Part 19 (1/2)

”What do you mean she's gone? Did you guys have a fight?”

”Yes. No. Sort of. It's a long story, man, and I don't have time to waste. I've got to get after her before something happens. Can I please borrow the gun?”

Russ paused. He stared at me, then looked over my shoulder as if expecting Christy to show up behind me. Then he turned his eyes back to mine again.

”Sure, Robbie. You can borrow it. Just give me a second, okay? Come on inside.”

I followed him into the apartment, and he shut the door behind me. Then he disappeared into his bedroom. I heard him rustling around for what seemed like ten minutes and was about to ask him what the h.e.l.l was taking him so long, when he suddenly emerged carrying both pistols, as well as a rifle with a scope slung over his shoulder. He was dressed in jeans, muddy work boots, and a flannel s.h.i.+rt. He handed me the pistol without a word, then dropped some extra bullets into my hand.

”Thanks.” The pistol was already loaded. I nodded at the rifle as I pocketed the extra ammunition. ”Where'd you get that?”

”Out there. Found it in the street.”

Russ didn't elaborate, and I didn't ask him to. I got the sense that he didn't want to talk about it.

”I'm going with you,” he said.

”I appreciate the thought, but I can't ask you to do that, man.”

”You're not asking me. I'm telling you. So let's go.” He glanced down at my feet. ”You might want to put some socks and shoes on first, though.”

I looked down and saw that I was barefoot. I'd been so worried about Christy that I hadn't even noticed. We left his apartment. Russ locked the door behind us. Then, while I got some shoes on, he went downstairs and got Cranston. I never found out what he said to Cranston that convinced him to come along, but I was glad for it. The two of them met me in the foyer. Cranston had Russ's other pistol in his hand. Russ had unslung the rifle and was holding it in both hands, peeking out into the street. Cranston nodded at me. I nodded back.

”Thanks for doing this,” I told him.

”No problem, man. Let's just hope it doesn't end up like last time, right?”

”Right.”

”Coast is clear,” Russ said. ”The street is empty. I don't see Christy, though.”

”She's heading downtown,” I told them. ”To the pet store. You guys know where that is?”

Russ shrugged. ”I don't.”

”I do,” Cranston said. ”I bought a Nile monitor lizard there. I named him Jerry, after Jerry Garcia.”

”Who?” I asked.

”Jerry Garcia-the Grateful Dead, man.”

I shrugged. ”My grandparents used to listen to them.”

Russ grinned. ”I didn't know you had a pet lizard, Cranston.”

”I don't anymore. He got loose about a year ago.”

”In the building?” Russ looked around as if the monitor might still be lurking around.

”No,” Cranston said. ”In the park. I used to take him out there on summer afternoons. He liked the sun. One day he slipped his leash.”

”You had him on a leash?”

Cranston nodded. ”Just like a dog.”

”Is the coast still clear?” I asked, interrupting.

Russ peeked his head out the door and checked. ”Yeah.”

”Then let's go. If we hurry, we can still catch her.”

After turning on our flashlights, we went out into the dark and hurried down the street, walking side by side. A lot had changed in just a few days. The sidewalks and streets were a mess, full of broken gla.s.s, trash, spent bullet casings, torn or soiled sc.r.a.ps of clothing, and other debris. Many of the vehicles parked alongside the curb had smashed winds.h.i.+elds or slashed tires. A few of them were up on blocks-their tires and rims stolen. I wondered who would want to gank expensive rims given everything that was going on. I mean, it wasn't like they'd be able to sell them somewhere. What were they going to do? Put them on their car and drive down to Virginia Beach for the weekend?

We found the first dead body at the intersection. It was impossible to tell if it had been a man or a woman because the corpse was mauled beyond all recognition. It didn't look like a human being. It looked like a pile of rancid meat, all sticky and spoiled and covered with ants and buzzing flies. There was no face, no scalp, no ears. It had been dismembered and eviscerated. The guts were strewn around. They glistened in the flashlight beams. Most of the blood had turned a rusty brown color. Cranston turned away and made a retching sound, but he didn't puke. Russ didn't react, but neither did he look at the body. I stared, transfixed, watching the ants swarm over the corpse. I wondered what the ants thought of the darkness. Were they even aware of it? Did they know that things had changed? Did the darkness show them visions, too?

The farther we went, the more dead bodies we saw. Some were fresh. Others looked like they'd been there for a few days. The streets weren't overflowing with them or anything, but they were definitely around. Lying on the sidewalks and in the street or in open doorways. A few were inside cars, hunched over behind the steering wheels. Some were suicides. Others were obviously murders. It was easy to tell the difference. Suicides didn't usually dismember, disembowel, or behead themselves. They didn't maul or mangle their own s.e.xual organs before dying. They didn't set themselves on fire. Well, okay, I know there was that monk during Vietnam that set himself on fire as a means of protest. I remember my grandpa telling me about that once. He showed me a picture from Life Life magazine. But the burned bodies we saw while looking for Christy? They didn't look like they'd been protesting s.h.i.+t. magazine. But the burned bodies we saw while looking for Christy? They didn't look like they'd been protesting s.h.i.+t.

In addition to the insects, there were a lot of birds- crows, pigeons, robins, woodp.e.c.k.e.rs, and all kinds of other songbirds. They perched on the bodies, fighting over and feasting on the soft, squishy parts of the dead, and on the bugs inside. When we'd get too close, the birds took flight, screeching and squawking as they retreated to rooftops and lampposts and trees. Again, I found myself wondering how the darkness impacted the nonhuman creatures in Walden. If the birds flew too high, did the darkness eat them, the way it had us? Did it try to entice them to fly higher? Show them visions of a big, juicy worm or their mommy bird who'd been eaten by a cat three years earlier?

One corpse, its abdomen swollen with gases, burst with a wet farting sound as we walked around it. That nearly sent all three of us screaming, but we held in there, determined to find Christy.

We saw a few buildings that had burned down. I wondered who had put the fires out. The remains of Chief Peters's fire department or just neighbors and concerned citizens? What would happen when we ran out of water to fight the fires? I a.s.sumed the flames would just jump from dwelling to dwelling, incinerating everything in its path. Conceivably, Walden could burn to the f.u.c.king ground, and we'd all be trapped between fire and darkness. If it came down to that, I'd probably choose burning to death. Something told me that would be preferable to surrendering to those black tentacles.

The streets were full of more than just debris and the dead. There were living people, too. Some, like us, looked like they had a purpose. You could tell by the way they walked and their furtive, cautious glances. They had a reason to be outside. Others sauntered or lounged, giving off the impression that they either had no place to go-or were up to no good. But everyone that we saw had one thing in common. They were all armed. They carried shotguns and rifles, pistols and butcher knives, axes and shovels, baseball bats and golf clubs. One old man clutched a brown leather bullwhip in his gnarled, liver-spotted hands. He looked like a geriatric Indiana Jones. His clothing was muddy and torn, and a cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth.

”You guys got cigarettes to trade?” he asked.

”Sorry,” I replied. ”We don't. We're just looking for someone. A girl.”

”I don't trade in those, but there's plenty of folks around who are starting to.”

I explained that we weren't looking for that and described Christy. It turned out that the old man had seen her pa.s.s by ten minutes before us. We thanked him and hurried on our way.

The closer we got to downtown Walden, the more people we saw. n.o.body f.u.c.ked with us. I thought a few times that they would. We got dirty looks and heard some snickering behind our backs. A group of Mexican guys said something to us in Spanish, but none of us knew what it was. We ignored them and moved past. One of them whispered something, and the others laughed. Russ paused, but I urged him on without a word. At the intersection of Main and Broadway, somebody tossed an empty beer can at us. It hit the ground behind Cranston's feet and rolled away. He humped, and Russ and I spun around, weapons at the ready, but we couldn't tell who threw it or what direction it had come from.

We didn't see any cars-at least, none that was moving. Everybody we spotted was on foot. A few rode bikes. But n.o.body drove. Maybe they were all trying to save gasoline, or maybe it was just because there was really no f.u.c.king place to drive to.

The weirdest thing was the silence. Despite the people and the birds, the streets were quiet. It felt to me almost as if the town was holding its breath.

We found Christy sitting on the curb at Fourth and Sycamore. She had one of her shoes off and she was shaking a stone out of it. A kitchen knife lay on the pavement by her side. I recognized it as one of ours. She must not have realized it was us when she first saw us coming, because she leapt to her feet and started to run. Maybe the shadows hid our features or something. She stopped when I called her name and stood there shaking.

”Robbie?”

”What the h.e.l.l are you doing out here? Have you lost your f.u.c.king mind?”

”You got my note?”

”Yeah, I got your note.” I grabbed her wrist. ”We'll talk about it later. Come on. We're going home.”

Christy pulled away from me and yanked her arm free.