook the house. Along the door's edge was a quick whoooosh as it was sealed tight. Then silence.

Brenda stood in the dim light, her shoulders bowed. Johnny lifted the oxygen tank and backpack off her, then took the mask from her face. He checked the oxygen gauge; have to fill it up again pretty soon. He hung the equipment back on its hook. There was a shrill little steampipe whistle of air being drawn through the crack at the bottom of the door, and Johnny pressed a towel into it. The whistle ceased.

Brenda's back straightened. ”J.J. says he's fine,” she told him. She was smiling again, and her eyes glinted with a false, horrible happiness. ”He says he doesn't want to go to Ray's tonight. But he doesn't mind that we do. Not one little bit.”

”That's good,” Johnny said, and he walked to the front room. When he glanced at his wife, he saw Brenda still standing before the door to the room that ate oxygen. ”Want to watch some TV?” he asked her.

”TV. Oh. Yes. Let's watch some TV.” She turned away from the door and came back to him. Brenda sat down on the den's sofa, and Johnny turned on the Sony. Most of the channels showed static, but a few of them still worked: on them you could see the negative images of old shows like ”Hawaiian Eye,” ”My Mother the Car,” ”Checkmate,” and ”Amos Burke, Secret Agent.” The networks had gone off the air a month or so ago, and Johnny figured these shows were just bouncing around in s.p.a.ce, maybe hurled to Earth out of the unknown dimension. Their eyes were used to the negative images by now. It beat listening to the radio, because on the only stations they could get, Beatles songs were played backward at half-speed, over and over again. Between ”Checkmate” and a commercial for Brylcreem Hair Dressing-”A Little Dab'll Do Ya!”-Brenda began to cry. Johnny put his arm around her, and she leaned her head against his shoulder. He smelled J.J. on her: the odor of dry corn husks, burning in the midsummer heat. Except it was almost Christmastime, ho, ho, ho. Something pa.s.sed by, Johnny thought. That's what the scientists had said, almost six months ago. Something pa.s.sed by. That was the headline in the newspapers, and on the cover of every magazine that used to be sold over at Sarrantonio's newsstand on Gresham Street. And what it was that pa.s.sed by, the scientists didn't know. They took some guesses, though: magnetic storm, black hole, time warp, gas cloud, a comet of some material that kinked the very fabric of physics. A scientist up in Oregon said he thought the universe had just stopped expanding and was now crus.h.i.+ng inward on itself. Somebody else said he believed the cosmos was dying of old age. Galactic cancer. A tumor in the brain of Creation. Cosmic AIDS. Whatever. The fact was that things were not what they'd been six months ago, and n.o.body was saying it was going to get better. Or that six months from now there'd be an Earth, or a universe where it used to hang.

Something pa.s.sed by. Three words. A death sentence. On this asylum planet called Earth, the molecules of matter had warped. Water had a disturbing tendency to explode like nitroglycerine, which had rearranged the intestines of a few hundred thousand people before the scientists figured it out. Gasoline, on the contrary, was now safe to drink, as well as engine oil, furniture polish, hydrochloric acid, and rat poison. Concrete melted into pools of quicksand, the clouds rained stones, and... well, there were other things too terrible to contemplate, like the day Johnny had been with Marty Chesley and Bo Duggan, finis.h.i.+ng off a few bottles at one of the bars on Monteleone Street. Bo had complained of a headache, and the next minute his brains had spewed out of his ears like gray soup. Something pa.s.sed by. And because of that, anything could happen.

We made somebody mad, Johnny thought; he watched the negative images of Doug McClure and Sebastian Cabot. We screwed it up, somehow. Walked where we shouldn't have. Done what we didn't need to do. We picked a fruit off a tree we had no business picking, and... .

G.o.d help us, he thought. Brenda made a small sobbing sound.

Sometime later, red-bellied clouds came in from the prairie, their shadows sliding over the straight and empty highways. There was no thunder or lightning, just a slow, thick drizzle. The windows of the James house streamed crimson, and blood ran in the gutters. Pieces of raw flesh and entrails thunked down onto the roofs, fell onto the streets, lay steaming in the heat-scorched yards. A blizzard of flies followed the clouds, and buzzards followed the flies.

2.

”Read 'em and weep, gents,” Gordon said, showing his royal flush. He swept the pot of dimes and quarters toward him, and the other men at the round table moaned and muttered. ”Like I say, I'm a lucky dude.”

”Too lucky.” Howard Carnes slapped his cards down-a measly aces and fours-and reached for the pitcher. He poured himself a gla.s.sful of high-octane.

”So I was sayin' to Danny,” Ray Barnett went on, speaking to the group as he waited for Gordon to shuffle and deal. ”What's the use of leavin' town? I mean, it's not like there's gonna be anyplace different, right? Everything's screwed up.” He pushed a plug of chewing tobacco into his mouth and offered the pack to Johnny. Johnny shook his head. Nick Gleason said, ”I heard there's a place in South America that's normal. A place in Brazil. The water's still all right.”

”Aw, that's bulls.h.i.+t.” Ike McCord picked up his newly dealt cards and examined them, keeping a true poker face on his hard, flinty features. ”The whole d.a.m.n Amazon River blew up. b.a.s.t.a.r.d's still on fire. That's what I heard before the networks went off. It was on CBS.” He rearranged a couple of cards. ”Nowhere's any different from here. The whole world's the same.”

”You don't know everything!” Nick shot back. A little red had begun to glow in his fat cheeks. ”I'll bet there's someplace where things are normal! Maybe at the north pole or somewhere like that!”

”The north pole!” Ray laughed. ”Who the h.e.l.l wants to live at the d.a.m.ned north pole?”

”I could live there,” Nick went on. ”Me and Terri could. Get us some tents and warm clothes, we'd be all right.”

”I don't think Terri would want to wake up with an icicle on her nose,” Johnny said, looking at a hand full of nothing.

Gordon laughed. ”Yeah! It'd be ol' Nick who'd have an icicle hangin' off something', and it wouldn't be his nose!” The other men chortled, but Nick remained silent, his cheeks reddening; he stared fixedly at his cards, which were just as bad Johnny's.

There was a peal of high, false, forced laughter from the front room, where Brenda sat with Terri Gleason, Jane McCord and her two kids, Rhonda Carnes and their fifteen-year-old daughter, Kathy, who lay on the floor listening to Bon Jovi tapes on her Walkman. Elderly Mrs. McCord, Ike's mother, was needlepointing, her gla.s.ses perched on the end of her nose and her wrinkled fingers diligent.

”So Danny says he and Paula want to go west,” Ray said. ”I'll open for a quarter.” He tossed it into the pot. ”Danny says he's never seen San Francisco, so that's where they want to go.”

”I wouldn't go west if you paid me.” Howard threw a quarter in. ”I'd get on a boat and go to an island. Like Tahiti. One of those places where women dance with their stomachs.”

”Yeah, I could see Rhonda in a gra.s.s skirt! I'll raise you a quarter, gents.” Gordon put his money into the pot.

”Couldn't you guys see Howard drinkin' out of a d.a.m.n coconut? Man, he'd make a monkey look like a prince char-”

From the distance came a hollow boom that echoed over the town and cut Gordon's jaunty voice off. The talking and forced laughter ceased in the front room. Mrs. McCord missed a st.i.tch, and Kathy Carnes sat up and took the Walkman earphones off.

There was another boom, closer this time. The house's floor trembled. The men sat staring desperately at their cards. A third blast, further away. Then silence, in which hearts pounded and Gordon's new Rolex ticked off the seconds.

”It's over,” old Mrs. McCord announced. She was back in her rhythm again. ”Wasn't even close.”

”I wouldn't go west if you paid me,” Howard repeated. His voice trembled. ”Gimme three cards.”

”Three cards it is.” Gordon gave everybody what they needed, then said, ”One card for the dealer.” His hands were shaking.

Johnny glanced out the window. Far away, over the rotting cornfields, there was a flash of jagged red. The percussion came within seconds: a m.u.f.fled, powerful boom.

”I'm b.u.mpin' everybody fifty cents,” Gordon announced. ”Come on, come on! Let's play cards!” Ike McCord folded. Johnny had nothing, so he folded too. ”Turn 'em over!” Gordon said. Howard grinned and showed his kings and jacks. He started to rake in the pot, but Gordon said, ”Hold on, Howie,” as he turned over his hand and showed his four tens and a deuce. ”Sorry, gents. Read 'em and weep.” He pulled the coins toward himself. Howard's face had gone chalky. Another blast echoed through the night. The floor trembled. Howard said, ”You're cheatin', you sonofab.i.t.c.h.”

Gordon stared at him, his mouth open. Sweat glistened on his face.

”Hold on, now, Howard,” Ike said. ”You don't want to say things like-”

”You must be helpin' him, d.a.m.n it!” Howard's voice was louder, more strident, and it stopped the voices of the women. ”h.e.l.l, it's plain as day he's cheatin'! Ain't n.o.body's luck can be as good as his!”

”I'm not a cheater.” Gordon stood up; his chair fell over backward. ”I won't take that kind of talk from any man.”

”Come on, everybody!” Johnny said. ”Let's settle down and-”

”I'm not a cheater!” Gordon shouted. ”I play 'em honest!” A blast made the walls moan, and a red glow jumped at the window.

”You always win the big pots!” Howard stood up, trembling. ”How come you always win the big pots, Gordon?” Rhonda Carnes, Jane McCord, and Brenda were peering into the room, eyes wide and fearful. ”Hush up in there!” old Mrs. McCord hollered. ”Shut your traps, children!”

”n.o.body calls me a cheater, d.a.m.n you!” Gordon flinched as a blast pounded the earth. He stared at Howard, his fists clenched. ”I deal 'em honest and I play 'em honest, and by G.o.d, I ought to...” He reached out, his hand grasping for Howard's s.h.i.+rt collar.

Before his hand could get there, Gordon Mayfield burst into flame.

”Jesus!” Ray shrieked, leaping back. The table upset, and the cards and coins flew through the air. Jane McCord screamed, and so did her husband. Johnny staggered backward, tripped, and fell against the wall. Gordon's flesh was aflame from bald skull to the bottom of his feet, and as his plaid s.h.i.+rt caught fire, Gordon thrashed and writhed. Two burning deuces spun from the inside of his s.h.i.+rt and snapped at Howard's face. Gordon was screaming for help, the flesh running off him as incandescent heat built inside his body. He tore at his skin, trying to put out the fire that would not be extinguished.

”Help him!” Brenda shouted. ”Somebody help him!” But Gordon staggered back against the wall, scorching it. The ceiling above his head was charred and smoking. His Rolex exploded with a small pop. Johnny was on his knees in the protection of the overturned table, and as he rose he felt Gordon's heat pucker his own face. Gordon was flailing, a ma.s.s of yellow flames, and Johnny leapt up and grasped Brenda's hand, pulling her with him toward the front door. ”Get out!” he yelled. ”Everybody get out!” Johnny didn't wait for them; he pulled Brenda out the door, and they ran through the night, south on Silva Street. He looked back, saw a few more figures fleeing from the house, but he couldn't tell who they were. And then there was a white flare that dazzled his eyes and Ray Barnett's house exploded, timbers and roof tiles flying through the sultry air. The shock wave knocked Brenda and Johnny to the pavement; she was screaming, and Johnny clasped his hand over her mouth because he knew that if he started to scream it was all over for him. Fragments of the house rained down around them, along with burning clumps of human flesh. Johnny and Brenda got up and ran, their knees bleeding.

They ran through the center of town, along the straight thoroughfare of Straub Street, past the Spector Theatre and the Skipp Religious Bookstore. Other shouts and screams echoed through the night, and red lightning danced in the cornfields. Johnny had no thought but to get them home, and hope that the earth wouldn't suck them under before they got there.

They fled past the cemetery on McDowell Hill, and there was a crash and boom that dropped Johnny and Brenda to their knees again. Red lightning arced overhead, a sickly-sweet smell in the air. When Johnny looked at the cemetery again, he saw there was no longer a hill; the entire rise had been mashed flat, as if by a tremendous crus.h.i.+ng fist. And then, three seconds later, broken tombstones and bits of coffins slammed down on the plain where a hill had stood for two hundred years. Gravity howitzer, Johnny thought; he hauled Brenda to her feet, and they staggered on across Olson Lane and past the broken remnants of the Baptist church at the intersection of Daniels and Saul streets.

A brick house on Wright Street was crushed to the ground as they fled past it, slammed into the boiling dust by the invisible power of gravity gone mad. Johnny gripped Brenda's hand and pulled her on, through the deserted streets. Gravity howitzers boomed all across town, from Schow Street on the west to Barker Promenade on the east. The red lightning cracked overhead, snapping through the air like cat-o'-nine-tails. And then Johnny and Brenda staggered onto Strieber Circle, right at the edge of town, where you had a full view of the fields and the stars, and kids used to watch, wistfully, for UFOs.

There would be UFOs tonight, and no deliverance from the Earth. Gravity howitzers smashed into the fields, making the stars s.h.i.+mmer. The ground shook, and in the glare of the red lightning Johnny and Brenda could see the effect of the gravity howitzers, the cornstalks mashed flat to the ground in circles twelve or fifteen feet around. The fist of G.o.d, Johnny thought. Another house was smashed to rubble on the street behind them; there was no pattern or reason for the gravity howitzers, but Johnny had seen what was left of Stan Haines after the man was. .h.i.t by one on a sunny Sunday afternoon. Stan had been a ma.s.s of b.l.o.o.d.y tissue jammed into his crumpled shoes, like a dripping mushroom.

The howitzers marched back and forth across the fields. Two or three more houses were hit, over on the north edge of town. And then, quite abruptly, it was all over. There was the noise of people shouting and dogs barking; the sounds seemed to combine, until you couldn't tell one from the other.

Johnny and Brenda sat on the curb, gripping hands and trembling. The long night went on. 3 The sun turned violet. Even at midday, the sun was a purple ball in a white, featureless sky. The air was always hot, but the sun itself no longer seemed warm. The first of a new year pa.s.sed, and burning winter drifted toward springtime.