Part 20 (1/2)

”Yeah. Whatever.” Celeste stared at the pyramid for a moment longer, and then she started walking to the clinic; Mrs. Santos continued along the street in the opposite direction. In Sarge Dennison's house, across from where Reverend Jennings was leading a group of townspeople in prayer at the Baptist church, Daufin stood next to the chair in which Sarge was sprawled. Now this was a curious thing, Daufin mused: the creature had been consuming the tasteless material called pork 'n beans from a round metallic receptacle, using a four-p.r.o.nged tool, when he'd suddenly made an explosive noise from the depths of his chair, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. ”Gonna rest for a few minutes,” he'd told her. ”Ain't what I used to be. You keep Scooter company, hear?” And it wasn't very much longer before the creature's mouth had begun making a low buzzing sound, as if there were an efficient machine tucked away somewhere within. Daufin had approached him and peered into the half-open mouth, but could see nothing except the strange bony appliances called teeth. It was another mystery.

Her stomach felt weighed. The receptacle of pork 'n beans that Sarge had opened and given to her was empty, and lay on a table along with the tool she'd used to eat it. The act of feeding on this world was a repet.i.tive labor of balance, visual acuity, and sheer willpower. She was astounded that the beings could force such sludgy fodder into their systems. Lying beside Sarge's chair was a long yellow envelope made of a tough, slick material, and on the envelope was written the cryptic word ”Fritos.” Sarge had shared the crunchy food curls with her, and Daufin had found them at least palatable, but now the inside of her mouth was dry. It seemed there was always some discomfort on this world; perhaps, in some strange way, discomfort was this species' prime motivation.

”I am go-ing to try to find an ex-it now,” she told him. ”Thank you for the ed-i-bles.”

Sarge stirred, drowsily opened his eyes. He saw Stevie Hammond and smiled. ”Bathroom's in the back,” he said, and settled himself in for a long nap.

This alien language was a puzzlement. The Sarge creature's buzzing began again, and Daufin walked out of the house into the warm dark.

Haze hung in the air, thicker than it had been when she'd come out here not long ago and seen the two flying machines whirling across the sky. She'd watched their duel, didn't really know what was happening, but reasoned it wasn't a common sight; there'd been humans watching from the street, and some of them had made high shrieking noises that she construed as sounds of alarm. Then, when the battle was over and the surviving machine fell with fire chewing its tail, Daufin was left with a single thought: Stinger.

Sarge had been kind to her, and she liked him; but now the need to find an exit called her. Her gaze swept the sky, scanning the violet mesh that trapped her and the humans in the same huge cage. She knew where it came from, and what powered it. Inside her there was a pressure as if some part of her was on the verge of breaking, and the pumping muscle at her center picked up speed. Hopeless! she thought as she scanned the skygrid from horizon to horizon. There is no exit! Hopeless!

A low gleam of light caught her eye, through the haze that clung close to the street. It was made of many colors, and it was an inviting light. If light could carry hope, Daufin thought, this light did. She began to walk toward the Inferno Baptist Church, where candlelight filtered through a stained-gla.s.s window. The door was open. Daufin slid her head around its corner to peer inside. Small white sticks with tips of light illuminated the interior, and at the opposite end from Daufin stood two metallic structures that each held six of the light-tipped sticks. Daufin counted, in the crude Earth mathematics, forty-six humans sitting on long high-backed benches, facing an upraised dais. Some of the humans had their heads bent over and their hands clasped. A man with a s.h.i.+ny head stood at the dais, and appeared to be dispensing liquid from a large receptacle into tiny ones held in a metallic tray. And above the dais was a curious sight: a suspended vertical line crossed by a shorter horizontal line, and at its center the figure of a human being hung with arms outstretched. The figure's head was capped with a circle of twisted vegetation, and its face angled up toward the ceiling; the painted eyes were imploring, and seemed to be fixed on a distance far beyond the confines of this structure. Daufin heard a painful sound from one of the people on the benches: a ”sob,” she thought it was called. The hanging figure indicated this might be a place of torture, but there were mixed feelings here: sadness and pain, yes, but something else too, and she wasn't quite certain what it was. Perhaps it was the hope that she'd thought was lost, she decided. She could feel a strength here, like a collection of minds turned in the same direction. It felt like a st.u.r.dy place, and a safe shelter. This is an abode of ritual, she realized as she watched the man at the dais preparing the receptacles of dark red liquid. But who was the figure suspended at the center of two crossed lines, and what was its purpose? Daufin entered the building, going to the nearest bench and sitting down. Neither Hale Jennings nor Mayor Brett, who sat with his wife Doris on the first pew, saw her come in.

”This is the blood of Christ,” the reverend intoned as he finished pouring the sacramental grape juice.

”With this blood we are whole, and made new again.” He opened a box of Saltines, began to crush them, and the pieces fell into an offering plate. ”And this is the body of Christ, which has pa.s.sed from this earth into grace so that there should be life everlasting.” He turned to the congregation. ”I invite you to partake of holy Communion. Shall we pray?”

Daufin watched as the others bowed their heads, and the man at the dais closed his eyes and began to speak in a soft rising and falling cadence. ”Father, we ask your blessing on this Communion, and that you strengthen our souls in this time of trial. We don't know what tomorrow's going to bring, we're afraid, and we don't know what to do. What's happening to us, and to our town, is beyond our minds to comprehend...”

As the prayer continued, Daufin listened closely to the man's voice, comparing it to the voices of Tom, Jessie, Ray, Rhodes, and Sarge. Each voice was unique in a wonderful way, she realized. And the correct enunciation was far different from her halting tongue. This man at the dais almost turned speaking into song. What she'd first considered a rough, guttural language-full of barbarity and made of unyielding surfaces-now amazed her with its variety. Of course a language was only as good as the meaning behind it and she still was having trouble understanding, but the sound fascinated her. And saddened her a little, as well; there was something indescribably lonely about the human voice, like a call from darkness into darkness. What an infinity of voices the human beings possessed! she thought. If each voice on this planet was unique, just that alone was a marvel of creation that staggered her senses.

”... but guard us, dear Father, and walk with us, and let us know that thy will be done. Amen,”

Jennings finished. He took the plate holding the little plastic cups of juice in one hand and the cracker crumbs in the other, and began to go from person to person offering Communion. Mayor Brett accepted it, and so did his wife. Don Ringwald, owner of the Ringwald Drugstore, took it, as did his wife and their two children. Ida Slattery did, and so did Gil and Mavis Lockridge. Reverend Jennings continued along the aisle, giving the Communion and saying quietly, ”With this you accept the blood and body of Christ.”

A woman sitting in front of Daufin began to cry, and her husband put his arm around her shoulder and drew her closer. Two little boys sat beside them, one wide-eyed and scared and the other staring over the back of the pew at Daufin. Across the aisle, an elderly woman closed her eyes and lifted a trembling hand toward the figure above the dais.

”With this you accept the blood and-” Jennings stopped. He was staring at the dusty face of Tom and Jessie's little girl. A thrill of shock went through him; this was the alien creature Colonel Rhodes was searching for. ”-the body of Christ,” he continued, offering the grape juice and cracker crumbs to the people on the pew in front of her. Then he stood beside her, and he said gently, ”h.e.l.lo.”

”h.e.l.lo,” she answered, copying his dulcet voice.

Jennings bent down, and his knees creaked. ”Colonel Rhodes is looking for you.” The little girl's eyes were almost luminous in the golden candlelight, and directed at him with intense concentration. ”Did you know that?”

”I sus-pect-” She stopped herself, wanting to try again with more of a human's smooth cadence instead of the halting Webster's p.r.o.nunciation. ”I suspected so,” she said. Jennings nodded. His pulse rate had kicked up a few notches. The figure sitting before him resembled Stevie Hammond in every way but for her posture: she sat rigidly, as if uncomfortable with the way her bones fit together, and her right leg was drawn up underneath her. Her arms hung limply by her sides. The voice was almost Stevie's, but with a reedy sound beneath it, as if she had a flute caught in her throat. ”Can I take you to him?” he asked.

There was a quick expression of fear on her face, like a glimpse of dark water through white ice; then gone, frozen over again. ”I must find an exit,” she said.

”You mean a door?”

”A door. An escape. A way out. Yes.”

A way out, he thought. She must be talking about the force field. ”Maybe Colonel Rhodes can help you.”

”He cannot.” She hesitated, tried again: ”He can't help me find an exit. If I am unable to exit, there will be much hurting.”

”Hurting? Who'll get hurt?”

”Jessie. Tom. Ray. You. Everyone.”

”I see,” he said, though he did not. ”And who'll do this hurting?”

”The one who's come here, searching for me.” Her eyes were steady. Jennings thought something about them looked very old, as if a small ancient woman was sitting there wearing a little girl's skin.

”Stinger,” she told him, the word falling from her mouth like something hideously nasty.

”You mean that thing out there? Is that its name?”

”An approx-i-ma-tion,” she said, struggling with the stubborn fleshy slab inside her mouth. ”Stinger has many names on many worlds.”

The reverend thought about that for a moment, and if anybody had ever told him he'd be talking to an alien and being told firsthand that there was life on ”many worlds” he would have either decked the fool with a good right cross or called for the b.u.t.terfly wagon. ”I'd like to take you to Colonel Rhodes. Would that be all right?”

”He can't help me.”

”Maybe he can. He wants to, like we all do.” She seemed to be thinking it over. ”Come on, let me take you to-”

”That's her! ” someone shouted, startling the trays of grape juice and cracker crumbs out of the reverend's hands. Mayor Brett was on his feet, standing halfway up the aisle, his wife right behind him and shoving him into action. Brett's finger pointed at Daufin. ”That's her, everybody!” he yelled. ”That's the thing from outer s.p.a.ce!”

The couple in front of Daufin recoiled. One of the little boys jumped over the pew to get away, but the one who'd been watching her just grinned. Other people were standing up for a good look, and n.o.body was praying anymore.

Jennings rose to his feet. ”Hold on now, John. Don't make a fuss.”

”Fuss, my a.s.s! That's her! That's the monster!” He took a backward step, collided with Doris; his mouth was a shocked O. ”My G.o.d! In church! ”

”We don't want to get all riled up,” Jennings said, making an effort to keep his voice soothing.

”Everybody just take it easy.”

”It's because of her we're in this fix!” Brett howled. His wife's pinched face nodded agreement.

”Colonel Rhodes said that thing got inside Stevie Hammond, and there she sits! G.o.d only knows what kinda powers she's got!”

Daufin looked from face to face and saw terror in them. She stood up, and the woman in front of her s.n.a.t.c.hed her grinning little boy and backed away. ”Get her out of here!” the mayor went on. ”She don't have no right to be in the Lord's house!”

”Shut up, John!” Jennings demanded. People were already heading to the door, getting out as fast as they could. ”I'm about to take her over to Colonel Rhodes. Now why don't you just sit down and put a lid on-”

The floor shook. Daufin saw the light sticks waver. One of the metallic holders toppled, and burning light sticks rolled across the crimson carpet.

”What was that?” Don Ringwald yelled, his owlish eyes huge behind his wire-rimmed spectacles. There was a crackling noise. Concrete breaking, Jennings thought. He felt the floor shudder beneath the soles of his shoes. Annie Gibson screamed, and she and her husband Perry ran for the door with their two boys in tow. Across the aisle, old Mrs. Everett was jabbering and lifting both hands toward the cross. Jennings looked at Daufin, saw the fear slide into her eyes again, and then fall away, replaced by a blast-furnace glare of anger beyond any rage he'd ever witnessed. Daufin's fingers gripped the pew in front of her, and he heard her say, ”It's Stinger.”

The floor bulged along the aisle like a blister about to pop open. Brett staggered back, and his elbow clipped Doris solidly in the jaw and knocked her sprawling to the floor. She didn't get up. Someone screamed on the other side of the sanctuary. Stones were grinding together, timbers squealed, and the pews rolled as if on stormy waves. Jennings had the sense of something ma.s.sive under the sanctuary's floor, something surfacing and about to burst through. Cracks shot up the walls, and the figure of Jesus on the cross broke loose and crashed down upon the altar in a flurry of rock dust. A section of the church on the left collapsed, the pews splitting apart. Dust whirled through the last of the candlelight, and Daufin shouted, ”Get out! Get out!” as people surged toward the doorway, trailing screams. Jennings saw the carpet rip apart, and a jagged fissure opened along the aisle. The floor heaved, shuddered, began to collapse inward as dust billowed up from the earth. Ida Slattery almost knocked Jennings off his feet as she barreled past him, shrieking. He saw Doris Brett fall through the floor, and the mayor was climbing over the twisting pews like a monkey to get to the doorway. Gil Lockridge fell through, and his wife Mavis a second afterward as the floor opened under her feet. The Ringwalds' oldest boy pitched through, and hung screaming to its side as Don reached down for him. ”Praise be to Jeeeesus!” Mrs. Everett was shouting insanely. Pews were splitting with gunshot cracks as the floor pitched wildly, fissures snaking up the walls. Overhead, the wooden rafters began breaking and plummeting down, and the stained-gla.s.s windows shattered as the walls shook on their foundations.

Some of the candles had set fire to the carpet up near the altar, and the nibbling flames threw grotesque shadows as people fought to get out the door or climb through the windows. Jennings scooped Daufin up and held her, as he would any child, and he could feel her heart pounding at furious speed. Mrs. Everett fell as the floor collapsed beneath her; she hung to the splintered edge of a pew, her feet dangling over darkness, and Jennings grasped her arm to haul her up. But before he could, Mrs. Everett went down with such force that his own arm was almost wrenched from its socket. He heard her scream turn into strangling, and he thought, Something pulled her down.

”No! No! ” Daufin was shouting, twisting to get out of the human's grip. Her insides were aflame with rage and terror, and she knew that what was happening in this place was because of her. The screams pierced her with agony. ” Stop it! ” she cried out, but she knew the thing beneath the floor would not hear her, and it knew no mercy.

Jennings turned, started for the door.