Part 31 (1/2)

”What's Stinger going to make? Do you know?” Rhodes asked her. She shook her head. Death and destruction crowded into her brain; she saw this lifepod called Inferno ablaze and crushed-if not by Stinger, then by the House of Fists. She glimpsed a fragment of the force field, glowing through the clouds of smoke, then her view was obscured again. She knew that many innocents were about to die, and too many had already perished because of her. The old rage seethed inside her. She saw the towers of her city crack and fall, saw mangled bodies spinning in the debris. The same brutality was about to happen here. ”I must exit this world,” Daufin said. ”I've got to get home.”

”There's no way!” Rhodes countered. ”We told you: Earth doesn't have interstellar vehicles!”

”You're incorrect.” Daufin's voice was quiet, and she continued to stare to the southwest, in the direction of Mack Cade's autoyard.

”Do you know something I don't?”

”There is an interstellar vehicle on Earth.” Her eyes shone as if brilliant with fever. ”Stinger's s.h.i.+p.”

”What good will that do you?”

”I'm going to take Stinger's s.h.i.+p,” she answered. ”That's how I'm going to get home.”

As the voice of a warrior came from a little girl's throat, Cody guided the motorcycle to the curb where Rick directed him. Sonny Crowfield lived alone in a gray clapboard shack on the edge of Cade's autoyard, and Cody drove up onto a trash-strewn yard and stopped with the headlight aimed at the closed front door. The house's porch sagged, the windows were broken out, and the place appeared deserted-but then again, so did the other houses on Third Street. Cody cut the engine but left the headlight burning. Rick got off, withdrew the.38, and walked to the bottom of the porch's three cinder-block steps before he realized Cody wasn't with him.

”I said I'd come with you,” Cody told him. ”I didn't say I'd go in.”

”Muchas gracias.” Rick snapped the pistol's safety off and started up the steps. He rapped on the door with the barrel. ”Hey, Crowfield! It's Rick Jurado!”

No one came to the door. Cody s.h.i.+fted uneasily in his seat and glanced around. The pyramid stood to his right; he could see its vague, violet-washed outline through the murk.

”Answer up, Sonny!” Rick called. He knocked with his fist-and suddenly the door fell in with a scream of splintered wood and hung by one hinge. Rick jumped back, and Cody's hand leapt to the baseball bat.

”I don't think he's home,” Cody said.

Rick peered inside, could see nothing. ”You got a light?”

”Forget it, man! Crowfield's gone!”

”You got a light or not?” Rick asked, and waited. Cody snorted and dug his Zippo lighter out of his pocket. He flipped it to Rick, and the other boy caught it. Rick popped the flame up and started to cross the threshold.

”Watch your step!” Cody warned. ”I don't want to be pullin' you up on a rope!”

”Front room's got a floor,” Rick said, and he went in.

The house had a cemetery smell. The lighter's flame told Rick why: skeletons hung on the cracked walls. The bones had belonged to vultures, armadillos, coyotes, and snakes, and they were all over the place. He followed the flame through the front room into a hallway where bat and owl skeletons dangled on wires. He'd heard about Crowfield's ”collection” from Pequin, but he'd never been here before and he was glad he hadn't. He came to another room off the corridor and thrust the lighter into the doorway.

”s.h.i.+t,” he whispered. Most of the room's floor had collapsed into darkness. He walked carefully to the edge of the broken floorboards and looked down. He couldn't see a bottom, but the light glinted off something lying a few feet to his left, up against the wall's baseboard. He reached for it, and found a copper-jacketed bullet in his hand. And there were more of them: nine or ten bullets, lying on the other side of the hole. If Crowfield had bullets, there must be a gun around here, Rick thought. There was a closet within reach, and he opened it.

The lighter was beginning to scorch his hand, but the flame revealed another of Crowfield's collections: inside the closet, amid half-a.s.sembled skeletons and plastic bags full of a.s.sorted bones, were two rifles, four boxes of ammunition, a rusty.45 pistol, a case of empty c.o.ke bottles, and two red tin cans. Rick caught the reek of gasoline. Sonofab.i.t.c.h had an a.r.s.enal, he realized. There were other items too: a bayonet, a couple of hunting knives, some of those morningstar blades that karate fighters threw, and a camouflage tarpaulin. Rick moved the tarp aside, and underneath was a small wooden box. He bent down. In faded red letters on the box was written; DANGER! HIGH EXPLOSIVES! PROPERTY OF PRESTON COPPER MINING COMPANY.

He lifted the lid-and instantly pulled the lighter's flame back. Nestled in waxed paper inside were five mustard-yellow sticks, each about nine inches long. The dynamite sticks had fuses of varying lengths, the longest maybe twelve inches and the shortest four inches. A couple of the sticks were scorched like hot dogs that had cooked too long on a grill, and Rick figured they were duds that had failed to ignite the first time around. How they'd ended up here he didn't know, but it was obvious that Sonny Crowfield had been getting ready to wage war-maybe on the Renegades, or maybe to take over the Rattlesnakes. He looked again at the c.o.ke bottles and the gasoline tins. Easy to make a firebomb that way, he thought. Easy to set fire to a house or two and let the 'Gades take the blame, try to stir up a war so all this firepower could be useful.

”Sonofab.i.t.c.h,” Rick said. He let the lid drop back and stood up. A little plastic bag fell open, and rat bones spilled out.

Outside, Cody felt the hairs on the back of his neck p.r.i.c.kle-and just that quick he knew someone was behind him. He looked over his shoulder.

Sonny Crowfield was standing at the curb, eyes like dead black stones, mouth a thin gray gash, and the face damp and pallid. ”I know you.” The voice sounded like a warped, slowed-down recording of the real Crowfield. ”You gave me some pain, man.” The figure took a step forward. Its grin widened, and now Cody could see the rows of needle teeth. ”I want to show you somethin' real pretty. You'll like it.” The metal-nailed hand reached out.

Cody stomped down on the kickstarter. The engine rattled, backfired, but wouldn't catch. The hand glided toward him. ”Come on, man. Let me show you what I've made.”

Another stomp, with all of Cody's strength behind it. The engine coughed and fired, and as the fingers started to clench into his shoulder Cody twisted the throttle and shot the motorcycle up the cinder-block steps and through the doorway into Crowfield's house.

The headlamp splayed onto Rick, who was just coming out of the corridor. He threw himself against a wall and a coyote skeleton fell off its hooks and crumpled to the floor. He shouted, ”What the h.e.l.l are you doing?” as Cody stopped the cycle just short of a collision.

”Get on!” Cody shouted right back. ”Hurry!”

”Get on! Why?” He thought Cody had tumbled into the Great Fried Empty-and then a figure with long black hair filled up the doorway.

”Time's up,” Stinger said, in its manufactured Sonny Crowfield voice. Rick lifted the.38 and fired twice, the gunshots deafening. Both bullets. .h.i.t the creature's chest, and it grunted and stumbled back a step, then righted itself and stormed across the threshold again.

”Get on! ” Cody demanded, and Rick planted himself on the pa.s.senger seat. Cody guided the cycle into the corridor and powered up. Skeletons of flying things swung on wires over their heads. The Honda emerged from the corridor into a boxy kitchen, and Cody skidded it to a stop over the dirty yellow linoleum. He twisted the handlebars, seeking a way out with the headlight. ”Where's the back door?” he yelled, but both of them saw that there was none, and the kitchen's single window was boarded up.

”Time's up! They didn't do what I told 'em!” Stinger raged, in the darkness between the kitchen and the house's only door. ”Gonna smash some bugs!” There was the noise of combat boots clumping through the corridor. ”I'll show you what I've made! It's gonna be here real soon!”

Cody switched off the headlight, and now the darkness was complete.

”Are you crazy? Keep the light on!” Rick protested, but Cody was already turning the motorcycle in a tight circle so that they were aimed into the corridor.

”Hang on,” Cody told him. He revved the engine, and it responded with a throaty roar. ”I want to be on him before the b.a.s.t.a.r.d knows what's. .h.i.t him. If you fall off, you're dead meat. Got it?”

”Got it.” Rick clamped one arm around Cody's waist and kept his finger on the.38's trigger. The clump of boots was about halfway along the corridor. There were little rattling sounds: the thing's head and shoulders brus.h.i.+ng skeletons.

Three more steps, Cody thought. Got to hit that thing and keep on going. His palms were wet, and his heart was slamming like a Beastie Boys drumbeat. One more step. It came. The monster was almost in the kitchen. Cody revved the engine until it shrieked and released the brakes.

The rear tire spun on the linoleum, and there was the smell of scorched plastic. But in the next instant the motorcycle reared up and shot forward on its back tire. Rick hung on, and Cody hit the headlight switch.

Stinger was right there, framed in the corridor. The wet gray face convulsed as the light fell upon it, and both Rick and Cody saw the eyeb.a.l.l.s smoke and retreat into their sockets. There was a roar of pain that shook the walls, and Stinger's hands rose up to s.h.i.+eld the eyes; its body was already starting to curl up, the spinal cord bulging with the pressure of the spiked tail beneath it. The front tire hit the thing's face and the machine kept going over Stinger's body as if trying to claw its way out. Stinger went down to the floor. The motorcycle shuddered, careened to the side, and ricocheted off the wall, and the headlight's bulb blew out. Rick was lifted off his seat and almost lost hold of Cody, and something that no longer had a human shape was flailing wildly underneath the motorcycle. But then they had broken clear of it and Cody powered the Honda through the doorway and down the porch steps. They went across the yard in a spray of sand as Cody fought to turn the machine-and in front of them they saw the pavement of Third Street at the edge of Cade's autoyard start to crack apart and buckle upward. A shape was struggling up from the street. Cody got the cycle under control and skidded to a stop about ten feet from the emerging creation.

”Here it comes!” a hunchbacked thing with a weaving tail rasped as it slithered down the steps of Crowfield's house. ”Gonna smash alllll the little bugs!”

”Go! ” Rick shouted. Cody didn't have to be told twice. He couldn't tell what was digging itself out of the ground, but he didn't care for a closer look. He laid on the throttle and the motorcycle arrowed east. Behind them, Third Street broke open and Stinger's new creation began to crawl free.

48 Nasty's Hero

Walking east on Celeste Street, Ray saw his shadow thrown before him by a single headlight, and he turned to wave down a ride. It was Tank's one-eyed truck, and it slowed to a stop in front of him. Tank was at the wheel, his face daubed green by the instrument panel, and Ray could make out Nasty sitting on the pa.s.senger side. Tank leaned his helmeted head through the window. ”You goin' up to the fort?”

”No. Home.”

”Your folks are at the fort. So's most everybody else. Your sister too.”

”Stevie? They found her?”

”Not exactly Stevie,” Nasty told him. ”Come on, we're headed up there.” She opened the door for him, and he slid in beside her. Tank put the gears.h.i.+ft into first and started forward, turning left onto Travis Street. The tires bounced roughly over fissures in the pavement. Tank stared grimly ahead, trying to see through the smoke by the remaining light. He and Nasty had gone to his parents' house on Circle Back Street and found the place leaning on its foundations, a hole in the den floor big enough to drive a tractor through. Of his mother and father there was no sign, but some kind of slimy stuff was streaked on the walls and carpet.

”They're probably all right,” Nasty repeated for the third or fourth time. ”They probably went to a neighbor's house.”

Tank grunted. They'd checked the other four houses on Circle Back Street; there'd been no answer at three of them, and at the fourth old man s.h.i.+pley had come to the door with a shotgun. ”Maybe they did,” he said, but he didn't believe they'd gotten out of the house alive. Ray s.h.i.+fted his position. The warmth of Nasty's thigh was burning into his leg. This would be one h.e.l.l of a time to get a hard-on, and of course as soon as he thought about it the miraculous, unstoppable process began. Nasty looked at him, her face just a few inches away, and he thought, She can read my mind. Maybe it was because they were touching, and if he pulled away, she wouldn't know what he was thinking, but there was no room to maneuver in the cramped, greasy-smelling truck cab.