Part 29 (1/2)

”Mrs. Rodriguez, the'Caracas, Mr. and Mrs. Mendoza, Mr. Melazzo, maybe thirty more.”

My G.o.d! Silvera thought. What would happen to the hundred of others trapped in those flimsy tenements as the sand whipped through empty window frames and cracks that should've been repaired years ago? They would slowly suffocate if they couldn't find a better refuge! Silvera paused, then made his decision.

”Leon, you know where the staircase to the bell tower is, don't you?”

”Si. Through that door over there.”

”That's right. Now listen to me carefully. I want you to climb to the tower and crack open the shutters up there; you'll see the handles. The wind may get bad after that so you'll have to be very careful. Then I want you to take the rope that hangs down and pull on it as hard as you can. The bell may lift you off your feet, but that's all right, you'll come down again. Just don't let go of the rope, and keep ringing the bell. Can you do that?” Leon nodded, his eyes bright with the importance of his mission.

”Good.” Silvera squeezed his shoulder. Now he needed something to cover his face. As Leon scurried back through the door, Silvera took a towel from his bathroom and jammed most of it down into his coat so he could press the other end of it against his lower face and not worry about the wind carrying it away.

As he approached the sanctuary door, he heard the first clear peal of Mary's Voice. It was an urgent, warning sound, metallic and determined. The bell's movement made the tower groan over Silvera's head, and he could envision Leon's little body being jerked upward. Silvera put his hand against the door and then he stepped out. The wind screamed in his ears.

Sand ripped into his face and hair. He was almost flung to the ground, but he fought for his balance by leaning against the wind. He could see absolutely nothing; the darkness had conspired with the storm to isolate him inside a well with spinning black walls. He struggled on across the street, hearing tattered fragments of Mary's Voice-it alternately pealed and moaned overhead. Slowly, the line of buildings emerged from the murk. He was gasping for a full breath by the time he reached the door of Leon's building. Sand covered the towel, and some of it had slipped through into his mouth and nostrils. His face felt as if it were shredded. Shattered gla.s.s from the building's door lay about his feet as he stepped into the front corridor. He could hear tortured winds wailing along the stairs, and they tried to pull him in all directions at once.

He tried to breathe without the protective sieve of the towel; his nostrils and lungs instantly flamed.

He knocked on the first door he came to, and Carlos Alva peered out, his dark eyes bugging above the gritty handkerchief he had pressed to his face.

”Carlos!” Silvera shouted, though he stood less than a foot away from the man.

”Get your wife and children! You're going to have to come to the church with me!” Alva didn't seem to understand, so Silvera put his mouth next to the man's ear and shouted again. Alva nodded and disappeared into the room for his family.

Silvera moved on to the next door.

It took him more than forty-five minutes to get them all gathered together on the first floor-thirty-three people not counting the infants in their mother's arms. Silvera had planned on getting them out in a human chain, hand-to-hand, but the infants created a problem.

”Listen to me, all of you!” Silvera shouted at them. ”We're going to have to make it to the church! Can you hear the bell ringing?” Now it sounded distant and m.u.f.fled, and Silvera knew that Leon's arms would be about ready to rip from their sockets. ”We're going to follow that sound!” he yelled, pointing in the direction of the church. ”Everyone clasp the shoulder of the person in front of you and hold on tightly! I don't want the women to carry their babies. Give them to your husbands! The wind's very strong out there so we've got to walk carefully.” He saw frightened eyes everywhere around him. There were cries for G.o.d and muttered prayers.

”We're going to be all right! Don't be afraid, just hold on! Be sure to cover the infants' faces! Is everyone protected? All right! Are we ready?” Someone started sobbing. Carlos Alva, holding his baby son in one arm, gripped Silvera's shoulder. Silvera took a breath of flaming air and moved out into the street, the people trailing behind him.

He couldn't hear the bell for a few seconds. Keep ringing it, Leonl he called out mentally. Then he heard it, wailing for the lost. Behind him the human chain flailed against the wind, some of them falling and having to be helped up. The street had never seemed so wide or so wicked. Silvera felt he'd reached the middle of it because he couldn't see either side, but he couldn't be certain.

Suddenly he heard a piercing scream behind him that went on and on. It reached a high crescendo and then rapidly faded. ”What is it?” Silvera said over his shoulder to Alva. ”Who screamed?”

Alva sent the question back. In another moment he told the priest, ”Mrs. Mendoza is gone! Something pulled her out of the chain!”

”WHAT?” Silvera shouted. ”STAY WHERE YOU ARE!” He felt his way back to the hole where Mrs. Mendoza had been between her husband and Mr. Sanchez.

”What happened to her?” he asked her husband, whose face was pallid with shock.

The man couldn't answer; he was muttering ”Maria, Maria, Maria . . .” over and over again. Silvera looked around for her but couldn't see a thing. He peered at Sanchez. ”What happened?”

Sanchez's teeth were chattering. ”I don't know, Father!” he shouted. ”She was holding on to my shoulder one second, then . . . she wasn't there! I heard her scream, and when I looked around, I thought I saw ... I thought I saw . . .”

”What? What was it?”

”Something ... a man maybe . . . dragging her off . . .” Silvera stared into the darkness, sand slithering down his neck. There was nothing out there, nothing at all. He heard himself say, ”Close the hole,” and then he felt his way back to the front of the chain. His heart was thundering, his stomach roiled with fear. Alva clutched his shoulder again, and they started off. Within ten seconds there was another scream, fading into the distance.

Silvera's head whipped around. ”Felizia!” he heard a woman wail. ”What happen'

to my little girl? FELIZIAAAAAH! The woman started to leap out of the chain, but Silvera shouted, ”HOLD ON TO HER! WE KEEP MOVING!” A figure suddenly ran in front of him, and then was quickly engulfed in the storm. He stopped so abruptly he could feel the entire chain b.u.mp together. He'd gotten the impression of a young boy in a black jacket, grinning out of a silver-eyed skull. Sweet Jesus, protect us! he thought. Please help us get to that door! PLEASE! He began walking again; Alva's hand dug into his shoulder. There was a scream from far behind, almost at the end of the chain. ”KEEP MOVING!” he shouted, though he knew they couldn't possibly hear him back there.

He hoped they'd close the gap and stagger on. And now he seemed to be aware of movement all around him-figures darting back and forth, shadowy shapes made formless by the blowing sand. He stepped onto the opposite curb. The church door was only a few feet away at the top of five steps.

”WE'RE HERE!” he shouted, and realized at the same instant that Alva's hand was gone. When he looked back, he saw that both the man and his wife had been taken out of the chain, leaving only their small daughter frozen with terror, her hand outstretched where she'd been clutching her mother's dress. Silvera grasped her hand. The bell sang out furiously overhead. Silvera threw open the church door and stood there, quickly herding them in whiled he counted them. Of thirty-three who'd left the building, twenty-six had made it. When the last one had stepped across the threshold, Silvera slammed the door shut and leaned against it, the breath rasping through his lungs. Several people fell down before the altar and began to pray; there were shrieks and sobs, a wild tumult of noise.

He hadn't believed in vampires; he wasn't sure now if he did or not, but he knew one thing for certain-whatever could exist in that storm wasn't human. He touched Juan Romero on the shoulder. ”Go up to the tower and take over the bell from Leon,” Silvera said. ”Keep ringing it until I send someone else up. Hurry!”

Juan nodded and moved away. If anyone could hear that bell, Silvera reasoned, then maybe they could reach the church and safety. He put his face in his hands and prayed for strength. He was going to have to go back out there, into the dozens of other buildings that surrounded the church, to help as many people as he could find. He was afraid there would not be very many. But this time he wouldn't go out unprepared.

He walked to the altar and picked up the heavy bra.s.s crucifix; it caught the golden candlelight and s.h.i.+mmered. But it was so cold. Though it was a symbol of hope, he felt full of dark, bleak hopelessness. He gripped his hands around the crucifix's sharp edges, aware of how many eyes were watching him. He could use this to break into a grocery store for canned goods and bottled water. The stained-gla.s.s image of Jesus, occasionally shuddering with the violent wind, stared down at him through stern gray eyes. You're dying anyway, Silvera told himself, so why should you be so afraid? Why should you want to cling to life like an old woman wringing drops out of a dishrag? Your days are numbered. Make them count.

Then he gripped the crucifix, adjusted the towel over his face, and stepped back out into the maelstrom.

THIRTEEN.

”Reminds me of the blizzards we used to have back home,” Wes said softly, watching as the last clear square on the winds.h.i.+eld was covered over. Now he and Solange sat in darkness. She had pressed against him, leaning her head on his shoulder, and though it was terribly hot, Wes didn't mind and neither did she.

It was better somehow to be near one another. ”One day Winter Hill would be a study in golds and browns, then when the storm pa.s.sed through during the night and you looked out the window in the morning, the world would be white right up to the horizon. Trees, houses, fields . . . everything. People ride sleighs in Winter Hill when the snow falls like that, no kidding. Did I ever tell you I know how to snowshoe?”

”No,” Solange whispered.

”What'd I say I know how to do?”

”Snowshoe.”

”Louder.”

”Snowshoe!”

”Gesundheit! Now, what was I saying? Oh, yeah, about the sleighs. They were a terrific way to get around. The last time I went home for Christmas, everybody was using those d.a.m.ned snowmobiles. Progress, right? Well . . .” He decided he'd better shut up because he suddenly realized he couldn't breathe worth a d.a.m.n. He finally managed to find a gulp of air. He wanted to comfort Solange, though, because when they were silent for too long she began to cry. Out of all the thousand or so jokes he had told before audiences in L.A., Las Vegas, and San Francisco he couldn't seem to remember a single one, just fragments of comedy bits that didn't make sense-What's big, stiff, and belongs to Roy Rogers? Trigger. What'd the hung over angel who'd visited earth overnight say to a furious St. Peter?

Sorry, Peter, but I left my harp in Sam Frank's disco. Missionary in Africa's out walking one day and comes face-to-face with a lion. He sinks down to his knees and starts to pray for his life when the lion gets down on its knees beside him. ”Dear brother lion,” the missionary says, ”how wonderful it is to see you joining me in Christian prayer when just a moment ago I feared for my life . . .” And the lion growls, ”Don't interrupt while I'm sayin' grace!” Praying, Wes thought. Now that might be an idea. What should I say? G.o.d please get us the h.e.l.l out of here? G.o.d don't give up on old Wes and Solange just yet?

G.o.d whose side are you on anyway? The answer to that seemed painfully clear. I've come a long way to die in a f.u.c.king sandstorm, Wes thought. From frat parties to bars to the Comedy Store to the big time, more or less, and all of it could now be just so much s.h.i.+t in a totebag. No agent to get the jobs now, no accountants to find the tax loopholes and the shelters, no fan mail pouring into the slot. n.o.body saying how good I was and how much money I was going to make and that I was going to be King of Comedy Hill for a long, long time . .

n.o.body now but me and Solange.

Well, he thought, that would have to be enough.

His brain felt feverish. Where the h.e.l.l are we? Sitting on the freeway, maybe right in the middle of it, somewhere over East L.A. Probably no shelter for blocks; the Mercedes stalled in what looked like a Sahara Desert sand dune. And vampires out there somewhere. Jimmy dead. Screaming in agony before he died. A bell ringing. Ambulance sirens wailing, lights flas.h.i.+ng across a wide green lawn. A bell ringing. , Crazy old lady in a wheelchair, grabbing my arm scaring s.h.i.+t out of me. Blackberry brandy. Police car coming. A bell ringing. Parker Center, and a girl cracking up in the elevator. A bell. . . RINGING . .