The Resort (33 page)

“Let’s do this fast,” he said to Dan.

Dan surveyed the staff members around the perimeter, all in place, then moved his arm down smartly. “Let’s go!” he yelled. “Go, go, go!”—knowing that few would actually hear him. He watched them trotting, picking up their pace, running toward the center of the compound where the buildings were.

Clete, near the middle of the inward-moving ring, had his eye on Mr. Clifford. At first it seemed the old man was talking to himself. Then it seemed as if Mr. Clifford was seeing something beyond the ring of staff members running toward the center. Now Mr. Clifford was pointing, but Pitz wasn’t noticing.

Clete broke from the circle and ran full-speed to Mr. Clifford.

“Hey!” Pitz yelled. “Where the hell are you going? You’re breaking the ring!”

“What is it, Mr. Clifford?” Clete said, pulling up puffing. Then he followed Mr. Clifford’s gaze.

“I saw someone running in the woods right there,” Mr. Clifford said, pointing. “I can still see him. There!”

Clete could see the figure also. Just that moment a brush fire flared where the figure had been.

“Jesus!” Clete said.

“Get him!” Mr. Clifford said, and in an instant, Clete was running toward the ring of staff members, through it, and past it to the woods. His peripheral vision caught brush fires starting in other locations. What the hell was going on? Clete kept his attention on the running figure darting through the trees, tracking him the way a machine gunner would track a moving target.

Jake realized he had been spotted. If only he’d stayed deeper in the woods. He stopped in front of his proudest brushpile, perfect for a bonfire, and ignited it. It flared like sudden daylight, and by it he could suddenly see Clete and Clete could see him.

“You son of a bitch!” Clete yelled.

Jake held the torch in front of him as if to fend off a wild dog.

Clete picked a broken limb off the ground. He’d get this fucking Hebe.

It’s stupid to stand and fight, thought Jake. My job is to get the brushpiles lit. And so he turned his back on Clete and took off, carrying his torch toward the next pile, moving as fast as he possibly could, hoping the torch wouldn’t go out.

They were both fast, but when Jake stopped to ignite the next brushpile, Clete caught up and with the wood in his hand struck at Jake’s legs at knee-level from behind. As Jake started to topple backward, Clete swung the limb against Jake’s back with enough force to shatter a spine, and even as Jake cried out, dropping his torch, Clete shoved the boy straight into the bonfire he had just created.

Jake’s single scream cut through the night like a scimitar. His hair and clothes afire, Jake struggled to regain his balance;
something was dreadfully wrong with his back,
he thought, his body wouldn’t cooperate anymore with the will of his mind. Mustering his remaining life’s energy and calling for the help of God, Jake tried to thrust himself out of the blaze. At that moment, Clete with the tree limb in his right hand, smashed the burning boy across the face. Jake, his vision red with blood, his face a whirling pool of pain, fell backward into the heart of the bonfire.

Clete couldn’t take his eyes off the still-living body wholly aflame, blackening, crisping. This is what we ought to do with all of them, he thought, instead of fucking around with them the way Mr. Clifford was with his crazy genetic whatever-it-was. Clete had a vision of an army of trucks picking up Jews everywhere and bringing them here so he could smash them and burn them the way he had Jake, getting it
over
with all at
once.
Maybe he and not Mr. Clifford or that new guy should be running this show!

Clete trotted back to where he had left Mr. Clifford. Sure his face was scratched from the brush and there was a snag in his jeans, but he felt fine, terrific, his adrenaline running through his veins like speed.

When he reached Mr. Clifford, he said, “I got him,
sir.”

“The others, the others,” Clifford said, pointing to the bonfires burning far to the left, and then to another group of them, still farther. The sounds of the individual fires were now becoming one indistinguishable roar as the wind whipped the flames through the over-dry forest. Hundreds of yards of woodland circling Cliffhaven were bursting into flame.

We need to put the fire out, thought Clete, then kill the fucking Jews the way he’d done that what’s-his-name. All it took was leadership.

Clete yelled at several of the staff members who had stopped their forward movement. He motioned at some of them to join him. Two did. He’d remember who the others were. He’d get them afterward. He took the two who obeyed with him at a fast trot toward the utility building in which the fire equipment was stored, leaving Mr. Clifford standing stock-still.

*

Dan ran over to where Mr. Clifford was standing, a frightened man.

“Those Jews did this,” Mr. Clifford said. “The ones that escaped.”

“What kind of fire-fighting equipment do you have here?” Dan asked.

“Those Jews did this,” Mr. Clifford said.

“Mr. Clifford,” Dan said, taking a chance, grabbing the man by both shoulders. “Fire-fighting equipment.”

“That’s where Clete went.” He pointed.

The staff members, no longer in the closing circle, were breaking ranks, mesmerized by the fire.

Dan raced after Clete.

Inside the utility building Dan was astonished at how little there was, a small pumper, two ordinary 32-foot ladders, a lot of hose coiled up in the back of the pickup truck.

“Jesus,” Dan said. “How are you going to put that out with this?”

Clete was starting up the pumper. “The old man put his emphasis on prevention. If we had a fire in a room, even the dining room or kitchen, we could handle it. But the woods!”

The two staff members who had followed Clete were starting the pickup truck.

“This is crazy,” Dan said. “You’ve got to call in the Forest Service.”

“That’s exactly what Clifford didn’t want,” Clete yelled, putting the pumper into gear. “We have to be self-sufficient. Let’s go!”

Dan climbed in alongside him and they were off. “Where’s your water supply?” Dan asked.

As they bumped over the ground, Clete pointed at the water tower.

“That dinky thing? How much does it hold?”

“Not enough.”

“Don’t you tie in to community water anywhere?”

“No, just our wells. Mr. Clifford didn’t want to give outsiders that power.”

“What power?”

“To cut off our water supply.”

“Jesus!” Dan said. He grabbed Clete’s arm.

“Don’t do that while I’m driving,” Clete said.

“Let me off near where Clifford is,” Dan yelled over the roar of the engine.

“I’m heading for the water tower,” Clete said, pointing straight ahead.

“Then let me off here,” Dan yelled
.
I’ll deal with this son of a bitch later.

Clete slowed just enough for Dan to hop off, then roared away in the direction of the tower, where staff members were already gathering.

Dan watched the pumper, thinking at least they have fire drills in this place. He trotted over to where Mr. Clifford was.

“We mustn’t let any of the residents escape,” Mr. Clifford said.

“Mr. Clifford,” Dan said, hoping to penetrate the fog the old man seemed to be in, “I was a volunteer fireman. With those woods ablaze, you’ve got to call in help.”

“This is your chance to demonstrate your resourcefulness, young man,” Mr. Clifford said. “I hope I didn’t make a mistake in hiring you.”

“I think the buildings are safe, sir.”

“That’s right. There’s at least seventy-five yards from the woods to the nearest buildings. It was planned that way. That open space will act as a firebreak.”

“Sir,” Dan said, “if there’s enough heat generated in the woods around us, this middle area’s going to pull in smoke from whatever direction the wind is blowing. See over there.” From the north a dense gray cloud was drifting languidly toward the buildings.

“I’m going to my quarters,” Mr. Clifford said. “I want to telephone my wife.”

Dan walked along with him.

“Why are you accompanying me?”

“Because of them,” Dan said, pointing to the residents who were congregating in clusters at a distance. Most of them were staring at the fire. Some were looking straight at Mr. Clifford.

“They wouldn’t dare,” Mr. Clifford said, thinking
they’re afraid of the fire.

Dan Pitz did not give a damn about the old man. He wanted that telephone. “I’ll come with you, anyway,” he said, “just to be sure.”

When they reached Clifford’s house, Mr. Clifford turned to Dan Pitz. “You’d better get back and direct the fire fighting.”

It was worth risking. “Shouldn’t we phone for outside help?” Dan asked.

“Never,” Mr. Clifford said, again wondering if he had made the wrong choice. It was too late, Whittaker was dead.

“You’ll have to put it out yourself,” he said to Dan.

20

Stanley saw the chain across the entrance to Cliffhaven and braked the car to a stop just before it.

“I’m sure this is the place,” he said.

“I hope you’re right,” Kathy said.

Out of the sentry box came a fellow dressed in an orange-and-blue outfit who looked to Stanley like one of those roller-skate waiters at a drive-up fast-food place.

“Hi,” Stanley said, rolling his window all the way down.

“We’re full up,” the fellow said.

Stanley said, “We’re not checking in. I’m just seeing if my parents are registered.”

The fellow’s expression shifted. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Stanley Brown. This here’s Kathy.”

Kathy nodded.

The fellow at the gate thought a moment. Wasn’t Brown the name of the man they were looking for topside? If this kid is his son, Mr. Clifford will be real glad to get him.

“Hold it just a second,” he said, “while I check up top.”

He went into the sentry booth and tried the phone. Stanley was getting impatient.

Then the fellow came out and said, “I can’t get through. Whoever’s at the switchboard isn’t picking up.”

“Try again,” Stanley said. “This is important.”

“Sure,” he said.

The moment he was back inside the sentry box, Stanley held a finger to his lips to keep Kathy from saying anything, opened the car door quietly, left it open, unhooked the chain across the Cliffhaven entrance, then hopped into the car, slammed the door, and was off. In the rearview mirror he caught the fellow waving at him and yelling something.
Fuck him
, Stanley thought.

He had to slow down when the road narrowed. He didn’t want to run off the winding road and break an axle on Jerry’s car.

“Wonder what they do when a car is going up at the same time one is coming down?” Kathy said.

“One of them lifts up in the air so the other can pass,” Stanley said. “There must be some bypasses on this road.”

“You’d think—”

“What?”

“The kind of place your parents would stop at—I mean they wouldn’t stay at an ordinary motel, would they?—would have a better road than this.”

“Maybe they figure people won’t run off without paying their bills. Too easy to catch on a road like this.”

“What’s the matter?” Kathy asked.

“Take a deep breath.”

She did. “Woodsmoke?”

Stanley nodded, moved forward slowly, went around another S-curve, stuck his head out of the side window, and looked up. That was definitely smoke drifting across the horizon.

Stanley drove a bit faster, as fast as he dared, then suddenly saw the man running down the road toward them.

“Look at that guy,” Stanley said.

The man was waving his arms across one another as if to warn Stanley to stop.

He did and got out of the car. “What’s up?” he shouted.

The man was terribly out of breath. “The woods are on fire. The whole place is going to burn down. Please turn around, get to a phone, call for help, firemen, police, everybody.”

“My mother and father might be up there,” Stanley said.

The man’s expression collapsed. “You’re Jewish?” he asked, then glanced over his shoulder.

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Get out of here fast. Sound the alarm.”

“But my parents—”

“Son, the best thing you can do for your parents if they’re up there is to get help quickly. Here he comes.”

“Who?”

They heard the clatter of feet running.

“Turn your car around. Quick!” the man yelled.

Stanley looked at the width of the road. This guy was a nut.

“I’ll go up and turn around at the top,” Stanley said.

“They’ll never let you. Please do as I say.”