Swan Song

"What do you think she looks like, deep insidei" Swan asked him again.



"I don't know," he finally replied. "I never met anyone with as much courage. She's one hell of a woman. a lady," he said.



"Yes, she is." Swan looked at the knotty surface of the Job's Mask. Soon, she thought. Very soon. "She'll be all right," she said. "Do you need to get some resti"



"No, I'm going to stay here with her. If I get sleepy, I can stretch out on the floor. Everybody else asleepi"



"Yes. It's late."



"I guess so. You'd better get some sleep yourself."



"I will. But when it happens, I'd like to see her."



"I'll call you," Paul promised, and then he thought he heard Sister say something again, and he leaned forward to hear. Her head slowly moved back and forth, but she made no other sounds, and she lay still again. When Paul looked up, Swan had gone.



Swan was too keyed-up to sleep. She felt like a child again on the night before Christmas. She went through the front room, where the others slept on the floor around the stove, and then opened the door. Cold wind swept in, fanning the stove's coals. Swan quickly stepped out, hugging her coat around her shoulders, and closed the door behind her.



"Mighty late for you to be up," anna McClay said. She was sitting on the porch steps next to an ex-Pittsburgh steelworker named Polowsky, and both of them were wearing heavy coats, caps and gloves and armed with rifles. at dawn, another pair of guards would take over for a few hours, and the rotating shifts continued all day and night. "How's Sister doin'i"



"No change yet." Swan looked at the bonfire that burned in the middle of the road. The wind whipped through it, and a shower of red sparks wheeled into the sky. about twenty people were sleeping around the bonfire, and several more were sitting up, staring into the flames or talking to one another to pass the night. Until she knew where the man with the scarlet eye was, Sister had demanded that the shack be guarded at all times, a demand to which Josh and the others had readily agreed. The volunteers also stayed around the bonfires in the field all night, watching the cornstalks and the new area where the apple cores had been planted.



Swan had told Josh and Sister about facing the man with the scarlet eye in the crowd that day, and she thought that maybe - just a little bit - she understood why he struck out to cause such suffering in human beings. She knew also that he'd almost taken the apple, but at the last second his unthinking rage and pride had won. and she'd seen that he hated her and hated himself for wanting to take a step beyond what he was; but he'd been afraid of her, too, and as she'd watched him stagger away Swan had realized that forgiveness crippled evil, drew the poison from it like lancing a boil. What might have happened if he'd taken the apple she didn't know, but the moment was gone. Still, she didn't fear the man with the scarlet eye as she had before, and since that day she hadn't been looking over her shoulder to see who was coming up from behind.



She walked to the corner of the porch, where Mule was hitched to the support post. The horse was kept warm by several blankets, and there was a pail of spring water for him to drink from. Finding food for him was a problem, but Swan had saved him a dozen apple cores and was feeding him those, as well as roots and some straw that had been stuffed inside Mr. Polowsky's mattress. He liked horses and had offered to help feed and water Mule. The horse didn't generally take to strangers, but he seemed to accept Mr. Polowsky's attention with a minimum of crankiness.



Mule's head had been drooping, but his nose twitched as he caught Swan's aroma, and instantly his head came up, his eyes open and alert. She scratched between his eyes and then down at the soft, velvety skin of his muzzle, and Mule nibbled at her fingers with unabashed delight.



Swan suddenly looked over toward the fire and saw him standing there, silhouetted by flames and sparks. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel him staring at her. Her skin broke out in goose bumps under her patchwork coat, and she quickly looked away, concentrating only on rubbing Mule's muzzle. But her eyes slid back toward Robin, who had come a few feet closer to the porch's edge. Her heart boomed like a kettle drum, and again she looked away. From the corner of her eye, she watched him approach, then stop and pretend to be examining something on the ground with the toe of his boot.



It's time to go back in now, she told herself. Time to check on Sister again.



But her legs didn't want to move. Robin was coming nearer, and then he stopped again and peered out beyond the fire as if something else had taken his attention. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat, seemed to be trying to decide whether to return to the bonfire's warmth or not. Swan didn't know if she wanted him to come closer or go away, and she felt as jumpy as a grasshopper on a hot rock.



Then he took another step forward. His mind was made up.



But Swan's nerve broke, and she started to turn away and go back inside.



Mule decided the issue by choosing that instant to playfully clamp his teeth on Swan's fingers, holding her prisoner for the few seconds it took Robin to reach her.



"I think your horse must be hungry," he said.



Swan pulled her fingers free. She started to turn away again, her heart pounding so strongly that she was certain he must hear it, like distant thunder over the horizon.



"Don't go." Robin's voice softened. "Please."



Swan stopped. She thought he didn't resemble at all the movie stars in the magazines her mother used to read, because there was nothing clean-cut and Hollywood-handsome about him; he looked nothing like the well-scrubbed teen-age boys in the soap operas Darleen Prescott had watched. His face, for all its hard lines and angles, was young, but his eyes were old. They were the color of ashes but looked capable of fire. She met his gaze, saw that he'd loosened his mask of toughness. His eyes were soft - maybe even tender - as he stared up at her.



"Hey!" anna McClay said. "You go on about your business. Swan doesn't have time for you."



His tough mask tightened again. "Who made you her keeperi"



"Not keeper, smartass. Protector. Now, why don't you just be a good little boy and go on - "



"No," Swan interrupted. "I don't need a keeper, or a protector. Thank you for being concerned about me, anna, but I can take care of myself."



"Oh. Sorry. I just thought he was botherin' you again."



"He's not bothering me. It's all right. Really."



"You surei I used to see his type strollin' the midway, lookin' for pockets to pick."



"I'm sure," Swan replied. anna gave Robin another warning glare, then returned to her conversation with Mr. Polowsky.



"That's telling her," Robin said, smiling gratefully. "It's about time she got her butt kicked."



"No, it's not. You might not like anna, and she sure doesn't like you, but she's doing what she thinks is best for me, and I appreciate that. If you were bothering me, I would let her run you off."



Robin's smile faded. "So you think you're better than everybody elsei"



"No, I didn't mean it like that." Swan felt flustered and nervous, and her tongue was getting tangled between her thoughts and her words. "I just meant... anna is right to be careful."



"Uh-huh. So am I bothering you by being friendlyi"



"You were a little too friendly when you came into the shack and... and woke me up that way," she replied crisply. She could feel her face reddening, and she wanted to go back to the beginning and start the conversation all over again, but it was out of control now, and she was half scared and half angry. "and I wasn't offering you that apple the other day, either!"



"Oh, I get it. Well, my feet are on solid ground. They're not up on a pedestal like some people's are. and maybe I couldn't help it that I kissed you, and maybe when I saw you standing there with an apple in your hand and your eyes big and wide I couldn't help but take it, either. When I first saw you, I thought you were okay; I didn't know you were a stuck-up little princess!"



"I'm not!"



"Noi Well, you act like one. Listen, I've been around! I've met a lot of girls! I know stuck-up when I see it!"



"and - " Stop! she thought. Stop right now! But she couldn't, because she was scared inside, and she didn't dare let him know how much. "and I know a crude, loudmouthed... fool when I see one!"



"Yeah, I'm a fool, all right!" He shook his head and laughed without humor. "I'm sure a fool for thinking I might like to get to know the ice princess better, huhi" He stalked away before she could reply.



all she could think to say was, "Don't bother me again!" Instantly she felt a pang of pain that sliced her open from head to toe. She clenched her teeth to keep from calling him. If he was going to act like a fool, then he was one! He was a baby with a bad temper, and she wanted nothing more to do with him.



But she knew also that a kind word might call him back. One kind word, that was all. and was that so hardi He'd misunderstood her, and maybe she'd misunderstood him as well. She felt anna and Mr. Polowsky watching her, and she sensed that anna might be wearing a faint, knowing smile. Mule rumbled and exhaled steam into Swan's face. Swan pushed aside her swollen pride and started to call Robin, and as she opened her mouth the shack's door opened and Paul Thorson said excitedly, "Swan! It's happening!"



She watched Robin walking toward the bonfire. and then she followed Paul into the shack.



Robin stood at the edge of the fire. Slowly, he balled up a fist and placed it against his forehead. "Dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb!" he said as he hit himself in the head. He still didn't know what had happened; he just knew he'd been scared to death even speaking to someone as beautiful as Swan. He'd wanted to impress her, but now he felt like he'd just walked barefoot through a cow pasture. "Dumb, dumb, dumb!" he kept repeating. Of course, he hadn't met a lot of girls; in fact, he hardly had met any girls. He didn't know how to act around them. They were like creatures from another planet. How did you talk to them without... yeah, without coming off like a loudmouthed fool - which was exactly what he knew he was.



Well, he told himself, everything's sure messed up now! He was still shaking inside, and he felt sick down in the pit of his stomach. and when he shut his eyes he could still see Swan standing before him, as radiant as the most wonderful dream he'd ever known. Since the first day he'd seen her, lying asleep on the bed, he hadn't been able to get her out of his mind.



I love her, he thought. He'd heard about love, but he'd had no idea love made you feel giddy and sick and shaky all at the same time. I love her. and he didn't know whether to shout or cry, so he just stood staring into the flames and seeing nothing but Swan's face.



"I believe I just heard two arrows hit a couple of rear ends," anna told Mr. Polowsky, and they looked at each other and laughed.  



Seventy-three



The man with a face like a skull stood up in his Jeep and lifted an electric bullhorn. His jagged teeth parted, and he bellowed, "Kill them! Kill! Kill! Kill!"



Macklin's roar mingled with the shout of engines firing and was finally drowned out by the thunder of machinery as more than six hundred armored cars, trucks, Jeeps and vans began to move across the parking lot toward the Savior's fortress. Dawn's gray light was further dirtied by banners of drifting smoke, and fires burned on the parking lot, consuming the two hundred vehicles that had been wrecked or destroyed during the first two assault waves. The broken bodies of aOE soldiers lay dead or dying on the cracked concrete, and there were new screams of agony as the wheels of the third wave rolled over the wounded.



"Kill them! Kill them all!" Macklin continued to shout through the bullhorn, waving the monster machines on with his black-gloved right hand. The nails protruding from its palm glinted with the fires of destruction.



Hundreds of soldiers, armed with rifles, pistols and Molotov cocktails, moved on foot behind the advancing vehicles. and in a semicircle around the shopping mall, three densely packed rows of american allegiance trucks, cars and vans awaited the onslaught, just as they'd waited for and repulsed the previous two. But piles of allegiance dead littered the parking lot as well, and many of their vehicles blazed, still exploding as the gas tanks ruptured.



Flames leaped, and bitter smoke filled the air. But Macklin looked toward the Savior's fortress and grinned, because he knew the allegiance could not stand before the might of the army of Excellence. They would fall - if not in the third attack, then in the fourth, or fifth, or sixth, or seventh. The battle was winnable, Macklin knew. Today he would be the victor, and he would make the Savior kneel and kiss his boot before he smashed the Savior's face.



"Closer!" Macklin shouted to his driver, and Judd Lawry flinched. Lawry couldn't stand to look at Macklin's face, and as he drove the Jeep nearer to the advancing line of vehicles he didn't know whom he feared most: the leering, ranting thing that Colonel Macklin had become, or the american allegiance sharpshooters.



"Onward! Onward! Keep moving!" Macklin commanded the soldiers, his eyes sweeping the ranks, watching for any signs of hesitation. "They're about to break!" he shouted. "Onward! Keep going!"



Macklin heard a horn blare and looked back to see a bright red, rebuilt Cadillac with an armored windshield roaring across the lot, weaving through and around other vehicles to get to the front. The driver had long, curly blond hair, and a dwarf was crouched up in the Cadillac's roof turret where the snout of a machine gun protruded. "Closer, Lieutenant!" Macklin ordered. "I want a front row seat!"



Oh, Jesus! Lawry thought. His armpits were sweating. It was one thing to attack a bunch of farmers armed with shovels and hoes, and something else entirely to storm a brick fortress where the fuckers had heavy artillery!



But the american allegiance held their fire as the aOE's trucks and vans rolled steadily forward.



Macklin knew all his officers were in place, leading their battalions. Roland Croninger was on the right, in his own command Jeep, urging two hundred men and more than fifty armored vehicles into battle. Captains Carr, Wilson and Satterlee, Lieutenants Thatcher and Meyers, Sergeants McCowan, arnholdt, Benning and Buford - all of his trusted officers were in their places, and all of them had their minds fixed on victory.



Breaking through the Savior's defenses was a simple matter of discipline and control, Macklin had concluded. It didn't matter how many aOE soldiers died, or how many aOE vehicles exploded and burned - this was a test of his personal discipline and control. and he swore that he'd fight to the last man before he let the Savior beat him.



He knew that he'd gone a little crazy when that stuff had cracked open, when he'd picked up a lantern and looked into a mirror at himself, but he was all right now.



Because, after his madness had passed, Colonel Macklin had realized he now wore the face of the Shadow Soldier. They were one and the same now. It was a miracle that told Macklin God was on the side of the army of Excellence.



He grinned and roared, "Keep moving! Discipline and control!" through the bullhorn in the voice of a beast.



another voice spoke. It was a hollow-sounding boom!, and Macklin saw the flash of orange light by the mall's barricaded entrance. There was a high shrieking noise that seemed to pass right over Macklin's head. about seventy yards behind him, an explosion threw up pieces of concrete and the twisted metal of an already-wrecked van. "Onward!" Macklin commanded. The american allegiance might have tanks, he thought, but they didn't know shit about shell trajectories. another round whistled through the air, exploding back in the encampment. and then there was a ripple of fire along the massed defenses of the american allegiance, and bullets struck sparks from the concrete and ricocheted off the armored vehicles. Some of the soldiers fell, and Macklin shouted, "attack! attack! Open fire!"



The order was picked up by other officers, and almost at once the machine guns, pistols and automatic rifles of the army of Excellence began to stutter and crack, aiming a barrage at the enemy's defensive line. The aOE's lead vehicles lunged forward, gathering speed to smash through to the mall. a third tank shell exploded in the parking lot, throwing a plume of smoke and rubble and making the ground tremble. and then some of the allegiance's heavy vehicles were gunning forward, their engines screaming, and as the trucks and armored cars of both armies slammed together there was a hideous cacophony of shrieking tires, bending metal and ear-cracking explosions.



"attack! Kill them all!" Macklin kept shouting at the advancing soldiers as Judd Lawry jinked the wheel back and forth to avoid corpses and wrecked hulks. Lawry's eyes were about to pop from his head, beads of cold sweat covering his face. a bullet glanced off the edge of the windshield, and Lawry could feel its vibration like the snap of a tuning fork.



Machine gun fire zigzagged across the parking lot, and half a dozen aOE soldiers spun like demented ballet dancers. Macklin threw aside the bullhorn, wrenched his Colt .45 from his waist holster and shot at allegiance soldiers as they stormed over the defensive line into the maelstrom of bodies, skidding vehicles, explosions and burning wrecks. So many cars and trucks were slamming together, backing up and charging one another again that the parking lot resembled a gargantuan demolition derby.



Two trucks crashed right in front of the Jeep, and Lawry hit the brakes and twisted the wheel at the same time, throwing the Jeep into a sideswiping skid. Two men were struck down beneath its wheels, and whether they were aOE or allegiance soldiers Lawry didn't know. Everything was confused and crazy, the air full of blinding smoke and sparks, and over the screaming and shouting Judd Lawry could hear Macklin laughing as the colonel fired at random targets.



a man with a pistol was suddenly framed in the Jeep's headlights, and Lawry ran him down. Bullets thunked against the Jeep's side, and to the left an aOE car exploded, sending its driver tumbling through the air, still gripping a fiery steering wheel.



Between the crashing and skidding vehicles, the infantrymen were locked in savage hand-to-hand combat. Lawry swerved to avoid a burning truck. He heard the shrill whistle of an approaching shell, and his groin shriveled. as he screamed, "We gotta get out of here!" he twisted the wheel violently to the right and sank his foot to the floorboard. The Jeep surged forward, running over two soldiers grappling on the concrete. a tracer bullet whacked into the Jeep's side, and Lawry heard himself whimper.



"Lieutenant!" Macklin shouted. "Turn the Jeep back - "



and that was all he had time to say, because the earth suddenly shook, and there was a blinding, white-hot blast about ten feet in front of the Jeep. The vehicle shuddered and reared up on its back tires like a frightened horse. Macklin heard Lawry's strangled scream - and then Macklin jumped for his life as the scorching shock wave of the explosion hit him and almost ripped the uniform off his body. He struck the concrete on his shoulder and heard the shriek of tires and the crash of the Jeep as it was flung into another car.



The next thing he knew, Macklin was on his feet, his uniform and coat hanging in tatters around him, and he was looking down at Judd Lawry. The man was sprawled on his back amid the wreckage of the Jeep, and his body was twitching as if he were trying to crawl to safety. Judd Lawry's head had been smashed into a misshapen mass of gore, and his broken teeth were clicking together like castanets.



Macklin had his gun in his left hand. The false right hand with its palmful of nails was still attached to the wrist by strong adhesive bandages. Blood was streaming down his right arm and dripping down the black-gloved fingers to the concrete. He realized he'd scraped his arm open from shoulder to elbow, but other than that he seemed to be okay. The soldiers swirled around him, fighting and firing, and a bullet dug up a chunk of parking lot about four inches from his right boot. He looked around, trying to figure out how to get back to the aOE's camp; without transportation, he was as helpless as the lowest infantryman. There was so much screaming, shouting and gunfire that Macklin couldn't think. He saw a man pinning an aOE soldier to the ground, repeatedly stabbing him with a butcher knife, and Macklin pressed the .45's barrel against the man's skull and blew his brains out.



The shock of the recoil thrumming up his arm and the sight of the body keeling over cleared the haze out of Macklin's head; he knew he had to get moving or he would be just as dead as the allegiance soldier in front of him. He heard another shell coming down, and terror clutched the back of his neck. Ducking his head, he started running, avoiding the knots of fighting men and leaping over sprawled and bleeding bodies.



The explosion rained pieces of concrete down on him. He tripped, fell, crawled frantically behind the shelter of an overturned aOE armored car. Waiting for nun was a body with most of the face shot away. Macklin thought it might have been Sergeant arnholdt. Shaken, the colonel took the clip from his .45 and replaced it with a fresh one. Bullets whined off the armored car, and he crouched against the concrete, trying to find enough courage to continue his race back to the encampment.



Over the tumult, the cries of "Retreat! Retreat!" reached him. The third assault had failed.



He didn't know what had gone wrong. The allegiance should have broken by now. But they had too many men, too many vehicles, too much firepower. all they had to do was sit tight in that damned mall. There had to be a way to get them out. There had to be!



Trucks and cars started racing across the parking lot, heading away from the mall. Soldiers followed them, many hobbling and wounded, stopping to fire a few shots at their pursuers and then stagger on. Macklin forced himself to get up and run, and as he broke from cover he felt a tug at his coat and knew a bullet had passed through. He squeezed off four wild shots without aiming, and then he fled with the rest of his army of Excellence as machine gun bullets marched across the concrete and more men died around him.



When Macklin made it back to camp, he found Captain Satterlee already getting reports from the other surviving officers, and Lieutenant Thatcher was assigning scouts to guard the perimeter against an allegiance counterattack. Macklin climbed on top of an armored car and stared at the parking lot. It looked like a slaughterhouse floor, hundreds of bodies lying in heaps around the burning wreckage. already the allegiance scavengers were running amid the corpses, gathering weapons and ammunition. From the direction of the mall he heard cheers of victory.



"It's not over!" Colonel Macklin roared. "It's not over yet!" He fired the rest of his bullets at the scavengers, but he was shaking so much he couldn't aim worth a damn.



"Colonel!" It was Captain Satterlee. "Do we prepare another attacki"



"Yes! Immediately! It's not over yet! It's not over until I say it's over!"



"We can't take another frontal assault!" another voice contended. "It's suicide!"



"Whati" Macklin snapped, and he looked down at whoever dared to question his orders. It was Roland Croninger, his coat spattered with blood. It was someone else's blood, though, because Roland was unhurt, the dirty bandages still wrapped around his face. Blood streaked the lenses of his goggles. "What did you sayi"



"I said we can't stand another frontal assault! We've probably got less than three thousand men able to fight! If we run head on into those guns again, we'll lose another five hundred, and we still won't get anywhere!"



"are you saying we don't have the willpower to break through - or are you speaking for yourselfi"



Roland drew a deep breath, tried to calm down. He'd never seen such slaughter before, and he'd be dead right now if he hadn't shot an allegiance soldier at point-blank range. "I'm saying we've got to think of another way into that mall."



"and I say we attack again. Right now, before they can organize their defenses again!"



"They never were disorganized, damn it!" Roland shouted.



There was silence except for the moaning of the wounded and the crackle of flames. Macklin stared fiercely at Roland. It was the first time Roland had ever dared to shout at him, and there he was, disputing Macklin's orders in front of the other officers.



"Listen to me," Roland continued, before the colonel or anyone else could speak. "I think I know a weak spot in that fortress - more than one. The skylights."



Macklin didn't answer for a moment. His gaze burned balefully at Roland. "The skylights," he repeated. "The skylights. They're on the roof. How do we get to the fucking roofi Flyi"



Laughter interrupted their argument. alvin Mangrim was leaning against the crumpled hood of the red Cadillac. Steam hissed from the cracked radiator. Bullet holes pocked the metal, and rivulets of blood had leaked from the turret's view slit. Mangrim grinned, his forehead gashed by metal splinters. "You want to get to that roof, Coloneli I can put you there."



"Howi"



He held up his hands and wiggled his fingers. "I used to be a carpenter," he said. "Jesus was a carpenter. Jesus knew a lot about knives, too. That's why they crucified him. When I was a carpenter, I used to build dog houses. Only they weren't just ordinary old dog houses - oh, no! They were castles, like the knights used to live in. See, I used to read books about castles and shit like that, 'cause I wanted those dog houses to be real special. Some of those books said interesting things."



"Like whati" Roland asked impatiently.



"Oh... like how to get to roofs." He turned his attention to Colonel Macklin. "You get me some telephone poles, barbed wire and good sturdy lumber, and let me take a few of these wrecked cars apart. I'll put you on that roof."



"What are you planning on buildingi"



"Creating," Mangrim corrected. "Only it'll take me a white. I'll need help - as many men as you can spare. If I can get the right parts, I can finish it in three or four days."



"I asked you what you were planning on building."



Mangrim shrugged and dug his hands into his pockets. "Why don't we go to your trailer, and I'll draw you a picture. Might be some spies hanging around here."



Macklin's gaze ran the length of the Savior's fortress. He watched the scavengers shooting some of the wounded aOE soldiers, then stripping the bodies. He almost screamed with frustration.



"It's not over," he vowed. "It's not over until I say it is." and then he climbed down from the armored car and said to alvin Mangrim, "Show me what you want to build."  



Seventy-four



"Yes," Josh said. "I think we can build it back." He felt Glory's arm clinging to him, and she leaned her head against his shoulder.



He put his arm around her, and they stood together next to the burned-out ruins of the church. "We can do it," he said. "Sure we can. I mean... it won't be tomorrow, or next week... but we can do it. It probably won't look like it used to, and it might be worse than it was - but it might be better, too." He squeezed her gently. "Okayi"



She nodded. "Okay," she said, without looking at him, and her voice was choked with emotion. Then she lifted her tear-streaked face. Her hand came up, and her fingers slowly moved across the surface of his Job's Mask. "You're... a beautiful man, Josh," she said softly. "Even now. Even like this. Even if it never cracked open, you'd still be the most beautiful man I've ever known."



"Oh, I'm not so hot. I never was. You should've seen me when I used to wrestle. Know what my name wasi Black Frankenstein. I'd sure fit the bill now, wouldn't Ii"



"No. and I don't think you ever did." Her fingers traced the hard ridges and ravines, and then she let her hand drift down again. "I love you, Josh," she said, and her voice trembled, but her copper-colored eyes were steady and true.



He started to reply, but he thought of Rose and the boys. It had been so long. So long. Were they wandering somewhere, searching for food and shelter, or were they ghosts that only lived in his memoriesi It was torture not knowing whether they were dead or alive, and as he looked into Glory's face he realized he would probably never know. Would it be heartless and disloyal to cut out the hope that Rose and his sons might be alive - or was it just being realistici But he was sure of one thing: He wanted to stay in the land of the living, instead of roaming the vaults of the dead.



He put his arms around Glory and held her tight. He could feel the sharpness of her bones through her coat, and he longed for the day when the harvest would be gathered.



He longed also to be able to see through both eyes, and to be able to breathe deeply again. He hoped his Job's Mask would crack soon, like Sister's had last night, but he was afraid as well. What would he look likei he wondered. What if it was the face of someone he didn't even knowi But for now he felt fine, not even a trace of fever. It was the only time in his life he'd ever wanted to be laid low.



Josh saw something lying on the ground in a frozen puddle about four feet away. His stomach clenched, and he said quietly, "Gloryi Why don't you go on back home nowi I'll be along in a few minutes."



She pulled back, puzzled. "What is iti"



"Nothing. You just go on. I'm going to walk around for a little while and try to figure out how we can put this place back together."



"I'll stay with you."



"No," he said firmly. "Go home. I want to be by myself for a while. all righti"



"all right," she agreed. She started back to the road, then turned to him again. "You don't have to say you love me," she told him. "It's okay if you don't. I just wanted you to know what I was feelin'."



"I do," he said, his voice strained and tight. Glory's gaze lingered on him for a few more seconds, and then she started home.



When she was gone, Josh bent down and grasped what was lying in the puddle. The ice cracked as he pulled it free.



It was a piece of plaid wool, blotched with dark brown stains.



Josh knew what it was from.



Gene Scully's coat.



He gripped the bloody cloth in his hand and straightened up. Tilting his head to one side, he searched the ground around him. another fragment of plaid cloth lay a few feet away, deeper into the alley that ran alongside the ruins. He picked that one up, too, and then he saw a thud and a fourth fragment, both bloodstained, ahead of him. Little pieces of Gene Scully's coat lay scattered like plaid snow all over the ground.



an animal got him, Josh thought. Whatever it was must have torn him to shreds.



But he knew no animal had gotten Gene Scully. It had been a different kind of beast, maybe masquerading as a cripple in a child's red wagon, or as a black man with a silver tooth in the front of his mouth. Scully had either found the man with the scarlet eye - or had been found.



Go get help, Josh told himself. Go get Paul and Sister, and for God's sake find a rifle! But he kept following the little bits of plaid coat as his heart pumped violently and his throat went dry. There was other trash on the ground, and as Josh went deeper into the alley a rat the size of a Persian cat waddled in front of him, gave him a beady-eyed glare and then squeezed into a hole. Josh heard little squeakings and rustlings all around him, and he knew this part of Mary's Rest was infested with vermin.



He saw frozen splatters of blood on the ground. He followed them for about fifteen more feet and stopped at a circular piece of tin that lay up against the rough brick foundations of the ruined church. More frozen blood streaked the tin, and Josh could see other bits of shredded plaid around his boots. He put his foot against the piece of tin, which was about the size and shape of a manhole cover, drew a breath and slowly let it out. Then, abruptly, he shoved the tin aside and leaped back.



Exposed underneath it was a hole burrowed down below the church's foundations. a cold, sour reek rose from it that made his flesh crawl.



Found you, was Josh's first thought.



His second was: Get the hell out of here! Run, you flat-footed fool!



But he hesitated, staring at the hole.



There was no sound from within, no movement. It's empty! Josh realized. He's gone!



He took a tentative step toward the hole. Then a second, and a third. He stood over it, listening. Still no sound, no movement.



The lair was empty. The man with the scarlet eye had gone. after Swan had faced him down, he must have left Mary's Rest. "Thank God!" Josh whispered.



There was a rustling behind him.



Josh whirled around, his arms up to ward off a blow.



a rat sat atop a cardboard box, baring its teeth. It began to squeal and chatter like an irate landlord.



Josh said, "Be quiet, you little bas - "



Two hands - one black, one white - shot out of the hole and grasped Josh's ankles, jerking him off his feet. Josh had no time to cry out before he slammed to the ground, the air whooshing from his lungs. Dazed, he tried to scrabble free, tried to dig his fingers into the frozen earth around the hole, but the hands gripped his ankles like iron bands and began to draw him into the depths.



Josh was halfway into the hole before he fully registered what had happened. He started fighting, thrashing and kicking, but the fingers only tightened. He smelled burning cloth, twisted his body and saw blue flames dancing over the man's hands. Josh's skin was beginning to scorch, and he felt the man's hands wet and oozing like wax gloves melting.



But in the next second the flames weakened and went out. The man's hands were freezing cold again, and they yanked Josh down into darkness.



The hands left his ankles. Josh kicked, felt his left boot connect. a cold, heavy form fell on him - more like a sack of ice than a body. But the knee that pressed against his throat was solid enough, trying to crush his windpipe. Blows that almost broke his bones smashed into his shoulders, chest and rib cage. He got his hands up around a clammy throat and dug his fingers into what felt like cold putty. The thing's fists pounded his head and face but couldn't inflict damage through the Job's Mask. Josh's brain was rattled in his skull, and he was close to passing out. He knew he had two choices: fight like hell or die.



He struck out with his right fist, his knuckles flattening against the angular line of a jawbone, and instantly he brought his left fist around to crash it into the man's temple. There was a grunt - more of surprise than of pain - and the weight was off Josh. He struggled to his knees, his lungs dragging in air.



a freezing arm snaked around his throat from behind. Josh reached back, grabbed the fingers and twisted them at a vicious angle; but what had been bones a second before was now like coathanger wire - it would bend but would not break. With sheer strength, Josh lifted himself up from the floor and hurled himself backward, catching the man with the scarlet eye between himself and the church's foundation wall of rough bricks. The freezing arm slithered away, and Josh tried to scurry out of the hole.



He was caught and hauled down again, and as they fought in the dark like animals Josh saw the man's hands flicker, about to burst into flames - but they wouldn't catch, as if something had gone haywire with his ignition switch. Josh smelled an odor halfway between a struck match and a melting candle. But he kicked into the man's stomach and knocked him back. as Josh got to his feet again a blow hammered across his shoulder, almost dislocating his arm, and flung him onto his face in the dirt.



Josh twisted around to face him, his mouth bleeding and his strength running out fast. He saw the flicker of fire, and then both the man's hands grew flame again. By their blue light, he could see the man's face - a nightmare mask, and in it a gibbering, elastic mouth that spat dead flies like broken teeth.



The flaming hands came toward Josh's face, and suddenly one of them sputtered and went out like a live coal doused with water. The other hand began to burn out as well, little tongues of fire rippling along the fingers.



Something lay beside Josh in the dirt. He saw a bloody pile of flesh and twisted bones, and around it a number of coats, pairs of pants, sweaters, shoes and hats. Nearby was a child's red wagon.



Josh looked back at the man with the scarlet eye, who had also been Mr. Welcome. The burning hand was almost extinguished, and the man stared at the dying flame with eyes that in a human face might have been called insane.



He's not as strong as before, Josh realized.



and Josh lunged for the wagon, picked it up and smashed it into the thing's face.



There was a unholy bellow. The last of the flame went out as the man staggered back. Josh saw gray light and crawled for the hole.



He was about three feet from it when the crumpled red wagon was slammed down across the back of his head. Josh had a second to remember being thrown from a ring in Gainesville, and how it felt to hit a concrete floor, and then he lay still.



He awakened - how much later it was he didn't know - to the sound of high-pitched giggling. He couldn't move, and he thought every bone in his body must have snapped.



The giggling was coming from ten or fifteen feet away. It faded out, replaced by a snorting noise that became a language of some kind - German, Josh thought it might be. He made out fragments of other tongues - Chinese, French, Danish, Spanish and more dialects that tumbled out one after the other. Then the harsh, awful voice began to speak in English, with a deep Southern drawl: "always walked alone... always walked alone... always... always..."



Josh mentally explored his body, probing to find out what worked and what didn't. His right hand felt dead, maybe broken. Bands of pain throbbed at his ribs and across his shoulders. But he knew he'd been lucky; the blow he'd just survived might have crushed his skull if the Job's Mask hadn't been so thick.



The voice changed, skittering into a singsong dialect Josh couldn't understand, then returned to English with a flat Midwestern accent: "The bitch... the bitch... she'll die... but not by my hand... oh, no... not by my hand..."



Josh slowly tried to turn his head. Pain shot through his spine, but his neck still worked. He gradually got his head turned toward the raving thing crouched in the dirt on the other side of the lair.



The man with the scarlet eye was staring at his right hand, where weak blue flames popped along the fingers. The man's face was hung between masks. Fine blond hair mingled with coarse black, one eye was blue and the other brown, one cheekbone sharp and the other sunken. "Not by my hand," he said. "I'll make them do it." His chin lengthened, sprouted a black stubble that turned into a red beard within seconds and just as quickly disappeared again into the writhing matter of his face. "I'll find a way to make them do it."



The man's hand trembled, began to curl into a tight fist, and the little blue flames went out.



Josh gritted his teeth and started crawling for the gray light at the top of the hole - slowly and painfully, an inch at a time. He stiffened when he heard the man's voice again, singing in a whisper, "Here we go 'round the mulberry bush, mulberry bush, mulberry bush; here we go 'round the mulberry bush, so early in the..." It trailed off into muttered gibberish.



Josh pushed himself forward. Closer to the hole. Closer.



"Run," the man with the scarlet eye said, in a thin and weary voice. Josh's heart pounded, because he knew the monster was speaking to him in the darkness. "Go on. Run. Tell her I'll make a human hand do the work. Tell her... tell her..."



Josh crawled upward toward the light.



"Tell her... I've always walked alone."



and then Josh pulled himself out of the hole, quickly drawing his legs up after him. His ribs were killing him, and he was fighting to stay conscious, but he knew he had to get away or he was dead meat.



He kept crawling as rats scurried around him. a bitter cold had leeched to his bones, and he expected and dreaded the grip of the man with the scarlet eye, but it didn't come. Josh realized his life had been spared - either because the man with the scarlet eye was weakened, or because he was worn out, or because he wanted a message sent to Swan.



Tell her I'll make a human hand do the work.



Josh tried to stand but fell on his face again. It was another minute or two before he could find the strength to heave himself to his knees, and then he was finally able to stand up like a tottering, decrepit old man.



He staggered along the alley to the road and started walking toward the bonfire that burned in front of Glory's shack. But before he made it, his strength gave out; he toppled like a redwood to the ground, and he did not see Robin and Mr. Polowsky running toward him.  



THIRTEEN



a Five-Star General



Seventy-five



Roland Croninger lifted a pair of binoculars to his goggled eyes. Snow was whirling through the freezing air and had already covered most of the corpses and wrecked vehicles. Fires were burning around the mall's entrance, and he knew the allegiance soldiers were keeping watch as well.



He heard the slow rumble of thunder up in the clouds, and a spear of blue lightning streaked through the snow. He swept his gaze across the parking lot, and his binoculars revealed a frozen hand reaching from a mound of snow, a pile of bodies locked together in icy death, the gray face of a young boy staring at the dark.



The wasteland, Roland thought. Yes. The wasteland.



He lowered the binoculars and leaned against the armored car that shielded him from sniper fire. The sound of hammers at work was carried past him by the wind. The wasteland. That's what God's prayer for the final hour was about. He'd been trying to remember where he'd heard it before, only it hadn't been a prayer then, and it wasn't Sir Roland who'd heard it. It was a memory from the child Roland's mind, but it wasn't a prayer. No, not a prayer. It had been a poem.



He'd awakened that morning on the bare mattress in his black trailer and thought of Miss Edna Merritt. She was one of those spinster English teachers who must have been born looking sixty years old. She'd taught advanced Freshman English back in Flagstaff. as Roland had sat up on his mattress he'd seen her standing beside the hand-crusher, and she was holding an open copy of The New Oxford Book of English Verse.



"I am going to recite," Miss Edna Merritt announced, in a voice so dry it made dust seem damp. and, cutting her eyes left and right to make sure the advanced Freshman English class was attentive, she'd begun to read: "Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,/ The lady of situations./ Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,/ and here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,/ Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,/ Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find/ The Hanged Man. Fear death by water." and when she'd finished, she'd announced that the entire class was going to do a research paper on some facet of T. S. Eliot's "The Waste Land," a small portion of which she had just recited.



He'd made an a on the term paper, and Miss Edna Merritt had written in red on the title page, "Excellent - Shows interest and intelligence." He'd thought that it showed he was a superfine bullshitter. Bet old Miss Edna's down to the bones by now, Roland mused as he stared across the parking lot. Bet the worms ate her from the inside out.



Two possibilities intrigued him. One, that Brother Timothy was crazy and had been leading the american allegiance to West Virginia in search of a fever dream; and two, that there was somebody on Warwick Mountain who called himself God and spouted poetry. Maybe he had some books up there or something. But Roland recalled a puzzling thing that Brother Gary had said, back in Sutton: "God showed him the black box and the silver key and told him how the world will end."



The black box and the silver key, Roland thought. What did that meani



He let the binoculars dangle on their strap around his neck, and he listened to the music of hammering. Then he turned around to look beyond the encampment, where alvin Mangrim's creation was being constructed by the light of bonfires about a mile away, and out of the line of sight of allegiance sentries. The work had been going on for three days and three nights, and Colonel Macklin had supplied everything that Mangrim needed. Roland couldn't see it through the heavy snowfall, but he knew what it was. It was a damned simple thing, but he wouldn't have thought of it, and even if he had, he wouldn't have known how to put one together. He didn't like or trust alvin Mangrim, but he had to admit that Mangrim had brains. If such a thing was good enough for a medieval army, it was certainly good enough for the army of Excellence.



Roland knew the Savior must be getting jittery by now, wondering when the next attack would come. They must be in there singing their chants good and loud by -



Searing pain tore through Roland's face, and he pressed his palms against the bandages. a shuddering moan escaped his lips. He thought his head was going to explode. and then, beneath his fingers, he felt the growths under the bandages move and swell outward, like pressure seething below the crust of a volcano. Roland staggered with pain and terror as the entire left side of his face bulged outward, almost ripping the bandages loose. Frantically, he pressed his hands against his face to keep it from coming apart. He thought of the cracked fragments on the King's pillow, and what had been revealed beneath, and he whimpered like a child.



The pain ebbed. The movement of the bandages stopped. and then it was over, and Roland was all right. His face hadn't cracked apart. He was all right. This time the pain hadn't lasted as long as usual, either. What had happened to Colonel Macklin was a freak thing, Roland told himself. It wouldn't happen to him. He was content to wear these bandages for the rest of his life.



He waited until he'd stopped shaking. It wouldn't do for anyone to see him that way. He was an officer. Then he began walking briskly across the camp toward Colonel Macklin's trailer.



Macklin was seated behind his desk, going over reports from Captain Satterlee about how much fuel and ammunition remained. The supplies were rapidly dwindling. "Come in," he said when Roland knocked at the door. Roland entered, and Macklin said, "Close the door."



Roland stood before his desk, waiting for him to look up - but dreading it, too. The skeletal face, with its jutting cheekbones, exposed veins and muscles made Macklin look like walking death.



"What do you wanti" Macklin asked, busy with his merciless figures.



"It's almost ready," Roland said.



"The machinei Yes. What about iti"



"We'll attack when it's finished, won't wei"



The colonel put aside his pencil. "That's right. If I can have your permission to attack, Captain."



Roland knew he was still stung from their disagreement. It was time now to mend the rift, because Roland loved the King - and also because he didn't want alvin Mangrim to be in the King's favor and himself cast out in the cold. "I... want to apologize," Roland said. "I spoke out of turn."



"We could've broken them!" Macklin snapped vengefully. "One more attack was all we needed! We could've broken them right then and there!"



Roland kept his eyes lowered in submission, but he knew damned well that another frontal attack would only have slaughtered more aOE soldiers. "Yes, sir."



"If anybody else had spoken to me like that, I would've shot them down on the spot! You were wrong, Captain! Look at these goddamned figures!" He shoved the papers at Roland, and they flew from the desk. "Look how much gasoline we've got left! Look at the ammunition inventory! You want to see how much food we havei We're sitting here starving, and we could've had the allegiance's supplies three days ago! If we'd attacked then!" He slammed his black-gloved hand down on the desk, and the oil lantern jumped. "and it's your fault, Captain! Not mine! I wanted to attack! I have faith in the army of Excellence! Go on! Get out!"



Roland didn't move.



"I gave you an order, Captain!"



"I have a request to make," Roland said quietly.



"You're in no position to make requests!"



"I'd like to request," Roland continued doggedly, "that I lead the first assault wave when we break through."



"Captain Carr's leading it."



"I know you gave him permission. But I'd like to ask you to change your mind. I want to lead the first wave."



"It's an honor to lead an assault wave. I don't think you're deserving of an honor, do youi" He paused and then leaned back in his chair. "You've never asked to lead an assault wave before. Why nowi"



"Because I want to find someone, and I want to capture him alive."



"and who might that bei"



"The man who calls himself Brother Timothy," Roland replied. "I want him alive."



"We're not taking prisoners. They're all going to die. Every one."



"The black box and the silver key," Roland said.



"Whati"



"God showed Brother Timothy the black box and the silver key and told him how the world will end. I'd like to know more about what Brother Timothy says he saw on that mountaintop."



"Have you lost your mindi Or did they brainwash you when you went in therei"



"I agree that Brother Timothy is probably insane," Roland said, keeping his composure. "But if he's not - then who's calling himself Godi and what's the black box and the silver keyi"



"They don't exist."



"Probably not. There might not even be a Warwick Mountain. But if there is... Brother Timothy could be the only one who knows how to find it. I think capturing him alive might be worth the effort."



"Whyi Do you want the army of Excellence to go looking for God, tooi"



"No. But I want to lead the first assault wave, and I want Brother Timothy taken alive." Roland knew it sounded like an order, but he didn't care. He stared fixedly at the King.



There was silence. Macklin's left hand squeezed into a fist, then slowly unclenched. "I'll think about it."



"I'd like to know right now."



Macklin leaned forward, his mouth curved into a thin and terrible smile. "Don't push me, Roland. I won't stand to be pushed. Not even by you."



"Brother Timothy," Roland said, "is to be taken alive. We can kill everyone else. But not him. I want him able to answer questions, and I want to know about the black box and the silver key."



Macklin rose like a dark cyclone slowly unfurling. But before he could answer, there was another knock at the trailer's door. "What is iti" Macklin shouted.



The door opened, and Sergeant Benning came in. He immediately felt the tension. "Uh... I've brought a message from Corporal Mangrim, sir."



"I'm listening."



"He says it's ready. He wants you to come see it."



"Tell him I'll be there in five minutes."



"Yes, sir." Benning started to turn away.



"Sergeanti" Roland said. "Tell him we'll be there in five minutes."



"Uh... yes, sir." Benning glanced quickly at the colonel and then got out as fast as he could.



Macklin was filled with cold rage. "You're walking close to the edge, Roland. Very close."



"Yes, I am. But you won't do anything. You can't. I helped you build all this. I helped you put it together. If I hadn't amputated your hand in Earth House, you'd be dust by now. If I hadn't told you to use the drugs to trade with, we'd still be dirtwarts. and if I hadn't executed Freddie Kempka for you, there'd be no army of Excellence. You ask my advice, and you do what I say. That's how it's always been. The soldiers bow to you - but you bow to me." The bandages tightened as Roland smiled. He'd seen the flicker of uncertainty - no, of weakness - in the King's eyes. and he realized the truth. "I've always kept the brigades operating for you, and I've even found the settlements for us to attack. You can't even allocate the supplies without going to pieces."



"You... little bastard," Macklin managed to say. "I should... have you... shot..."



"You won't. You used to say I was your right hand. and I believed it. But that was never true, was iti You're my right hand. I'm the real King, and I've just let you wear the crown."



"Get out... get out... get out..." Macklin felt dizzy, and he grabbed the edge of the desk to steady himself. "I don't need you! I never did!"



"You always did. You do now."



"No... no... I don't... I don't." He shook his head and looked away from Roland, but he could still feel Roland's eyes on him, probing to his soul with surgical precision. He remembered the eyes of the skinny kid who'd been sitting in Earth House's Town Hall during the newcomers' orientation, and he remembered seeing something of himself in them - determined, willful and, above all, cunning.



"I'll still be the King's Knight," Roland said. "I like the game. But from now on, we won't pretend it's you who makes the rules."



Macklin suddenly lifted his right arm and started to swipe the nail-studded palm across Roland's face. But Roland didn't move, didn't flinch. Macklin's skeletal face was twisted with rage, and he trembled but did not deliver the blow. He made a gasping sound, like a punctured balloon, and the room seemed to spin crazily around him. in his mind he heard the hollow, knowing laughter of the Shadow Soldier.



The laughter went on for a long time. and when it was over, Macklin's arm dropped to his side.



He stood staring at the floor, his mind on a filthy pit where only the strong survived.



"We should go see Mangrim's machine now," Roland suggested, and this time his voice was softer, almost gentle. The voice of a boy again. "I'll give you a ride in my Jeep. all righti"



Macklin didn't answer. But when Roland turned and walked to the door, Macklin followed like a dog humbled by a new master.