Darkly The Thunder (25 page)

“A quarter of a mile,” Martin noted aloud. “Not a half as before. But a quarter. Is it tiring? Running out of steam?”

“No,” a scientist told him. “You've got to take into consideration that it is advancing in a full circle; in all directions. The territory it now controls is huge. You've got to make the decision to drop the bomb now, sir. And we've got to back off, clear out of this valley. When those two masses meet, the firestorms will be unlike any that human eyes have ever witnessed. The destructive powers will be enormous. There won't be anything left in this valley. Nothing.”

“The mountains around this valley,” Martin said. “Will they contain the blast?”

The scientists looked at one another. Finally one admitted the truth: “We don't know.”

“Landslides, for sure,” another said.

“On both sides?” Larry asked.

“Yes.”

“The people living on the other side of the mountains,” Martin said. “How far back should they be moved?”

“Ten miles would not be an unreasonable distance.”

“Sand implied that there was some relationship between the Fury and the old radio antenna on the mountain,” Martin pointed out. “Have you ascertained just what the connection might be?”

“No,” another scientist admitted. “It doesn't make sense to us. The Fury does not need an antenna to do anything . . . as far as we can tell.”

“But the mountain might be its source of power,” another said.

“How?”

The woman shrugged. “Uranium would be one guess.”

“Or it could just be its home,” another said. “Everything has a place, a starting point. But we can't destroy the mountain,” he was quick to add.

“I understand that,” Martin said.

Another scientist sighed. “There really is a God. There is life after death. There are levels of heaven and hell. Every textbook in the world will have to be rewritten. Theories tossed out the window. Avowed atheists will be flooding the churches. Religions will swell.”

The rantings and ravings of Willie Magee, Silas Marrner, and Harold Jewelweed drifted to them.

Martin looked around in disgust. “Larry, order the immediate evacuation of all people inside the valley, and for ten miles outside the valley. Do it now, son.”

“Shooting in the town,” an aide told him.

Martin shook his head. “Those poor bastards. God help them.”

Clouds of tear gas billowed through the streets, as the men and women in the sheriff's office fought for their lives. Those manning the gun slits used broken-off chair legs and billy clubs and the butts of rifles and shotguns to beat back the mob of walking dead unaffected by the choking gas.

“Fire axes!” Gordie yelled. “Get axes and hatchets – machetes, anything that will cut! Lop off their hands as they stick them through the slits. Then burn the hands to destroy them.”

Lopped-off hands crawled around the floor like huge, pale, misshapen spiders. The college girls, along with Megan, Sunny, Jill, and Angel beat them into pulp with clubs, scooped them up with shovels, and tossed them into buckets. They carried the buckets into a back room, doused the contents with gasoline, and burned the smashed hands.

Still the onslaught from the outside continued.

A hand crawled up a desk, up on the lamp, and leaped at Judy, attaching itself to her throat. She fought the hand silently, unable to utter a sound. The dead fingers punctured her flesh and dug deeper into her throat, ripping and tearing veins and arteries. With each beat of her heart, long streams of blood shot from her ruined throat. She collapsed on the floor, dying. The hand jumped from the bloody mess, scurrying along the floor. Angel smashed it with a shovel and beat it flat as a pancake.

Those prisoners that were left overpowered the deputy guarding the door to the hallway and ran into the main room, eyes wild with madness and fear. Some grabbed for weapons, others grabbed at women, trying to pull them down to the floor, ripping at their clothes; one more violent rape before death claimed them.

And death claimed them. They were shot. There was nothing else Gordie and the others could do.

Howie sat at his bank of computers, monitoring the screens while chaos reigned around him.

I'm sorry, Howie,
the words flashed on the screen.
There is nothing any of us can do to help you . . . at the present time.

Sand?

Why is God doing this to us?

Howie stepped from his computer room into a blood-splattered arena of violence. He ran to Dr. Anderson and pointed to the room where Robin was huddled in a corner, her eyes wild with fear, her face pale.

“Sand told me,” the boy shouted.

The doctor nodded. “Go back to your room. I'll take care of her.”

The shouting, screaming hordes outside the door broke off their attack and ran silently into the gas-filled night. Silence fell on those in the building.

NOW THAT WAS ENTERTAINING. OH, MY, YES. I HAVEN'T HAD SO MUCH FUN IN YEARS.

Gordie leaned against a wall, a bloody axe in his hand. His face mirrored his exhaustion. “I'm glad you enjoyed it, Fury. Personally, I didn't see the humor in it.”

“It's gone,” Howie called. “The main body of energy is centered around Thunder Mountain.”

The government technicians had also noticed the Fury's move to the mountain.

“It must have some importance,” a scientist said. “But what?”

“The mountain has been studied from every possible angle,” another scientist said. “It was mined out before the turn of the century. There are no minerals of any significant amounts in the mountain.”

The men and women looked at each other and shrugged.

 

 

“Robin wasn't as bad as she appeared,” Dr. Anderson told Gordie. “I've sedated her.”

“What are the odds of her flipping out?”

Anderson grimaced at the nonprofessional term. “As long as we can keep her mildly sedated, I don't think that's going to happen. You have to bear in mind, she's been through one hell of an experience. She remembers meeting her dead mother and father. Really, she's a damn tough girl.”

Gordie nodded and looked out a gun slit. It would be daylight in about an hour. In one way he was looking forward to it. He glanced around the big room, blood-splattered and body-littered. Come the daylight, they had to get rid of the bodies.

“Burn them,” Gordie ordered. “Behind the impound area. There's no point in jacking around with body bags any longer.”

Soon, black stinking smoke was rising up into the air.

YOU ARE A VICIOUS LITTLE MEX, AREN'T YOU, GUNFIGHTER?

“I do what has to be done.”

ARE YOU AWARE THAT YOUR GOVERNMENT HAS SEALED OFF ALL ROADS LEADING INTO THIS AREA?

“No,” Gordie lied. “I was not.”

THEY'VE EVACUATED ALL THE PEOPLE FOR MILES AROUND. THAT DISPLEASES ME, GORDIE.

“There isn't a damn thing I can do about it, Fury. Not one thing.”

THAT MAY OR MAY NOT BE THE TRUTH. BUT SOMEHOW I SUSPECT IT IS. THOSE ON THE OUTSIDE HAVE WASHED THEIR HANDS OF YOU POOR WRETCHES.

“Then we'll just have to fight you with what we have.”

THAT'S THE SPIRIT, GREASEBALL. RAH RAH, SIS BOOM BAH.

“Shit on you,” Gordie muttered. He walked back into the office and said, “I'm going for a ride. Anybody want to tag along.”

To his surprise, Angel raised her hand.

“Angel, it's dangerous out there.”

“I want to go to my house, just one more time. There are some things I want to get.”

Gordie waited as Judy's body was wrapped in a blanket. Lee looked at the sheriff.

Gordie shook his head. “Burn it,” he ordered. “She'd want her body to be rendered useless, rather than risk having it used against us.”

Sunny took Angel's hand. “I'll go with you, Gordie.”

“As will I,” Bergman said, picking up an M-16 and tossing it to Gordie. He chose one for himself and moved toward the door.

“Wait,” Gordie said, holding up a hand. “Angel, what if your parents are there?”

The child stood a little straighter. “They aren't my parents anymore, Sheriff. They belong to the Fury. I belong to God.”

Gordie smiled. “All right, Angel. We'll take a trip to your house. And Angel, all of us here in this room belong to God. He hasn't forsaken us.”

“No, sir. I don't think He has either. I think He sent Sand to help us.”

Watts grunted. “God must surely like His warriors, then. As much as I liked the boy, I'd sooner have stuck my hand into a sack of rattlesnakes than cross him.”

“Wanna come along, Al?” Gordie asked.

“No. I think I'll stay here and watch the TV. There are some pieces to the puzzle that I still haven't quite fitted together. I think Sand will get around to it. I don't want to miss any of it.”

“That's why we're taping it, sir,” Bos reminded the man.

Watts looked at the college student and smiled. “I hope you make it out of here, son. But I won't.”

Everybody still in the room looked at the tall, straight, ex-head of Colorado state police. “What do you mean, sir?” Dean asked.

“Fury isn't here, sir,” Howie called. “We can talk freely.”

“Gordie has the start of a pretty good plan for a bustout, when the time comes. Somebody has to keep the home fires burning, so to speak. I volunteered myself. I'm no hero, but I've lived a full life. And I won't be alone. Another person here has volunteered.”

“You just had to go and flap your mouth, didn't you, Al?” Mack spoke from behind the console.

“I don't think we have much time left to us, Mack. I think it's down to hours now. We'd best start gathering up materials, and getting Major Jackson and his people to give us short courses on these plastic explosives.” He held up a hand. “And I don't want to hear any weeping and moaning about our decision. It's firm, so keep your comments to yourselves. You ready to conduct a class, Major?”

Jackson nodded his head. “I'll get the materials.”

“Gordie, honey,” the voice of a woman came from behind the welded door. “Please let us out. I love you, baby.”

Gordie took Angel's hand, and together they walked out the door. Behind the steel door, his wife started cussing him.

The television clicked on. Watts took a seat. “I remember this,” he said. “Joey and Tuddie's funeral.”

The others gathered around the set. “He's doing it again,” Mack said. “Pulling events out of sequence. Why?”

“I think I know,” Watts said. “Watch.”

Joey and Tuddie were buried side by side. Joey's parents – who had disowned him, his mother burning a yarzheit candle – did not attend the funeral. Robin was in shock and heavily sedated all the way through the ordeal. She went to stay with her parents.

Watts was at the funeral, in civilian clothes. After the ceremony, he walked a short distance with Sand. “What are your feelings at this time, Sand?”

“I don't have any feelings. My guts are cold.”

Watts glanced up at Morg, sitting on a small knoll above the hallowed ground.

“What's Morg doing, Sand?”

“Waiting.”

The Force chuckled darkly. The sky rumbled with thunder. But there was not a cloud in sight.

“Why did you just chuckle, Sand?”

“I didn't.”

“All right. What is Morg waiting for?”

“For me.”

“Then what are the two of you waiting for?”

Sand stopped and looked at the cop. Darkness leaped from his eyes. The gaze gripped Watts, chilling him. “You wouldn't understand, Captain.”

“Probably not,” Watts said after a sigh. He felt strange, as if someone else were listening.

“Oh, yes,” a voice spoke.

“Damnit, Sand!” Watts said, exasperated. “Who's doing that?”

“We're almost out of time, Captain. When you shoot, please shoot straight.”

“What in the
hell
are you talking about, Sand?”

Sand walked away. Watts looked up at the knoll. Morg was gone. So was Bruno, Sand's big quarter-breed wolf. Bruno howled. Watts shivered.

“Eerie,” Watts said.

“Oh, yes,” a voice whispered. “Quite.”

Watts looked quickly around him. There was not a living soul in sight.

A living soul.

Watts walked out of the graveyard. He resisted with all his might the urge to whistle.

The TV screen went dark.

“So what's he telling us, Al?” Mack asked.

“The Force is going to help us, I think.”

Howie called from his room. “Come in here, people. This just popped up on Sand's screen.”

They all gathered around and looked. The one word gave them all new hope.

Sand had typed:
Yes.

Gordie pulled up in the driveway and gave the place a visual once-over. It had been a strange drive from the office. Not one person had been on the streets of the town. One
living
person that is. The streets were littered with the bodies of the newly dead.

Angel had looked at the bloating bodies through young eyes, that had already seen far too much of the darker side of life.

“Watch my back,” Gordie said to Bergman, as the men got out of the car.

Gordie walked to the front door and knocked. He could hear nothing from inside the house. He tried the door and found it unlocked. He turned the knob and pushed open the door, his .357 in his right hand, hammer back.

No odor of death struck him. The house appeared to be empty. “I'm checking it out,” he called to Bergman.

The house was void of living or dead.

Gordie checked the fenced-in backyard. Nothing. He looked in the basement. Nothing. He walked back to the front door and waved Angel in. “Stay with the car,” he told Bergman. “This may be a set-up.”

Angel went to her bedroom and retrieved a few articles of clothing and some pictures. She did the same in Howie's room. Gordie noticed that none of the pictures were of her parents. He asked about that.

“It's Howie's opinion that the Fury killed most of the good people first. It was not our fate to die. The Fury is using the weak people. If my parents are that weak – or bad, as the case may be – I don't want to remember them. Maybe you and Sunny can take care of us once this is over?”

Gordie smiled, mildly astonished at the astuteness of the young.

“I can tell by the way you look at each other that you care for each other. Howie can sometimes be a pain in the butt, but I'm not much trouble,” she said with a hint of a smile.

Sunny put an arm around the child's shoulders. “That's a good idea, Angel. We'll leave it up to Gordie.” Woman and child looked at him.

Gordie stepped forward and put his arms around the both of them. “Why not?” he said.

Outside, in the bright sunlight, they quickly joined Bergman in the car and drove away.

“I hope I never see that house again,” Angel said. “I want this to be over.”

“It will be,” Gordie told her. Sooner than we both think, he mentally added.

“It's heading your way,” the speaker crackled.

The car suddenly stopped in the street, the motor dead.

OUT FOR A PLEASANT LITTLE DRIVE, RIVERA?

“Yeah. I planned a picnic, but we couldn't find a suitable spot.”

MY DEAL STILL STANDS, GUNFIGHTER. HUMP THE KID AND YOU CAN WALK FREE.

“Hang it up, Fury,” Gordie told him.

YOUR ASS, GREASEBALL.

“It's gone,” the words came out of the speaker.

The car's engine roared into life.

“Why doesn't it just go ahead and kill us and take our knowledge?” Bergman asked. “Is this just a game to the Fury, or is it somehow prevented from killing the stronger – if that is indeed what we are?”

A cold, very clammy feeling enveloped them all. And all knew what it was from viewing the reruns of Sand's life. The Force.

“Listen to me,” the heavy voice tingled their ears. It was so heavy it was almost painful. “I will help you through Sand. The door is close, but the way is dangerous. Once you enter the door, there is no turning back. You might exit in another time frame. If you do, remember this: you cannot alter history. I will contact you again when you are very nearly out of time.”

“Wait!” Gordie called.

“I am waiting. I am always waiting when death is imminent.”

“If we do make it clear, the press will be all over us. What do we tell them?”

“The truth. Always the truth.”

“As we perceive it?” Bergman asked.

The Force chuckled darkly. “Even the very ignorant know when they are lying to themselves. Anything else is a myth, conceived in the minds of those who must justify what they do on your miserable planet.”

“Why us?” Angel asked. “Why are you helping us?”

The pressure throbbed for a moment. “Sand is a very convincing speaker.”

The pressure left them. Gordie put the car in gear and rolled on up the street. Back at the office, he told the others what the Force had said.

“I don't care if we end up in the middle of Apache country in the 1870s,” Norris said. “At least we'll be alive.”

“I'll advise Martin,” Megan said. “Let him decide how much, if any, is released to the press.”

“It's here!” Howie called.

PLANNING AND SCHEMING, EH? GOOD. I LIKE THAT. KEEPS ME ON MY TOES, SO TO SPEAK. ALTHOUGH ME ON MY TOES WOULD BE A RIDICULOUS SIGHT TO SEE.

Capt. Hishon took a chance. “I'd like to see you,” he said.

WOULD YOU NOW? I THINK NOT, TIN SOLDIER. PERSONALLY, I CONSIDER MYSELF TO BE A HANDSOME BEING. OTHERS, HOWEVER, DO NOT. BUT WHEN THE END COMES, I MIGHT GRANT YOU YOUR WISH. IT WOULD BE AMUSING TO SEE YOU GO MAD.

It left with such a rush, it crackled the hair of everyone in the room.

“Where is it, Howie?” Gordie asked.

“Thunder Mountain. It keeps returning there.”

 

 

Troops had been brought in from Fort Carson. They closed all the roads within a twenty-five-mile radius of Willowdale, and sealed off the area.

Martin Tobias could not, legally, run the preachers out of the valley, anymore than he could run the press out, but he did order the rattlesnakes of Harold Jewelweed confiscated.

“You done violated my constitutional rights, ah haw!” Harold puffed up.

“Please remind me to apologize . . . at some future date.”

Motels as far away as Denver were jammed full of reporters, diplomats, government officials, and the curious; schools and civic centers and gyms were packed with those evacuated.

Fury enlarged its territory again, spreading itself out another quarter-mile in all directions. But this time, Gordie was ready for it.

“It's moved back to the mountain, Sheriff,” Howie called.

“Let's go, people!” Gordie shouted the words as he hit the door, the military and Mack and Watts right behind him.

They fanned out, planting explosives all over the town. Lee and several others were gathering up all the old tires they could find—oftentimes taking them off vehicles parked alongside the street. Anything that would produce a thick smoke.

“We can detonate many of these electronically,” Maj. Jackson said. “But the majority of them will have to be hand set.”

“That's where Mack and me come in,” Watts said. “We'll go through the drill one more time, Major. Just before you people pull out.”

“Bump Howie, Jane,” Gordie said. “Let's see if we're still clear.”

“Clear, Sheriff,” the deputy said.

“Tell him to notify Martin Tobias that we're making our break at eight o'clock tomorrow evening. It'll be full dark. That gives us—and those outside the Fury's perimeter – thirty-four hours. Let's get back to work, people.”

 

 

President Marshall looked at the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He glanced at his watch. “We drop in thirty-three hours, forty-seven minutes. Eight-thirty tomorrow evening. Alert the crew.”

“Yes, sir.” The general left the room.

The president turned his gaze to the secretary of state. “The secrecy lid still on tight?”

“As tight as I've ever seen it.”

“I am absolutely amazed that we haven't had worldwide panic. Astounded by it.”

“We've had a lot of speculation. Martin is to be commended for the fine job he's done.”

“You're going to be late for your press conference,” the president was reminded.

President Marshall shook his head. “There won't be any press conferences until this . . . incident is over.”

“The press isn't going to like that.”

“I don't particularly care what the press likes; not at this juncture. What have you been able to come up with on this Saunders person?” That was directed at the attorney general.

“He got the shaft, legally speaking,” the attorney general replied. “But that didn't give him the right to go out and kill half a dozen people and castrate another young man.”

“What did these people do to bring down the wrath of this young man?”

“Killed his pregnant wife. The baby was stillborn.”

The president grunted. True justice did out in this case. “Can he be exonerated?”

“No. That's impossible. He was never tried. But he is, somehow, showing his side of the story to those trapped in Willowdale. They're videotaping it. We'll have to go that route.”

“Is he agreeable with that?”

“Jesus Christ, sir. The man is dead! What can he do about it?”

The president pointed a finger at the attorney general. “You just make damn sure his side of the story gets told. We'll leave the rest up to the people who see it.”

“Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir.”

Those survivors had agreed not to venture out until unless they absolutely had to. Howie announced that only the sentries were still in place. The Fury was resting on Thunder Mountain.

The television clicked on and Watts said, “Here it is. Now maybe I'll know for sure what happened.”

The others gathered around the set, standing, sitting in chairs, sitting on the floor. The sound of a phone ringing came out of the set's speakers. Sand was alone in the den.

Sand reached for the phone. The Force gripped him. “Be strong,” it whispered. “For I am now more of you than you are of me.”

Music began in Sand's head. Softly, only a faint melody in the back of his mind. It would soon build to a thunderous crescendo.

Robin's mother said, “Sand, let me speak to Robin.”

“She isn't here, Mrs. Lee. I thought she was at your house.”

“She left here hours ago!” the woman's voice became very high-pitched. “Sand, where
is
she?”

“I don't know, Mrs. Lee.” Someone was knocking at the front door. “Hang on for a second. Calm down.”

He ran to the door, jerking it open. Watts stood on the front porch, a grim expression on his face. The Force became more a part of the young man as Sand spun in a whirlwind ride, a lonely maddening spin; an invisible calliope played a jumble of melodies, an angry roaring in his head. Mussorgsky, Beethoven, Wagner.
Night on Bald Mountain. Lenore. Götterdämmerung.

Sand fought the thundering until the sounds faded.

“Robin,” Sand found his voice.

“Yes,” Watts replied, his voice sounding very distant to the young man. It was distant. A dark river lay between them. “There's been an ... accident, Sand. About ten miles outside of town. It's bad, son. She's . . .”

“Dead.” Sand said flatly, filling in the blanks of life's complicated crossword puzzle. His last puzzle. Only a few more squares needed to be filled.

“I am truly sorry,” Watts said, thinking: what a stupid, totally inadequate phrase.

Sand pointed to the phone. “Mrs. Lee's on the line. You tell her the news.”

“Now is the time,” the Force spoke.

Watts looked around him, certain he had heard a voice. He walked to the phone like a man stepping through a mine field. Sand slipped into a jacket and ran to his car.

A dozen or more cars were parked around the base of a hill. Red lights gave the night a carnival atmosphere. Bobbing flashlights and dark figures moved about. Sand noticed Robin's Olds in a ditch, both left wheels stuck in the mud, the door to the driver's side open, the interior light burning dimly as the battery wore down. He could not make the connection between his wife's death and her car stuck in the mud. And where was his breed, Bruno? Robin never went anywhere without the quarter-breed wolf. He was very protective of her.

The roaring music began in his head, all mixed in with that strange pressure that seemed to constantly grip him of late. Then . . . silence. Loud in the absence of noise. He felt cold, detached from reality. And alone.

“You are not alone,” the Force told him. “We are now as one.”

An ambulance moaned and wailed in the background, the red lights and the siren cutting a scar into the night.

Why hurry? Sand thought. She's gone.

“Wrong,” the Force corrected. “She is merely waiting for you.”

Sand walked slowly up the hill, to the first level of lights, stopping when he saw Morg, standing alone.

“You hadn't oughta go up there, Sand. Man, it's awful.”

“Come on,” Sand said. “Walk with me.”

A state patrol officer stopped them a dozen yards from the brightest blaze of lights. “The captain is right behind you, Sand. Said for you to wait for him.” He looked at Morg.

“I ran you out of here once.”

“I come back.”

Sand knew the trooper could not hear the muted roarings in his head, raging like a huge orchestra under the baton of a mad conductor.

“I'll take it from here,” Watts spoke from the darkness behind the men. Robin's father, Carl, stood with the captain, his big hands clenched into fists of silent rage. Watts said, “Follow me and be careful where you walk. Don't step in any roped-off areas. We're still trying to unravel this one.”

Sand walked ahead of the others, ignoring Watts's call to wait. He ran toward the blanket-covered, lifeless, almost shapeless lump on the cool ground. Sand's face seemed carved out of granite. All but his eyes; God, they ached.