Day 9

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  Dunne frowned. There it was again: the distant buzz of engines...rising and then fading.

  "I am such a clever bastard, aren't I, honey?" Weed grinned at Hannahlee, who didn't react. "See, boy, I snatched up Wife Number 14 there to flush out the last of the resistance. I knew you'd run to them for help, and I knew they'd give it."

  Dunne's mouth fell open as he realized he'd been conned. Apparently, the Jeremiah Weed wannabe was just as wily as his TV counterpart.

  "Finally!" Weed clapped Dunne on the back and squeezed his shoulder so hard it hurt. "I've been trying to catch the last few of those tadpoles for months, but they kept slipping away from me. Now I've got 'em!"

  Weed stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out a shrill whistle. Suddenly, eleven more scantily-clad women marched into the room, each carrying a rifle or pistol. When Weed whistled again, all thirteen of his Rainbow Brides cocked their weapons at once and leveled them at the sunken center of the Team Room.

  At that exact moment, Dunne again heard the distinct buzz of motorcycle engines...but not nearly so far away this time. They were getting closer with every second.

  "By the way." Weed let go of Dunne and walked over to one of his brides, an Asian woman with a machine gun. "In case you're wondering." Weed snapped the gun out of her hands and pointed it at Dunne. "We saved the real ammo for these guns."

  CHAPTER 41

  Dunne's eyes locked on the barrel of the machine gun as Weed aimed it at him. He shook as he waited for the killing shot.

  But he did not pray. He was terrified...but part of him believed he deserved what was coming. Part of him believed the shot was long overdue.

  For two years, he had imagined that every truck backfire, slamming door, and bump in the night was this shot...the shot that should have killed him instead of his wife and daughter. Now that it was finally here, he almost felt relieved. He could almost feel Vicky and Ella in the Team Room with him, smiling approvingly, ghostly arms outstretched forgivingly.

  But the shot did not come.

  Dunne heard the motorcycles tear past again, just outside the Team Room. Weed tossed the machine gun back to his Asian bride and stomped up the steps to the upper level of the room.

  "Time for the endgame, my lovelies!" Weed threw open the door in the far corner, and the Team Room flooded with bright sunlight from outside. "This is what I call shooting tadpoles in a barrel!"

  The brides cleared away from the doorway. Every gun swung around to point in that direction.

  Dunne looked at Hannahlee, and she was looking at Weed. "Stop this right now," she said. "No killing."

  Weed chuckled and cupped a hand behind his ear. "Can't hear you, sweetheart! Tell me later, after we've killed these damned Willows!"

  Hannahlee took a step toward him. "You do realize this isn't really Posse Ranch, don't you? And you're not Jeremiah Weed? And all this is based on a TV show called Weeping Willows?"

  "I love you, too, honey drawers!" said Weed. "Now make yourself useful and jump around some, so they can see you better out there."

  Hannahlee stood for a moment and glared up at him. Dunne imagined he could see the beam of her emerald gaze like a bead of light from the laser sight of a gun, dancing across Weed's forehead.

  Then, Hannahlee burst into action, vaulting onto the upper tier at Weed's feet. Before anyone could react, she tackled him backward, bringing the contents of a bookshelf down over them.

  As Hannahlee wrestled the burly, fur-coated Weed, his brides swung their guns around to point at them both. No one took a shot, though...probably because Hannahlee and Weed were tangled together.

  Dunne watched from the center well, wondering what was going to happen next. Hannahlee couldn't possibly beat burly Weed in hand-to-hand combat...or could she?

  Hannahlee and Weed continued to struggle. The Rainbow Brides kept their guns aimed at them but did not intervene...at least at first. The Asian bride finally stepped closer and poked her machine gun at the back of Hannahlee's head.

  "Hannahlee!" said Dunne.

  Just then, the roar of an engine filled the room. Dunne turned in time to see one of the motorcycles surge through the doorway from outside.

  Before anyone could shoot or take aim or anything, the red-helmeted rider—whom Dunne knew was Agent Mohican—charged along one arm of the upper level. Brides leaped out of his path and dove into the center well to avoid being run down.

  At that point, Weed managed to pry off Hannahlee and pitch her aside. Yanking a pistol out of a pocket of his gray fur coat, he swung it around to target Agent Mohican.

  Which is exactly when the second motorcycle burst into the room.

  This time, the bike came from inside the house, blasting through the doorway through which the redheaded bride had led Dunne. The rider wore a white helmet and a pukka shell choker with an orange starfish pendant.

  It was Leif Willow.

  The second motorcycle drew some fire as it zipped along the other arm of the upper tier. The rounds all missed, though, and struck unintended targets—like the TV set in the corner, which exploded and caught fire as the bike passed. Not a single shot hit the rider as he darted forward, driving the remaining brides into the well to join the first batch.

  Meanwhile, Agent Mohican swept to a stop just short of Weed, who had swung his pistol toward Leif and was now swinging it back. If Weed could get off a shot, Dunne knew he was bound to hit Mohican.

  Right at that moment, though, an amplified voice boomed into the room, and everyone stopped what they were doing.

  "What the hell is going on up there?" It was a man's voice, a baritone with a raspy edge. Dunne thought it sounded vaguely familiar.

  He also thought it sounded like it was coming from the burning TV set.

  "What are you even doing up there?" said the voice. "I thought I told you all to go home."

  Leif took off his helmet. "Father Gowdy?" He turned to look at the TV. "We thought you were dead."

  Gowdy paused. "Maybe I am dead and gone to Heaven. Is that Lianna Caprice there with you?"

  All eyes sought out Hannahlee, who was pulling herself together in the central well. She looked around with no reaction.

  She raised her voice to reach whatever mics were in the room. "It's me."

  "Incredible." Gowdy paused for a long moment. "I'll bet I haven't seen you in twenty years."

  "That's about right," said Hannahlee.

  Just then, Leif interrupted. "We need your help, Father. Weed has taken over New Justice. The Willows have almost all been captured or killed."

  "So bring them back," said Gowdy. "Start a new role-play scenario."

  "There are no scenarios," said Leif. "There is no role-play. They're using live ammunition."

  "You're joking." Gowdy sounded stunned. "Since when?"

  "A year ago," said Agent Mohican. "Since you died."

  "I don't understand," said Gowdy. "Weed—Albert—can you tell me what's going on?"

  Weed sneered at the burning TV set...then turned the sneer on Leif. "Nice trick."

  "You know it's not a trick," said Leif.

  "End of the line, boy." Weed brought the pistol up fast and reeled off a shot in Leif's direction. "I win."

  Leif spun and gasped as the shot tagged his shoulder. Weed kept the gun aimed at him, ready to fire another round...but he never made it. Before Weed's finger could squeeze the trigger, Agent Mohican lunged forward and grabbed his arm, wrenching it upward. Weed pumped off two more rounds, both hitting the ceiling.

  That seemed to be the signal for everything to go crazy. The Rainbow Brides all started shooting at once. Leif took another bullet and fell off his bike, which lurched out from under him and toppled down into the well. A squad of Weed's gunmen stormed in from the house, just as two more motorcycles darted in from outside with Kenya Willow and Gary Escuchar onboard.

  In the middle of it all, as gunshots whizzed by, Dunne and Hannahlee huddled together, keeping their heads as far down out of the firing line as they cou
ld.

  CHAPTER 42

  Barcelona, Spain - July 1936 - The Spanish Civil War

  As the shells whistle past above me, I wait my turn. It is only a matter of time.

  I watch as the churches of Barcelona explode, one after another. Artillery shells strike them with perfect precision, turning their grand steeples and stained glass windows into powder. Even the ones that were burned twenty-seven years ago in the Tragic Week and rebuilt—even they are brought down.

  It is time to finish the job. It is Civil War, when yesterday's nightmare is reborn.

  This time, I have no doubt that I will fall. How can they possibly raze so many lesser churches without striking me down?

  But am I afraid? Do I cower as my end approaches?

  I do not.

  My only regret is that it did not happen sooner. Ten years ago would have been perfect.

  Then, I would not have had to live so long without my maker. Without my Gaudí.

  The decade since his death has not been worth living. Others have continued to work on me, following his plans—but none of them can replace him. None have even come close.

  None of them talks to me. None of them touches me the way Gaudí did. Or understands me the way that he did.

  And none of them lives with me. They come in the morning and leave in the late afternoon, and they do not look back. They have lives away from me. Families other than me. Not like Gaudí.

  Without Gaudí, I continue to grow...but I am nothing. All four of the giant bell towers that Gaudí started are done now. A giant, carved cypress in honor of Jesus Christ stands complete. A host of statues and pillars and pinnacles have all been finished.

  But I feel less than I did before...as if all that was best about me was stripped away on the day Gaudí died. As if all the ornamentation is an elaborate shell.

  Concealing nothing.

  A shell whistles between my bell towers and crashes into a building across the street. As the shell explodes, blowing out smoke and fire and debris, I wish that I were that building. I wish that I were burning and buckling and crumbling, slouching back down into the hole in the Earth from which I sprang.

  This is the only hope I have left. That I will die and go wherever it is that Gaudí went.

  That I will see him again.

  A shell soars in and strikes the ground near my foundation. It showers me with dirt and rocks, but does not hurt me.

  Another shell lands on the other side of me, closer this time—but the effect is the same. No damage at all.

  I concentrate, willing the missiles to strike me dead on and take me apart. I reach out with every bit of my strength, straining to pull them toward me. Begging for their touch.

  One falls in the heart of me, inside my walls. Windows blow out in sprays of multicolored glass, and scaffolding tumbles like matchsticks and playing cards.

  I shudder as more shells hit my walls, bursting against the stone—but the walls do not collapse. Gaudí built them too well. His own craftsmanship prevents me from joining him in merciful death.

  Another shell strikes me, and another and another. Yet still I stand here, tall as ever. They chip away, but they cannot obliterate.

  The artillery turns to other targets, and I lose heart—but not for long. That night, new opportunities for destruction arise, and I rejoice.

  At least at first.

  The city of Barcelona burns in the darkness like embers scattered over a vast hearth. Gangs with guns and torches and bludgeons roam the streets, turning shops and banks and offices into wreckage. It is like Tragic Week, only deadlier, with more gunfire.

  I watch with interest as the gangs fan out across the city, howling and shooting and smashing. Instead of fear, I feel relief as they come closer. I wish they would hurry.

  Their cries have an edge of twisted joy as they swarm through me like rats, eyes darting, noses twitching. Many run straight for my crypt and smash open the doors. They pour inside and go wild, shrieking and gnashing and tearing into me.

  Everything of gold and silver, they steal. Everything of glass, they shatter. Everything of wood or cloth, they set afire.

  It is beautiful.

  By the light of my blazing pews, I watch their revels with gratitude. Their long shadows leap and mingle, a dark, sinuous festival in celebration of my impending release.

  I wish that I could thank them for this service. I am happier than I have been for years.

  Then, I see it start to go wrong.

  While I am watching the main body of rioters, a group slips away into one of the chapels. I do not notice them or realize what they are doing.

  Until more rioters race over to join them. My focus shifts, and I look inside the chapel...dreading what I will find.

  Because, of course, I know what lies within. And I can guess.

  At what they are doing.

  For the first time today, I am horrified. Numb.

  When I longed for my destruction, I did not think of this. Did not foresee such

  Madness.

  They have pried the heavy stone lid off the tomb. By force of numbers, they have laid it open to the air. His resting place.

  And they have taken

  Him

  Out.

  Removed him from his tomb. So now I do get to see him again after all. Gaudí.

  See him dragged out and thrown to the floor. Stomped on. Spit on.

  Gaudí.

  I cannot watch, so I look elsewhere. See more of them bursting into his studio above the rectory, eyes and torches blazing.

  They demolish his models and burn his plans. The air swirls with gypsum and plaster dust and the ash of paper and balsa.

  They set fire to the furniture, from the drawing boards where he worked to the bed on which he slept his last night.

  They gut the room where he spent the last months of his life. They wipe away every trace of him they can find.

  It isn't enough to attack his cathedral. It isn't enough to drag his corpse from its tomb. They have to destroy his vision, too—the remains of his legacy.

  As if he were the enemy.

  By the next morning, nothing is left of him. Except me.

  And now, I am truly hollowed out. Everything that could be burned or smashed has been burned and smashed. Everything that could be taken away has been taken.

  Stone walls. That is all I am now. Stone walls praying for stronger mortar shells.

  Or an earthquake.

  CHAPTER 43

  New Justice, New Mexico - Today

  Over the crackle of gunfire and the roar of motorcycles in the Team Room, Dunne heard a rumbling noise.

  Trying not to stick his head up too far into the line of fire, Dunne looked around for the source of the tremor. Through the havoc of battling brides, gunmen, Willows, and Weed, he spotted it—a panel in the stucco wall behind the burning TV set, sliding open.

  Just like in the Weeping Willows TV show. The TV Willows had a secret door in the exact same spot, for emergency use. It had figured in Dunne's tie-in novels more than a few times.

  Now, maybe, it would provide an escape for him in real life.

  As the panel stopped moving, Gowdy's amplified voice cut through the racket. "Leif! Lianna! Head for the TV!"

  Dunne sized up the route to the doorway. It wasn't far, and the fighting was heaviest elsewhere.

  But to reach the doorway, he and Hannahlee would have to get to the upper level. They would be out in the open most of the way...and then they would have to help wounded Leif, who was struggling to get to his knees.

  As an escape route, it made a great shooting gallery. The thought of traversing it filled Dunne with a firestorm of fear.

  His whole body shook as adrenaline sizzled through his veins. His breathing and heart rate shot to hyperspeed levels as he tried to muster up the courage to make the run.

  Hannahlee, however, wasn't going to wait for him to pull himself together. "Come on!" She grabbed his arm and started forward, crouching low.
r />   Dunne resisted. He wanted to escape, but he couldn't get himself to move. The possibility of dying overwhelmed and paralyzed him, though he thought he had it coming after failing his family years ago.

  "I said move it!" Hannahlee pulled harder on Dunne's arm. "Before Gowdy decides to close it!"

  As if in response, Gowdy's voice called out from the burning television. "Hurry, Lianna!"

  Dunne still held back. The bullets whizzing by overhead seemed so close. He couldn't imagine making it to the doorway without getting shot.

  That was when Hannahlee yelled at him. "You will do this!" She shouted right in his face. "On three!"

  Dunne was so used to hearing an even, low-key tone from her, the shouting snapped him to attention.

  "One!" said Hannahlee. "Two!"

  Dunne swallowed hard and gathered his willpower, focusing everything he had on getting himself to move.

  "Three!" said Hannahlee.

  Dunne's mind went blank.

  He let her pull him forward, crouching below the bullets. They zigzagged around furniture and brides, aiming for the upper tier.

  When they got close, Hannahlee boosted herself onto the tier. She waited till Dunne had done the same behind her, and then she started forward on hands and knees.

  Once on the upper level, at his greatest degree of exposure, Dunne scrambled forward on a current of pure fear. The bullets zinging off the nearby TV set provided added inspiration.

  Leif wasn't moving so fast, though. He crawled away from Weed and Mohican on his knees and one hand, favoring the bloody bullet wounds in his right shoulder and side.

  Without hesitation, Hannahlee got up to a crouching position and darted toward Leif. She took his good left arm and pulled it up around her shoulders, helping him to his feet.

  When they reached Dunne, he wrapped an arm around Leif's torso, bearing some of his weight. As bullets whistled past, the three of them made it to the doorway and pushed inside together.