“Your bird’s had it,” the old coot observed sagely, and another gout of flame leapt from the charred machine.
“Give ’em room, dammit! Step back, now!” Ed Vance pushed his way through the knot of gawkers. He’d trotted over from Celeste Street, and just that short distance had left him puffing and red-faced. He stopped when he saw the gore-covered Rhodes and Gunniston. “Holy Keerist!” He looked around for a couple of able-bodied men. “Hank! You and Billy come on and help me get ’em to the clinic!”
“We’re all right,” Rhodes said. “Just cut up a little, that’s all.” He saw tiny bits of glass glittering in his forearms, and he figured he was going to have a long bout with a pair of tweezers. There was a gash on his chin and another across his forehead that felt wicked, but they would have to wait. “Our pilot didn’t make it.” He turned to Gunniston. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Think so.” Gunny had been protected from most of the glass by being behind the front seats, but there were several cuts in his hands and a sliver about two inches long was stuck in his left shoulder. He grasped it, yanked it out, and tossed it away.
Rhodes tried to stand, but his legs betrayed him. A younger man in a red-checked shirt helped him up, and Rhodes said, “I’m getting too old for this shit.”
“Yeah, and I’m agin’ more every piss-cuttin’ minute!” Vance had watched the aerial duel and had thought for sure that the helicopter was either going to slam into the houses of Inferno or hit the First Texas Bank. He glanced at the building, saw the ooze where the flying monstrosity had impacted, and he recalled the creature in Dodge Creech’s skin peering out the window and saying I don’t like that thing. “Listen, Colonel, we’ve got to talk. Like right now.”
Rhodes gingerly worked the kinked muscles in his arms. “I hope you’ll understand when I say it’ll have to wait.”
“No sir,” Vance said. “Now.”
There was an urgency in the sheriff’s voice that commanded his attention. “What is it?”
“I think we’d best take a little walk down the street.” Vance motioned for him to follow, and Rhodes limped on stiff legs along Cobre Road. The helicopter was still belching black smoke and red licks of flame, and Rhodes thought he could smell Jim Taggart’s body burning. When they were beyond earshot of the crowd, Vance said, “I think I had myself one of them close encounters. About twenty minutes ago I met somebody who looked like Dodge Creech…only he didn’t, and he sure as hell wasn’t.”
Rhodes listened to the story without interrupting and shook off the shock that kept taking his mind back to the memory of a gray hand and arm and a mangled body. It was the living who were important now, and if the thing in the black pyramid could dig under the river and the houses of Inferno, it could come up wherever it pleased. Whatever it was, it had just turned this piece of Texas badland into a battleground.
“What the hell are we gonna do?” Vance asked at the end of his story.
“We sure can’t run,” Rhodes said quietly. “There’s nowhere to run to.” I de-sire to ex-it, he remembered Daufin saying, and how frantic she’d gotten when she’d understood there were no interstellar vehicles here. She’d begged to be taken away, and he hadn’t done it; she must have known the other spaceship was after her. But for what reason? And who—or what—was the thing that Daufin called Stinger?
He touched his chin and looked at the blood on his fingers. His beige knit shirt was a patchwork of bloodstains—mostly Taggart’s. He felt all right, maybe a little weak-headed. No matter, he had to keep going and think about rest and stitches later. He said, “Take me to Creech’s house.”
30
Coffin Nails
A SILENCE SETTLED OVER Inferno in the wake of the helicopter’s crash. People who had been roaming the streets, talking about the pyramid and wondering if it was the Last Days, went home, locked their doors and windows, and stayed there in the violet-tinged gloom. Others went to the safety of the Baptist church, where Hale Jennings and a few volunteers passed out sandwiches and cold coffee in the light of the altar candles. Renegades were drawn to the lights of their fortress at the end of Travis Street; Bobby Clay Clemmons passed around some marijuana but mostly everybody just wanted to sit and talk, drink a few beers, and swap ideas about where the pyramid had come from and what it was doing here. At the Brandin’ Iron, Sue Mullinax and Cecil Thorsby stayed on duty, making sandwiches out of cold luncheon meat for some of the regulars who wandered in, afraid to be alone in the dark.
In the clinic, Tom Hammond was holding a flashlight steady over an operating table as Early McNeil and Jessie worked on the mangled arm of a Hispanic man named Ruiz, who had stumbled across the river a few minutes after the pyramid had crashed down. The arm was hanging by red threads of muscle, and Early knew it had to come off. He said behind his surgical mask, “Let’s see if I’ve still got it in me, kiddies,” and reached for the bone saw.
Across the river, the fire fighters had given up. The wreckage of workshops and storehouses still smoldered in Cade’s autoyard, tangled heaps of debris opening scarlet eyes of flame. Mack Cade cursed and promised to have their asses on keychains, but without water pressure the hoses were just so much flabby canvas and none of the firemen wanted to go any closer to the pyramid than they had to. They packed their gear into the fire truck and left Cade ranting with impotent rage beside his Mercedes, the two Dobermans barking in furious counterpoint.
Smoke suffused the air, lay low in the gash of the Snake River, and hung like gray fog in the streets. Overhead, the moon and stars were blanked out. But time continued to move, and the hands of wristwatches and battery-run clocks crept toward midnight.
Mrs. Santos left the clinic on Dr. McNeil’s orders to find volunteers to give blood, and her attention was caught by the large yellow Cadillac that was parked just down Celeste Street, with a view across the river. A white-haired woman sat behind the wheel, staring at the pyramid as if mesmerized. Mrs. Santos approached the car, knowing who it belonged to; she tapped on the window, and when Celeste Preston lowered it, the chill of air conditioning drifted out. “We need blood at the clinic,” Mrs. Santos said matter-of-factly. “Dr. McNeil says I’m not supposed to come back until I find six volunteers. Will you help us?”
Celeste hesitated, her mind still dazed by the thing out in Cade’s autoyard, the skygrid, and the creature she’d watched crash into the bank building. She’d been on her way home after leaving Vance, but she’d had the urge to slow down, turn right on Circle Back Street, and drive through what remained of Wint’s dream. Ol’ Wint’s rolling in his grave up on Joshua Tree Hill by now, she thought. Wasn’t enough for Inferno to die with a whimper, like a hundred other played-out Texas towns. No, God had to give the coffin nails another twist. Or maybe it was Satan’s work. The air sure smelled like hell. “What?” she asked Early’s nurse, not understanding.
“We need blood real bad. What type do you have?”
“Red,” Celeste answered. “How the hell do I know?”
“That’ll do. Will you let us have a pint?”
Celeste grunted. Some of the steel had returned to her eyes. “Pint, quart, gallon: what the hell? My blood feels mighty thin right now.”
“It’s thick enough,” Mrs. Santos said, and waited.
“Well,” Celeste said finally, “I don’t reckon I’ve got anything better to do.” She opened the door and got out. The seat was lumpy, and her ass had been falling asleep anyway, just sitting out here for the last fifteen or twenty minutes. “Will it hurt?”
“Just a sting. Then you’ll have a rest and get a dish of ice cream.” If it wasn’t melting in the freezer, she thought. “Go tell Mrs. Murdock you want to give blood. She’ll be at the front desk.” Mrs. Santos was amazed at herself, a Bordertown resident giving orders to Celeste Preston. “I mean…if that’s all right?”
“Yeah. Whatever.” Celeste stared at the pyramid for a moment longer, and then she started walking to the clinic; Mrs. Santos continued along the street in the opposit
e direction.
In Sarge Dennison’s house, across from where Reverend Jennings was leading a group of townspeople in prayer at the Baptist church, Daufin stood next to the chair in which Sarge was sprawled.
Now this was a curious thing, Daufin mused: the creature had been consuming the tasteless material called pork ’n beans from a round metallic receptacle, using a four-pronged tool, when he’d suddenly made an explosive noise from the depths of his chair, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. “Gonna rest for a few minutes,” he’d told her. “Ain’t what I used to be. You keep Scooter company, hear?” And it wasn’t very much longer before the creature’s mouth had begun making a low buzzing sound, as if there were an efficient machine tucked away somewhere within. Daufin had approached him and peered into the half-open mouth, but could see nothing except the strange bony appliances called teeth. It was another mystery.
Her stomach felt weighed. The receptacle of pork ’n beans that Sarge had opened and given to her was empty, and lay on a table along with the tool she’d used to eat it. The act of feeding on this world was a repetitive labor of balance, visual acuity, and sheer willpower. She was astounded that the beings could force such sludgy fodder into their systems. Lying beside Sarge’s chair was a long yellow envelope made of a tough, slick material, and on the envelope was written the cryptic word “Fritos.” Sarge had shared the crunchy food curls with her, and Daufin had found them at least palatable, but now the inside of her mouth was dry. It seemed there was always some discomfort on this world; perhaps, in some strange way, discomfort was this species’ prime motivation.
“I am go-ing to try to find an ex-it now,” she told him. “Thank you for the ed-i-bles.”
Sarge stirred, drowsily opened his eyes. He saw Stevie Hammond and smiled. “Bathroom’s in the back,” he said, and settled himself in for a long nap.
This alien language was a puzzlement. The Sarge creature’s buzzing began again, and Daufin walked out of the house into the warm dark.
Haze hung in the air, thicker than it had been when she’d come out here not long ago and seen the two flying machines whirling across the sky. She’d watched their duel, didn’t really know what was happening, but reasoned it wasn’t a common sight; there’d been humans watching from the street, and some of them had made high shrieking noises that she construed as sounds of alarm. Then, when the battle was over and the surviving machine fell with fire chewing its tail, Daufin was left with a single thought: Stinger.
Sarge had been kind to her, and she liked him; but now the need to find an exit called her. Her gaze swept the sky, scanning the violet mesh that trapped her and the humans in the same huge cage. She knew where it came from, and what powered it. Inside her there was a pressure as if some part of her was on the verge of breaking, and the pumping muscle at her center picked up speed. Hopeless! she thought as she scanned the skygrid from horizon to horizon. There is no exit! Hopeless!
A low gleam of light caught her eye, through the haze that clung close to the street. It was made of many colors, and it was an inviting light. If light could carry hope, Daufin thought, this light did. She began to walk toward the Inferno Baptist Church, where candlelight filtered through a stained-glass window.
The door was open. Daufin slid her head around its corner to peer inside.
Small white sticks with tips of light illuminated the interior, and at the opposite end from Daufin stood two metallic structures that each held six of the light-tipped sticks. Daufin counted, in the crude Earth mathematics, forty-six humans sitting on long high-backed benches, facing an upraised dais. Some of the humans had their heads bent over and their hands clasped. A man with a shiny head stood at the dais, and appeared to be dispensing liquid from a large receptacle into tiny ones held in a metallic tray.
And above the dais was a curious sight: a suspended vertical line crossed by a shorter horizontal line, and at its center the figure of a human being hung with arms outstretched. The figure’s head was capped with a circle of twisted vegetation, and its face angled up toward the ceiling; the painted eyes were imploring, and seemed to be fixed on a distance far beyond the confines of this structure. Daufin heard a painful sound from one of the people on the benches: a “sob,” she thought it was called. The hanging figure indicated this might be a place of torture, but there were mixed feelings here: sadness and pain, yes, but something else too, and she wasn’t quite certain what it was. Perhaps it was the hope that she’d thought was lost, she decided. She could feel a strength here, like a collection of minds turned in the same direction. It felt like a sturdy place, and a safe shelter. This is an abode of ritual, she realized as she watched the man at the dais preparing the receptacles of dark red liquid. But who was the figure suspended at the center of two crossed lines, and what was its purpose? Daufin entered the building, going to the nearest bench and sitting down. Neither Hale Jennings nor Mayor Brett, who sat with his wife Doris on the first pew, saw her come in.
“This is the blood of Christ,” the reverend intoned as he finished pouring the sacramental grape juice. “With this blood we are whole, and made new again.” He opened a box of Saltines, began to crush them, and the pieces fell into an offering plate. “And this is the body of Christ, which has passed from this earth into grace so that there should be life everlasting.” He turned to the congregation. “I invite you to partake of holy Communion. Shall we pray?”
Daufin watched as the others bowed their heads, and the man at the dais closed his eyes and began to speak in a soft rising and falling cadence. “Father, we ask your blessing on this Communion, and that you strengthen our souls in this time of trial. We don’t know what tomorrow’s going to bring, we’re afraid, and we don’t know what to do. What’s happening to us, and to our town, is beyond our minds to comprehend…”
As the prayer continued, Daufin listened closely to the man’s voice, comparing it to the voices of Tom, Jessie, Ray, Rhodes, and Sarge. Each voice was unique in a wonderful way, she realized. And the correct enunciation was far different from her halting tongue. This man at the dais almost turned speaking into song. What she’d first considered a rough, guttural language—full of barbarity and made of unyielding surfaces—now amazed her with its variety. Of course a language was only as good as the meaning behind it and she still was having trouble understanding, but the sound fascinated her. And saddened her a little, as well; there was something indescribably lonely about the human voice, like a call from darkness into darkness. What an infinity of voices the human beings possessed! she thought. If each voice on this planet was unique, just that alone was a marvel of creation that staggered her senses.
“…but guard us, dear Father, and walk with us, and let us know that thy will be done. Amen,” Jennings finished. He took the plate holding the little plastic cups of juice in one hand and the cracker crumbs in the other, and began to go from person to person offering Communion. Mayor Brett accepted it, and so did his wife. Don Ringwald, owner of the Ringwald Drugstore, took it, as did his wife and their two children. Ida Slattery did, and so did Gil and Mavis Lockridge. Reverend Jennings continued along the aisle, giving the Communion and saying quietly, “With this you accept the blood and body of Christ.”
A woman sitting in front of Daufin began to cry, and her husband put his arm around her shoulder and drew her closer. Two little boys sat beside them, one wide-eyed and scared and the other staring over the back of the pew at Daufin. Across the aisle, an elderly woman closed her eyes and lifted a trembling hand toward the figure above the dais.
“With this you accept the blood and—” Jennings stopped. He was staring at the dusty face of Tom and Jessie’s little girl. A thrill of shock went through him; this was the alien creature Colonel Rhodes was searching for. “—the body of Christ,” he continued, offering the grape juice and cracker crumbs to the people on the pew in front of her. Then he stood beside her, and he said gently, “Hello.”
“Hello,” she answered, copying his dulcet voice.
&nbs
p; Jennings bent down, and his knees creaked. “Colonel Rhodes is looking for you.” The little girl’s eyes were almost luminous in the golden candlelight, and directed at him with intense concentration. “Did you know that?”
“I sus-pect—” She stopped herself, wanting to try again with more of a human’s smooth cadence instead of the halting Webster’s pronunciation. “I suspected so,” she said.
Jennings nodded. His pulse rate had kicked up a few notches. The figure sitting before him resembled Stevie Hammond in every way but for her posture: she sat rigidly, as if uncomfortable with the way her bones fit together, and her right leg was drawn up underneath her. Her arms hung limply by her sides. The voice was almost Stevie’s, but with a reedy sound beneath it, as if she had a flute caught in her throat. “Can I take you to him?” he asked.
There was a quick expression of fear on her face, like a glimpse of dark water through white ice; then gone, frozen over again. “I must find an exit,” she said.
“You mean a door?”
“A door. An escape. A way out. Yes.”
A way out, he thought. She must be talking about the force field. “Maybe Colonel Rhodes can help you.”
“He cannot.” She hesitated, tried again: “He can’t help me find an exit. If I am unable to exit, there will be much hurting.”
“Hurting? Who’ll get hurt?”