The colonel paused, glanced quickly at Roland and then laid the pistol down within reach and took the box. With his nimble left hand, he tore the ribbon off and lifted the lid.
“I made it for you. How do you like it?”
Macklin reached into the box—and brought out a right hand, covered with a black leather glove. Piercing the hand and glove were fifteen or twenty nails, driven through the back of the hand so their sharp points emerged from the palm.
“I carved it,” Mangrim said. “I’m a good carpenter. Did you know that Jesus was a carpenter?”
Colonel Macklin stared in disbelief at the lifelike wooden hand. “Is this supposed to be a joke?”
Mangrim looked wounded. “Man, it took me three days to get that just right! See, it weighs about as much as a real hand does, and it’s balanced so well you’d never know it’s made out of wood. I don’t know what happened to your real hand, but I kinda figured you’d appreciate this one.”
The colonel hesitated; he’d never seen anything quite like this before. The wooden hand, securely tucked into a tight glove, bristled with nails like the hide of a porcupine. “What’s it supposed to be? A paperweight?”
“Naw. You’re supposed to wear it,” Mangrim explained. “On your wrist. Just like a real hand. See, somebody takes a look at that hand with those nails sticking right through it, and they say, ‘Whoa, that motherfucker just don’t even know what pain is!’ You wear that and somebody gives you backtalk, you give them a whack across the face and they won’t have lips anymore.” Mangrim grinned merrily. “I made it just for you.”
“You’re crazy,” Macklin said. “You’re out of your goddamned mind! Why the hell would I want to wear—”
“Colonel?” Roland interrupted. “He may be crazy, but I think he’s got a good idea.”
“What?”
Roland pushed his hood back. His face and head were covered with dirty gauze bandages secured with adhesive strips. Where the windings didn’t exactly meet, there were gray growths as hard as armor plate. The bandages were thickly plastered over his forehead, chin and cheeks and came right up to the edges of his goggles. He pulled loose one of the adhesive strips, unwound about twelve inches of gauze and tore it off. He offered it to Macklin. “Here,” he said. “Put it on your wrist with this.”
Macklin stared at him as if he thought Roland had lost his mind as well, then he took the gauze and the strip of adhesive and worked at taping the counterfeit hand to the stump of his right wrist. He finally got it in place, so the nail-studded palm was turned inward. “It feels funny,” he said. “Feels like it weighs ten pounds.” But other than the weird sensation of suddenly having a new right hand, he realized that it looked very real; to someone who didn’t know the truth, his gloved hand with its palmful of nails might well be attached by flesh to the wrist. He held his arm out and slowly swung it through the air. Of course, the hand’s attachment to the wrist was still fragile; if he was going to wear it, he’d have to bind it tightly to the stump with a thick wrapping of strong adhesive. He liked the look of it, and he suddenly knew why: It was a perfect symbol of discipline and control. If a man could endure such pain—even symbolically—then he had supreme discipline over his own body; he was a man to be feared, a man to be followed.
“You should wear that all the time,” Roland suggested. “Especially when we have to negotiate for supplies. I don’t think the leader of any settlement would hold out very long after he saw that.”
Macklin was spellbound by the sight of his new hand. It would be a devastating psychological weapon, and a damned dangerous close-quarters weapon as well. He’d just have to be real careful when he scratched what was left of his nose.
“I knew you’d like it,” Mangrim said, satisfied by the colonel’s response. “Looks like you were born with it.”
“That still doesn’t excuse you from being in this tent, mister,” Roland told him. “You’re asking to be shot.”
“No, I’m not, Captain. I’m asking to be made a sergeant on the Mechanical Brigade.” His green eyes slid from Roland back to Colonel Macklin. “I’m real good with machines, too. I can fix just about anything. You give me the parts, I can put it together. And I can build things, too. Yes, sir, you make me a Mechanical Brigade sergeant and I’ll show you what I can do for the Army of Excellence.”
Macklin paused, his eye examining Alvin Mangrim’s noseless face. This was the kind of man the AOE needed, Macklin thought; this man had courage, and he wasn’t afraid to take risks to get what he wanted. “I’ll make you a corporal,” he replied. “If you do your work well and show leadership, I’ll make you a sergeant in the Mechanical Brigade one month from today. Do you agree to that?”
The other man shrugged and stood up. “I guess so. Corporal’s better than private, isn’t it? I can tell the privates what to do now, can’t I?”
“And a captain can put your ass before a firing squad.” Roland stepped in front of him. They stared at each other face to face like two hostile animals. A thin smile crept across Alvin Mangrim’s mouth. Roland’s bandaged, grotesque face remained impassive. Finally, he said, “You step in this tent without permission again, and I’ll personally shoot you—or maybe you’d like a guided tour of the interrogation trailer?”
“Some other time. Sir.”
“Report to Sergeant Draeger at the MB tent. Move it!”
Mangrim plucked his knife from the desktop. He walked to the slit he’d cut in the tent, then bent down; but before he crawled through, he looked back at Roland. “Captain?” he said in a soft voice. “I’d be careful walking around in the dark, if I were you. Lots of broken glass out there. You could fall down and maybe cut your head right off. Know what I mean?” Before Roland could respond, he’d crawled through the slit and was gone.
“Bastard!” Roland seethed. “He’ll end up in front of the firing squad!”
Macklin laughed. He enjoyed seeing Roland, who was usually as controlled and emotionless as a machine, caught off balance for once. It made Macklin feel more in control. “He’ll make lieutenant in six months,” Macklin said. “He’s got the kind of imagination the AOE thrives on.” He walked to the desk and stood looking down at the head of Franklin Hayes; with a finger of his left hand, he traced one of the brown keloids that marred the cold blue flesh. “Damned by the mark of Cain,” he said. “The sooner we get rid of that filth, the sooner we can build things back like they were. No. Better than they were.” He reached out with his new hand and brought it down on the map of Nebraska, impaling it with the nails; he dragged it across the desk to him.
“Send recon patrols out to the east and southeast at first light,” he told Roland. “Tell them to search until dark before they start back.”
“How long are we staying here?”
“Until the AOE’s rested and up to full strength. I want all the vehicles serviced and ready to move.” The main body of trucks, cars and trailers—including Macklin’s own Airstream command trailer—was eight miles west of Broken Bow, and it would be moved to connect with the advance war battalion at daylight. Starting with Freddie Kempka’s encampment, Macklin had built a traveling army where everyone had a duty to perform, including footsoldiers, officers, mechanics, cooks, blacksmiths, tailors, two doctors and even camp prostitutes like Sheila Fontana. All of them were linked by Macklin’s leadership, the need for food, water and shelter—and a belief that those survivors who bore the mark of Cain had to be exterminated. It was common knowledge that those with the mark of Cain were infecting the human race with radiation-poisoned genes, and if America was ever going to be strong enough to strike back at the Russians, the mark of Cain had to be erased.
Macklin studied the Nebraska map. His eye moved eastward, along the red line of Highway 2, through Grand Island and Aurora and Lincoln, to the blue line of the Missouri River. From Nebraska City, the AOE could march into either Iowa or Missouri—virgin land, with new settlements and supply centers to take. And then there would be the broad expanse of the Mississippi Riv
er, and the entire eastern part of the country would lie ahead of the AOE, to be taken and cleansed just as they had cleansed large sections of Utah, Colorado, Wyoming and Nebraska. But there was always the next settlement, and the next, and Macklin was restless. He’d heard reports of Troop Hydra, Nolan’s Raiders and the so-called American Allegiance. He looked forward to meeting those “armies.” The AOE would crush them, just as they’d destroyed the People’s Freedom Party during months of warfare in the Rocky Mountains.
“We’re heading east,” he told Roland. “Across the Missouri River.” His eye in the growth-stricken face gleamed with the excitement of the hunt. He lifted his right arm and swung the gloved hand through the air. Then faster. And faster still.
The nails made a high, eerie whistling sound, like the noise of human screams.
Fifty-four
White blossoms
“Hey! Hey, come look at this!”
The barn door flew open, and Sly Moody tumbled in with the morning wind at his heels. Instantly, Killer jumped up from underneath the wagon and began rapid-fire barking.
“Come look at this!” Moody shouted, his face ruddy with excitement, flakes of snow melting in his hair and beard. He had dressed hurriedly, throwing on a brown coat over his long Johns, and he still wore slippers on his feet. “You gotta come look!”
“What the hell are you jabberin’ about, mister?” Rusty had sat up from the pile of hay in which he’d slept, and now he rubbed his bloodshot eyes. He could only make out the faintest light coming through the barn doorway. “Christ A’mighty! It’s not even dawn yet!”
Josh was on his feet, arranging the mask he’d just pulled over his head so he could see through the eyehole. He’d slept next to the wagon, and over the years he’d learned that waking up alert was a good way to stay alive. “What is it?” he asked Moody.
“Out there!” The old man pointed through the doorway with a shaking finger. “You gotta come see! Where’s the girl? Is she awake?” He looked toward the closed folds of the wagon’s tent.
“What’s this all about?” Josh asked. Last night, Sly Moody had told Josh and Rusty to keep Swan in the barn; they’d taken their bowls of stew and beans and eaten in the barn with her, and she’d been nervous and silent as a sphinx. Now it made no sense to Josh that Sly Moody was wanting to see Swan.
“Just get her!” Moody said. “Bring her and come see!” And then he sprinted through the doorway, out into the cold wind with Killer yapping right behind him.
“Who pulled that fella’s string?” Rusty muttered to himself as he shrugged into his coat and pulled his boots on.
“Swan?” Josh called. “Swan, are you a—”
And then the tent opened and Swan stood there, tall and slim and disfigured, her face and head like a gnarled helmet. She wore blue jeans, a heavy yellow sweater and a corduroy coat, and on her feet were hiker’s boots. She held Crybaby in one hand, but today she’d made no effort to hide her face. Feeling her way with the dowsing rod, Swan came down the stepladder and angled her head so she could see Josh through the narrow slit of her vision. Her head was getting heavier, harder to control. Sometimes she was afraid her neck was about to snap, and whatever was beneath the growths burned so savagely that she often couldn’t hold back a scream. Once she’d taken a knife to the ugly, deformed thing that her head had become, and she’d started slashing away in a frenzy. But the growths were too tough to cut, as unyielding as armor plate.
She’d stopped looking into the magic mirror several months before. She just couldn’t stand it anymore, though the figure carrying the glowing circle had seemed to be getting nearer—but then again, the hideous moonlike face with its drifting, monstrous features had looked to be drawing closer as well.
“Come on!” Sly Moody was urging from the front of the house. “Hurry!”
“What does he want us to see?” Swan asked Josh in her mangled voice.
“I don’t know. Why don’t we go find out?”
Rusty put on his cowboy hat and followed Josh and Swan out of the barn. Swan walked slowly, her shoulders stooped by the weight of her head.
And then, abruptly, Josh stopped. “My God,” he said softly, wonderingly.
“You see it?” Sly Moody crowed. “Look at it! Just look!”
Swan angled her head in a different direction so she could see in front of her. She wasn’t sure what she was seeing at first, because of the blowing snow, but her heart had begun pounding as she walked toward Sly Moody. Behind her, Rusty had stopped as well; he couldn’t believe what he was looking at, thought he must surely still be asleep and dreaming. His mouth opened to release a small, awed whisper.
“I told you, didn’t I?” Moody shouted, and he began laughing. Carla stood near him, bundled up in a coat and white woolen cap, her expression stunned. “I told you!” And then Moody started dancing a jig, kicking up whorls of snow as he cavorted amid the stumps where apple trees had been.
The single remaining apple tree was no longer bare. Hundreds of white blossoms had burst open on the scraggly limbs, and as the wind carried them spinning away like tiny ivory umbrellas small, bright green leaves were exposed underneath.
“It’s alive!” Sly Moody shouted joyously, kicking his heels, stumbling and falling and getting up again with snow all over his face. “My tree’s come back to life!”
“Oh,” Swan whispered. Apple blossoms blew past her. She could smell their fragrance in the wind—the sweet perfume of life. She tilted her head forward, looking at the trunk of the apple tree. And there, as if burned into the wood, were the marks of her palm, and the finger-drawn letters S… W… A… N.
A hand touched her shoulder. It was Carla, and the woman stepped back when Swan finally got her deformed face and head turned. Through the narrow field of her vision, Swan saw the horror in Carla’s eyes—but there were tears in them, too, and Carte was trying to speak but was unable to summon the words. Carla’s fingers clutched at Swan’s shoulders, and at last the woman said, “You did this. You put life back into that tree, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know,” Swan said. “I think I just… woke it up.”
“It’s blossomed overnight!” Sly Moody danced around the tree as if it were a maypole festooned with bright streamers. He stopped, reached up and grabbed a lower limb, pulling it down for all to see. “It’s got buds on it already! Lord God, we’re gonna have a bucket full of apples by the first of May! I never seen a tree go so wild before!” He shook the limb and laughed like a child as the white blossoms whirled off. And then his gaze fell upon Swan, and his grin faded. He released the limb and stared at her for a silent moment as the snowflakes and apple blossoms blew between them and the air was filled with the fragrant promise of fruit and cider.
“If I hadn’t seen this with my own eyes,” Sly Moody said, his voice choked with emotion, “I never would’ve believed it. There ain’t no natural way a tree can be bare one day and covered with blossoms the next. Hell, that tree’s got new leaves on it! It’s growing like it used to, back when April was a warm month and you could hear summer knockin’ at the door!” His voice cracked, and he had to wait before he spoke again. “I know that’s your name on that tree. I don’t know how it got there, or why this tree’s blossomed all of a sudden—but if this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up. Smell the air! Just smell it!” And suddenly he walked forward and took Swan’s hand, pressing it against his cheek. He gave a muffled sob and sank down to his knees in the snow. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you, thank you so much.”
Josh recalled the green shoots that had been growing through the dirt in the shape of Swan’s body, back in the basement of PawPaw’s grocery. He remembered what she’d told him about the hurting sound, about the earth being alive and everything alive having its own language and way of understanding. Swan had spoken often of the flowers and plants she’d once grown in trailer lots and behind motel rooms, and both Josh and Rusty knew that she couldn’t stand looking at dead trees where a forest used to stand
. But nothing had prepared them for this. Josh walked to the tree and ran his fingers over the letters of Swan’s name; they were burned into the wood as if by a blowtorch. Whatever power or energy or force Swan had summoned last night, here was the physical evidence of it. “How did you do this?” he asked her, not knowing any other way to put it.
“I just touched it,” she answered. “I felt like it wasn’t dead, and I touched it because I wanted it to keep living.” She was embarrassed that the old man was down on his knees beside her, and she wished he’d get up and stop crying. His wife was looking at Swan with a mixture of revulsion and wonder, as one might regard a toadfrog with golden wings. All this attention was making Swan more nervous than when she’d frightened the old man and woman last night. “Please,” she said, tugging at his coat. “Please get up, mister.”
“It’s a miracle,” Carla murmured, watching the blossoms blow. Nearby, Killer ran through the snow trying to catch them between his teeth. “She’s made a miracle happen!” Two tears crept down her cheeks, freezing like diamonds before they reached her jawline.
Swan was jittery and cold, afraid that her misshapen head might tilt over too far to one side and break her neck. She could endure the stinging wind no longer, and she pulled away from Sly Moody’s grip; she turned and walked toward the barn, probing in the snow before her with Crybaby as the old man and the others watched her go. Killer ran circles around her with an apple blossom in his mouth.
It was Rusty who got his tongue unstuck first. “What’s the nearest town from here?” he asked Sly Moody, who was still on his knees. “We’re heading north.”
The old man blinked heavily and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Richland,” he said. Then he shook his head. “No, no; Richland’s dead. Everybody either left Richland or died from the typhoid fever last year.” He struggled to his feet. “Mary’s Rest,” he said finally. “That would be the next settlement of any size. It’s about sixty miles north of here, across I-44. I’ve never been there, but I hear Mary’s Rest is a real city.”
1987 - Swan Song v4 Page 54
