Fire (43 page)

And just a week ago things had been so . . . controlled. Controlled and orderly and down to the smallest detail happening exactly as Herman had said they would.

Except for Paul’s death. Paul’s death was the one event that had seemed to surprise Herman.

Still: Herman was a genius. There wasn’t any question of that. Still wasn’t — not even now. Genius or not, though, things were happening that put a deep unease on Herman’s face. The way that creature — Herman’s ersatz Beast — was walking cross-country straight toward them — and at such a pace! Nothing could keep a pace like that for days on end, without sleep or rest to speak of. It wasn’t possible. Nothing made of flesh could do it. And yet the Beast was doing it, and so was the man with him. It wasn’t hard to track their progress; Herman had planted a homing device in the core of the Beast’s thigh bone when the thing had still been in its infancy. That was how they’d found it days ago, when they’d wanted footage of the Beast for television.

There were things about that creature that had bothered George Stein right from the start. The effect it seemed to have on people in its immediate vicinity, for one. Herman had told him to expect that, it was true. Not like that, though. Not so strong. That town . . . the whole damned town. Acting like children would the first time they’d set eyes on Santa Claus. It was enough to shake at the core of George Stein’s faith. How could a thing that had that effect on people be evil? How could he call it evil?

Well, it wasn’t evil. Or at least there was no reason to think it was evil. Not necessarily, anyway. It was just some poor dumb beast that Herman had grown in his lab to help them get the upper hand on the end of the world.

Herman had told him about that years ago. The end of the world — Armageddon, the Apocalypse, the Rapture, all those things in their turn — were coming. And soon. Anyone with half a lick of sense in his head knew that; certainly no one had needed to tell George Stein. Or Paul Green. Paul and George had been especially close in those days, back when Herman had come into the church. They’d been together that Sunday afternoon, drinking coffee after church in the quiet room behind the chapel.

And Herman had said, the forces of the Beast are out there. Planning. Waiting. Setting snares large enough to trap the world.

There wasn’t any debating that. It was patently and obviously true.

We need to do planning of our own, Herman had said.

And Paul had said, of course we need to. We do that. Why else do we spread the word?

Herman had frowned. Yes. It’s good. Yet it’s not enough.

George had felt his left eyebrow arch with skepticism.

And Herman had nodded. Yes, yes — listen to me. A thing that’s done to you is beyond your control. Can any good Christian afford that? Can we allow the world to run amok? No. To carry the day of the Apocalypse we must own it. To own it we must make it before it is created upon us.

A beat. Two beats, three; and the brilliance of it had sunk through to George. Paul Green’s face, across the table, was almost aglow.

The Battle of Armageddon was like any other war, George realized. It would belong to those with the initiative to fight it. To wait here passive and quiet in Kansas would be to sign away all title to this world and the next.

It had gone on from there for the better part of twenty years. This last week the moment of realization had come to them . . . and now —

Now something was wrong. Herman’s plans, Herman’s so-prefect plans that never faltered — the plans were beginning to show flaws.

Paul was dead in a freak accident.

This strange creature was coming for them.

That man in New York — the one who’d sent Herman’s hackles on end when they were taking over the network — who was he? And how had he managed to get into the revival hall last night to ask Herman that cryptic question — in front of the entire flock? Fifteen thousand people, when you counted all of those who’d been watching over the church’s closed-circuit relay. And before anyone could set hands on him, he’d disappeared. It almost seemed unnatural. Almost, hell — it was unnatural. George Stein had seen enough unnaturalness in his life to recognize it when he came across it.

Then there was that poor man Herman had managed to turn up in Washington — the Vice President, Graham Perkins. He’d somehow managed to live through an experience that no man should have to survive, and he needed serious psychiatric help. He certainly didn’t need to be taking on the responsibility of the presidency. But here they were, about to use the man to assert a claim to legitimacy when they set up the provisional government. George was about to use him. He was feeling pretty sick with himself about that.

And there were hints everywhere that his own organization — his organization and Herman’s — was doing things . . . that George didn’t approve of. Evil, violent things that he couldn’t possibly abide. There was no one in the entire organization who could authorize things like that — no one but Herman.

George shuddered.

And worst of all, George realized, was the fact that he was beginning to lose faith.

How could they incite so many people to riot against that poor, dumb, and innocent beast? There was evil there, and George knew that he was at the heart of it. Or so close to the heart that the distinction wasn’t worth making.

Maybe it was time to ease up and back away. Maybe they were wrong — maybe they’d been wrong all along. He’d said as much to Herman not two hours ago, at breakfast. Herman hadn’t taken the suggestion any too well. Well, to hell with him, then. George was the one in charge, here, not Herman Bonner.

He glanced at his watch. Fifteen more minutes and he’d be on the air. It was time to touch up his makeup, straighten his tie; there was no way he could go in front of the camera looking this disheveled.

He stood, noticed himself in the mirror —

And felt ill looking at himself. How could he let himself be involved in business like this — much less stand at the center of it?

What he ought to do was go out there in front of the camera and take this whole business apart once and for all. On the air, live, admit to some of the horrible things he’d done. Even if there were a couple dozen nuclear missiles here on the base they’d renamed Lake-of-Fire, none of it would last long once it’d been exposed to the light of day.

Six minutes; it was time to head out to the studio. He was just turning to leave when he heard the knock.

“Hello? Come on in; it isn’t locked.”

“Good morning, George.” Herman again, with his strange, unplaceable accent.

“Morning, Herman. What can I do for you? Only got a minute — I’ve got to get out there and get to work.”

“Forgive me, George,” he said, reaching into the breast pocket of his beige-corduroy jacket. He didn’t sound even remotely apologetic. “I’ve worked too long, too hard toward this. I can’t allow you to undo all my efforts now.”

“What in heaven’s name are you talking about, Herman? I’ve got to go. I’m on live in —”

Herman was taking a gun out of his breast pocket. A sleek black pistol with a silencer.

“No,” he said, “you’re not going on. And certainly not live.” Smiled like a hungry snake. “Good-bye, George.”

And George Stein died.

³
³
³

Chapter Twenty-Nine

NORTHWESTERN KENTUCKY — APPROACHING THE FREE BRIDGE AT OLD SHAWNEETOWN

Mostly as they walked Ron wasn’t thinking at all. Not that he was numb or tired or even just losing interest; more it was as though the rhythm and the pace of the walk were a song that absorbed all of him. On the few occasions when he did drift far enough away from the song to think, he was amazed. Three days, three solid days of walking, with only a single stop back in Tylerville, Tennessee — and even then they’d only stopped for an hour or three. No food since that one meal. And he wasn’t tired, and he wasn’t hungry, and he actually felt better than he had in his entire life.

It was a time so good that it made Ron a little uneasy; a part of him expected something horrible to happen, afraid that his life needed to set itself in balance by bringing evil on him.

That part of him was right, of course. Horrible things lay in wait for him, and for the creature. The fact that they waited for him had nothing at all to do with balance, but they waited for him nonetheless.

They crested a high, round ridge, and down before them was the Ohio River. It had to be the Ohio; it wasn’t nearly wide enough to be the Mississippi, and it was much too substantial to be the Cumberland, let alone the Tradewater. Half a mile to the west was a bridge — the Shawneetown bridge, he thought by the look of it, though there was no way to be sure at this distance. He’d been over that bridge twice, years ago, and he felt that he ought to be able to recognize it without having to use a score card. The trouble with traveling by car was that you never really got a look at the things around you. Not the way he had on this trip. Walking, he was beginning to think, had a lot to recommend it.

A week ago, it’d been years since he’d walked more than a mile at a time. And now he was ready to go out and preach to the converted. The world, he thought, puts a man in strange places sometimes.

The dog had wandered away an hour or two before dawn. It wasn’t the first time he’d disappeared, but it was the longest so far. Well, Ron thought, Tom the dog would find them again when he was ready to. He had before; he would again.

They walked down the slope and sideways toward the highway that led onto the bridge. It would be strange to walk on paved ground again. They hadn’t been avoiding highways — not exactly — but their route hadn’t paid a whole lot of attention to highways or to trails of any kind. A few times — almost by chance, it seemed to Ron, though the creature hadn’t made a point of explaining it — a few times their route had followed along the shoulder of a road for a mile or two, and those times they’d been in rural areas, where there was little traffic. Some traffic, even so; more than once they’d nearly been run over by motorists too wrapped up in gaping at the creature to pay attention to their steering wheels.

There wasn’t any traffic to speak of right now. Once, when they were still three dozen yards from the highway, a semi truck roared by. If the driver saw them Ron didn’t have any clue of it.

They were half-way across the bridge when trouble came for them.

It came, again, in the form of a helicopter. This one was a military helicopter, armed with machine guns and rockets and God knew what else. And instead of wanting to watch them, it wanted to kill them.

It flew up over the ridge on the far side of the river, and in the time it took to cough it had plunged down toward them, and then it was etching lines of bullets into the soft tarry pavement on the bridge’s surface.

It turned in the air for just an instant before it started shooting, and as it did Ron saw the army insignia and serial number painted on its side. And just above those, drawn more crudely and in a slightly different shade of white, was the same insignia he’d seen painted on the helicopter that had videotaped them in that town in Tennessee.

A cross. A circle. And a dove.

Ron didn’t have any sense about these things; he just stood there, staring, eyes wide and mouth agape. If the gunner’s aim had been even a little better Ron Hawkins would have died a second time.

The creature’s instincts were better; when the helicopter had passed them Ron saw him step out from behind a heavy iron girder. He pointed off into the distance behind Ron, where the helicopter was banking and turning around, and suddenly Ron was consumed by a powerful need to run that hadn’t come from his own heart.

“Jesus,” he said.

And they ran.

Up ahead on the left, just beyond the far end of the bridge, were a pair of squat one-room concrete huts; they looked to Ron like maintenance huts for the bridge. Beyond those, away from the road, was thick broad-leaf forest.

If they could get into that the helicopter wouldn’t be able to see them well enough for the gunners to take aim.

There was a reasonable chance they wouldn’t live long enough to try hiding. Already the helicopter was close enough to fire at them.

Closer, bullets exploding into the tar all around them —

And Ron felt a bullet crease the fleshy part of his shoulder. It didn’t dig deep enough to break him, or even to throw him off his stride, but there was wet blood everywhere all over the right side of his shirt, and God it hurt hurt hurt. He didn’t let it stop him; he was afraid that if he did he’d only make a better target of himself. In front of him he could see three great crimson swatches of opened flesh nestled in the grey hair of the creature’s back.

He ought to be dead, with wounds like that.

The creature wasn’t dead. He wasn’t even slowing down, no more than Ron was — and Ron had a lot less reason.

And Ron wanted to stop, even though he wasn’t letting himself. He wanted to curl up around the gouge in his shoulder and die.

And that’s exactly what would happen if I did. Whoever it is in that helicopter would kill me. I’d die again forever this time. I know that. Know it know it know it —

And felt another bullet shatter the low ribs on the left of his back. The impact of it threw him off his feet, sent him flying breast-first into the warm-soft-rough of the black tar pavement of the bridge. Rubbing, abrading open the skin of his face; his shirt spared his chest some of that, until it tore away and left him open. He would have died, then, lay there waiting for the gunship to finish turning him into wet meat — but that was the moment that the helicopter passed overhead, overshooting them, and there was no way they could swivel their guns around fast enough.

The creature was above him, now, not running for his own life but lifting Ron onto his bloody shoulder, and Ron wanted to say No leave me here don’t worry about me let me die just take care of your own life, but the bullet had done something to his ribcage that made talking impossible. Or too painful to think about, anyway. And anyhow it sounded like something a dying cowboy would say to John Wayne in a bad western. Bad enough Ron had to be dying; he didn’t want to die sounding like an idiot.