Swan Song

by Robert R. McCammon

  Josh stood up. He ran along the aisle, saw three more figures coming toward him; he jumped over a counter into another aisle. A left turn, and a clear aisle lined with housewares, pots and pans stretched before him.

  And way down at the end of it sat Lord Alvin, watching from his throne. On the wall behind him was the sign Pets. Josh could see the dwarf jumping up and down in the shopping cart, and Swan’s face was turned toward him. Crybaby lay so close, but so far away.

  “One minute!” Lord Alvin announced through the bullhorn.

  I’ve made it! Josh realized. Dear God, I’m almost there! It can’t be more than forty feet to the dowsing rod!

  He started forward.

  But he heard the low growl and the rising whine, and the Neanderthal with the chainsaw stepped into the aisle to block his way.

  Josh stopped with a jolt. The Neanderthal, his bald head shining under the lights, smiled faintly and waited for him, the chainsaw’s teeth a blur of deadly metal.

  Josh looked around for some other way to go. The housewares aisle was an unbroken sweep of kitchen items, glasses and crockery except for an aisle that turned to the right about ten feet away—and three maniacs guarded that portal, all armed with knives and garden tools. He turned to retrace his path, and about five yards away stood the madman with the fishing rod and the green-toothed luna-tic with the shotgun. He saw more of them coming, taking positions to watch the finale of the Straitjacket game.

  The ass is grass, Josh knew. But not just his—Swan and Leona were dead if he didn’t reach the finish line. There was no way except through the Neanderthal.

  “Forty seconds, friend Josh!”

  The Neanderthal swiped at the air with the chainsaw, daring Josh to come on.

  Josh was almost used up. The Neanderthal handled that chainsaw with childish ease. Had they come all this way to die in a damned K-Mart full of escaped fruitcakes? Josh didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so he just said, “Shit!” Well, he decided, if they were going to die, he was going to do his best to take the Neanderthal with him—and Josh stood to his full height, swelled out his chest and let loose a roaring laugh.

  The Neanderthal grinned too.

  “Thirty seconds,” Lord Alvin said.

  Josh threw his head back, released a war whoop at the top of his lungs, and then he charged like a runaway Mack truck.

  The Neanderthal stood his ground, braced his legs and swung the chainsaw.

  But Josh suddenly juked back out of range, the chainsaw’s breeze brushing his face as it swept past. The other man’s rib cage was an open target, and before the Neanderthal could bring the chainsaw back around, Josh kicked those ribs like he was aiming at next week.

  The man’s face scrunched up with pain, and he went back a few feet but did not go down. Then he was balanced again, and now he was rushing forward and the chainsaw was coming at Josh’s head.

  Josh had no time to think, just to act. He flung his arms up in front of his face. The saw’s teeth hit the chains around his wrists, shooting sparks. The vibration sent Josh and the Neanderthal reeling in opposite directions, but still neither one fell.

  “Twenty seconds!” the bullhorn blared.

  Josh’s heart was hammering, but he was strangely calm. It was reach the finish line or not, and that was it. He crouched and warily advanced, hoping to trip the other man up somehow. And then the Neanderthal sprang forward, faster than Josh had expected the big man to move, and the chainsaw slashed at Josh’s skull; Josh started to leap back, but the chainsaw strike was a feint. The Neanderthal’s booted right foot came up and caught Josh in the stomach, knocking him along the aisle. He crashed into the counter of pots, pans and kitchen tools, clattering around him in a shower of metal. Roll! Josh screamed mentally, and as he whipped aside the Neanderthal brought the chainsaw down where he’d been lying, carving a foot-long trench across the floor.

  Quickly, Josh twisted back to the other side and kicked upward, hitting his opponent just under the jawbone. The Neanderthal was lifted off his feet, and then he, too, crashed into the housewares display—but he kept tight hold of the saw and started getting to his feet as blood dribbled from both corners of his mouth.

  The audience hooted and clapped.

  “Ten seconds!”

  Josh was on his knees before he realized what was scattered around him: not only pots and pans, but an array of carving knives. One with a blade about eight inches long lay right in front of him. He put his left hand around its grip and forced the fingers shut with sheer willpower, and the knife was his.

  The Neanderthal, his eyes clouded with pain, spat out teeth and what might have been part of his tongue.

  Josh was on his feet. “Come on!” he shouted, feinting with the knife. “Come on, you crazy asshole!”

  The other man obliged him; he began stalking down the aisle toward Josh, sweeping the chainsaw back and forth in a deadly arc.

  Josh kept moving backward. He glanced quickly over his shoulder, saw the mad fisherman and the shotgun wielder about five feet behind him. In a fraction of a second, he realized that Green Teeth was holding his shotgun in a loose, casual grip. The ring of keys dangled at the man’s belt.

  The Neanderthal was advancing steadily, and when he grinned blood drooled out.

  “You’re going the wrong way, friend Josh!” Lord Alvin said. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. Time’s up! Come on and take your pill!”

  “Kiss my ass!” Josh shouted—and then he whirled around in a blur of motion and drove the blade up to the hilt in Green Teeth’s chest, just above the heart. As the madman’s mouth opened in a shriek, Josh clamped his left hand around the shotgun’s trigger guard, wrenching the weapon loose. The man fell to the floor in a spray of arterial blood.

  The Neanderthal charged.

  Josh turned in what seemed like nightmarish slow motion. He fought to hold the shotgun steady, trying to get his finger on the trigger. The Neanderthal was almost on him, and the saw was coming up for a vicious, sideswiping slash. Josh braced the butt of the shotgun against his chest, felt the awful breeze of the chainsaw. His finger found the trigger, and he squeezed.

  The Neanderthal was within three feet, the chainsaw about to bite flesh.

  But in the next instant a fist-sized hole opened in his stomach and half his back blew out. The force of the blast shook Josh and almost knocked the Neanderthal out of his boots. The chainsaw flashed past Josh’s face, its weight spinning the dead man like a top along the bloody-floored aisle.

  “No fair!” Lord Alvin shouted, jumping up from his throne. “You didn’t play right!”

  The corpse hit the floor, still gripping the chainsaw, and the metal teeth chewed a circle in the linoleum.

  Josh saw Lord Alvin throw aside the bullhorn and reach into his robes; the madman’s hand emerged with an extra gleaming finger—a crescent-bladed hunting knife, like a miniature scythe. Lord Alvin turned upon Swan and Leona.

  With the shotgun’s blast, the other psychos had fled for cover. Josh had one shell left, and he couldn’t afford to waste it. He sprinted forward, leaped over the jittering body, and barreled for the pet department, where Lord Alvin—his face contorted with a mixture of rage and what might have been pity—knelt before Swan and grasped the back of her neck with his free hand.

  “Death! Death!” Imp shrieked.

  Swan looked up into Lord Alvin’s face and knew she was about to die. Tears burned her eyes, but she lifted her chin defiantly.

  “Time to go to sleep,” Lord Alvin whispered. He lifted the crescent blade.

  Josh slipped on the bloody floor and went down, skidding into a counter six feet short of the dowsing rod. He scrambled to get up, but he knew that he’d never make it.

  Lord Alvin smiled, two tears rolling from his murky green eyes. The crescent blade was poised, about to fall. “Sleep,” he said.

  But a small gray form had already streaked out from behind sacks of dog food and kitty litter and, growling like a hound from Hell, it leaped tow
ard Lord Alvin’s face.

  The terrier snapped his teeth around Alvin Mangrim’s thin and delicate nose, crunched through flesh and cartilage and snapped the man’s head back. Lord Alvin fell on his side, writhing and screaming, frantically trying to push the animal away, but the terrier kept hold.

  Josh jumped over Crybaby, saw Swan and Leona still alive, saw the terrier gnawing on Lord Alvin’s nose and the madman flailing with his hunting knife. Josh aimed the shotgun at Lord Alvin’s skull, but he didn’t want to hit the dog and he knew he’d need that shell. The terrier suddenly freed Lord Alvin and scrambled back with bloody flesh between his teeth, then planted his paws and let out a fusillade of barks.

  Lord Alvin sat up, what remained of his nose hanging from his face and his eyes wide with shock. Shrieking “Blasphemy! Blasphemy!” he bolted to his feet and ran, still screaming, out of the pet department. Nearby, Imp was the last of Lord Alvin’s subjects left in the vicinity; the dwarf was hissing curses at Josh, who lunged over to the shopping cart, spun it around and sent it flying down the aisle. Imp bailed out a few seconds before it crashed into fish tanks and upended.

  Alvin Mangrim had left his knife behind, and Josh spent a couple of anxious minutes cutting the ropes loose from Swan and Leona. When Swan’s hands were freed, she put her arms around Josh’s neck and held tight, her body shaking like a tough sapling in a tornado. The terrier came close enough for Josh to touch and sat back on its haunches, its muzzle scarlet with Lord Alvin’s blood. For the first time, Josh saw that the dog was wearing a flea collar, and on it was a little metal name tag that said “Killer.”

  Josh knelt over Leona and shook her. The woman’s eyelids fluttered, her face slack, a terrible purple swelling around the gash over her left eye. Concussion, Josh realized. Or worse. She lifted a hand to touch the smeared greasepaint on Josh’s face, and then her eyes opened. She smiled weakly. “You done good,” she said.

  He helped her up. They had to get out fast. Josh braced the shotgun against his belly and started along the aisle where the Neanderthal lay. Swan retrieved the dowsing rod, grasped Leona’s hand and pulled her forward like a sleepwalker. Still barking, Killer darted ahead.

  Josh came to Green Teeth’s body and took the ring of keys. He’d worry later about which key unlocked his wrist chains. Right now they had to get out of this asylum before Lord Alvin rallied the maniacs.

  They sensed furtive movements on both sides of the aisle as they continued through the K-Mart, but Lord Alvin’s subjects had no initiative of their own. Someone threw a shoe, and a red rubber ball came bouncing at them, but otherwise they made the front doors without incident.

  Cold rain was still pouring down, and within seconds they were drenched. The parking lot lamps cast harsh yellow halos over the abandoned cars. Josh felt the weight of exhaustion creeping up on him. They found their wheelbarrow overturned, their supplies either stolen or scattered. Their bags and belongings were gone, including Swan’s Cookie Monster doll. Swan looked down and saw a few of Leona’s tarot cards lying on the wet pavement, along with broken shards of her crystal ball collection. Lord Alvin’s subjects had left them nothing but the soaked clothes sticking to their bodies.

  Swan glanced back toward the K-Mart and felt horror like a cold hand placed to a burn.

  They were coming out the doors. Ten or eleven figures, led by one in a purple robe that blew around his shoulders. Some of them were carrying rifles.

  “Josh!” she shouted.

  He kept walking, about ten feet ahead. He hadn’t heard her for the storm.

  “Josh!” she shouted again, and then she sprinted the distance between them and whacked him across the back with Crybaby.

  He spun around, eyes stricken—and then he saw them coming, too. They were thirty yards away, zigzagging between the cars. There was a flash of gunfire, and the rear windshield of a Toyota van behind Josh exploded. “Get down!” he yelled, shoving Swan to the pavement. He grabbed Leona as more pinpoints of fire sparked. Another car’s windshield blew out, but by then Josh, Swan and Leona were huddled in the shelter of a blue Buick with two flat tires.

  Bullets ricocheted, and glass showered around them. Josh crouched, waiting for the bastards to come closer before he reared up and fired the last shell.

  A hand grasped the shotgun’s barrel.

  Leona’s face was drawn and weary, but the heat of life shone in her eyes. She gripped the shotgun firmly, trying to pull it away from him. He resisted, shaking his head. Then he saw the blood that trickled from a corner of Leona’s mouth.

  He looked down. The bullet wound was just below her heart.

  Leona smiled wanly, and Josh could just make out what she said from the movement of her lips: “Go.” She nodded toward the far expanse of the rainswept parking lot. “Now,” she told him.

  He’d already seen how much blood she was losing. She knew, too; it was in her face. She wouldn’t let go of the shotgun, and she spoke again. Josh couldn’t hear her, but he thought it might have been: “Protect the child.”

  The rain was streaming down Josh’s face. There was so much to say, so much, but neither of them could hear the other over the voice of the storm, and words were flimsy. Josh glanced at Swan, saw that she’d seen the wound, too. Swan lifted her gaze to Leona’s, then to Josh’s, and she knew what had been decided.

  “No!” she shouted. “I won’t let you!” She grabbed Leona’s arm.

  A gunshot blasted the side window of a pickup truck nearby. More bullets hit the truck’s door, blew out the front tire and whined off the wheel.

  Josh looked into the woman’s eyes. He released the shotgun. She pulled it to her and put her finger on the trigger, then motioned for them to go. Swan clung to her. Leona grasped Crybaby and pushed the dowsing rod firmly against Swan’s chest, then deliberately pulled her arm free from Swan’s fingers. The decision was made. Now Leona’s eyes were clouding, the flow of blood fast and fatal.

  Josh kissed her cheek, hugged her tight to him for a few seconds. And then he mouthed the words “Follow me” to Swan and started off in a half crawl, half crouch between the cars. He couldn’t bear to look at Leona again, but he would remember every line in her face until the day he died.

  Leona ran the fingers of one hand over Swan’s cheek and smiled, as if she’d seen the child’s inside face and held it like a cameo in her heart. Then Swan saw the woman’s eyes go hard, preparing for what was ahead. There was nothing more. Swan lingered as long as she dared before she followed Josh into the maze of vehicles.

  Leona rose to a crouch. The pain below her heart was an irritating sting compared to her rheumatic knees. She waited, the rain pounding down on her, and she was not afraid. It was time to fly from this body now, time to see clearly what she’d only beheld through a dark glass.

  She waited a moment longer, and then she stood up and stepped out from behind the Buick, facing the K-Mart like a gunfighter at the O.K. Corral.

  Four of them were standing about six feet away, and behind them were two others. She didn’t have time to make sure the one in the purple robe was there; she aimed the shotgun in their midst and pulled the trigger even as two of the madmen fired their guns at her.

  Josh and Swan broke from the cover of the cars and ran across the open lot. Swan almost looked back, almost, but did not. Josh staggered, the exhaustion about to drive him down. Off to the side, the terrier kept pace with them, looking like a drowned rat.

  Swan wiped rain from her eyes. There was motion ahead. Something was coming through the storm. Josh had seen it, too, couldn’t tell what it was—but if the lunatics had circled around them, they were finished.

  The piebald horse broke from a sweeping curtain of rain, charging toward them—but it didn’t appear to be the same animal. This horse looked stronger, somehow more valiant, with a straighter back and courage in its forward-thrust neck. Josh and Swan both could have sworn they saw Mule’s hooves striking showers of sparks off the pavement.

  The horse careened to a
stop in front of them, reared and pawed at the air. When the animal came down again, Josh grabbed Swan’s arm by his free hand and flung her up onto Mule. He wasn’t sure which he was more scared of, riding the horse or facing the madmen; but when he dared to look around, he saw figures running through the rain, and he made up his mind right quick.

  He swung up behind Swan and kicked Mule’s ribs with both heels. The horse reared again, and Josh saw the pursuing figures abruptly stop. The one in the lead wore purple, had long, wet blond hair and a mangled nose. Josh had a second to lock stares with Lord Alvin, the hatred flaming through his bones, and he thought, Someday, you sonofabitch. Someday you’ll pay.

  Gunfire leaped. Mule whirled around and raced out of the parking lot as if he were going for the roses in the Kentucky Derby. Killer followed behind, plowing through the storm.

  Swan gripped hold of Mule’s mane to guide him, but the horse was deciding their direction. They sped away from the K-Mart, away from the dead town of Matheson, through the rain along a highway that stretched into darkness.

  But in the last of the light from the lunatic K-Mart, they saw a roadside sign that read Welcome to Nebraska, the Cornhusker State. They passed it in a blur, and Swan wasn’t sure what it had said. The wind blew into her face, and she held Crybaby in one hand and Mule’s mane with the other, and they seemed to be cleaving a fiery path through the dark and leaving a sea of sparks in their wake.

  “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore!” Swan shouted.

  “Damn straight!” Josh answered.

  They raced into the storm, heading toward a new horizon. And a couple of minutes after they’d passed, the terrier came bounding after them.

  43

  A WOLF WITH YELLOW EYES darted in front of the pickup truck.

  Paul Thorson instinctively hit the brake, and the truck slewed violently to the right, narrowly missing the burned wreckage of a tractor-trailer rig and a Mercedes-Benz in the middle of I-80’s westbound lanes before the worn tires gripped pavement again. The truck’s engine racketed and snorted like an old man having a bad dream.