1987 - Swan Song v4

by Robert McCammon

  He knew it was going to be a very good day.

  Soldiers rode on the hoods, trunks and fenders of the vehicles, adding weight to help traction. Behind the advancing waves followed twelve hundred more AOE soldiers. Captain Carr controlled the left flank, and on the far side of Roland’s Jeep Captain Wilson was in command of the right. Both of them, along with the other officers involved in Operation Crucify, had gone over the plans with Roland several times, and Roland had told them exactly what he expected. There was to be no hesitation when the signals were given, and the maneuvers had to be done precisely as Roland had outlined. There was to be no retreat, Roland had told them; the first man who shouted a retreat was to be shot on the field. And as the orders were given and the plan gone over again and again Colonel Macklin had sat silent behind his desk.

  Oh, yes! Roland thought, delirious with a keen mingling of excitement and fear. It’s going to be a good day!

  The vehicles continued to advance, foot by foot, the noise of their engines covered by the shriek of the wind.

  Roland wiped snow from his goggles. Down the first line of trucks and cars, soldiers began to slide off the hoods and fenders and scrabble forward on their hands and knees across the snow. They were members of the Recon Brigade that Roland had organized—small, fast men who could get up close to the Allegiance defensive line without being seen. Roland strained forward in his seat, watching for the Allegiance’s bonfires. Even now, he knew, the Recon Brigade soldiers were taking up positions on the far left and right flanks, and they would be the first to open fire when the signals were given. If the Recon Brigade successfully drew enemy attention to the far left and far right of the defensive line, there might be a hole of confusion right in the center—and it was there that Roland planned to pierce.

  Orange light flickered ahead—firelight, glowing from one of the bonfires on the defensive line. Roland cleared his goggles again, saw the glint of another bonfire to the left and maybe thirty yards away. He picked up the flare gun and loaded one flare into the breech. Then, with the second flare in his gloved left hand, he stood up in the Jeep and waited for the assault wave to close another five yards.

  Now! Roland decided, and he aimed the flare gun just over the windshields of the vehicles on the left flank. He squeezed the trigger, and the gun coughed; the brilliant crimson flare streaked away, and the first signal had been delivered. The vehicles on the left side began to pivot, the entire line veering further left. Roland quickly reloaded and delivered the second signal on the right flank. The vehicles on that side slowed and began to veer to the right.

  Sergeant McCowan, too, cut the wheel to the right side. The tires skidded over the snow for a few seconds before they responded. Roland was counting the time down: eight… seven… six…

  He saw quick white flashes of gunfire from the far left flank, right up on the Allegiance’s defensive line, and he knew the Recon Brigade on that side had gone to work.

  …five… four…

  Gunfire erupted on the far right flank. Roland saw sparks fly as bullets ricocheted off metal.

  …three… two…

  On the left side, the AOE vehicles suddenly turned on their headlights, the blinding shafts of light spearing through the snow and into the eyes of the Allegiance sentries not more than ten yards away. A fraction of a second later, the headlights on the right side came on. Machine-gun bullets, fired in blind panic by a sentry, threw up plumes of snow six feet in front of Roland’s Jeep.

  …one, Roland counted.

  And the massive thing—half machine and half a construction from a medieval nightmare—that had been following thirty feet behind the command Jeep suddenly roared forward, its treads flattening corpses and debris, its steel scoop raised to shield against gunfire. Roland watched the huge war machine as it swept past, gaining speed, heading for the center of the enemy’s defenses. “Go!” Roland shouted. “Go! Go!”

  Mangrim’s brainchild was powered by the third bulldozer, its driver inside an armor-plated cab; but towed by steel cables behind the bulldozer was a wide wooden platform with truck axles and wheels attached. Rising from the platform was an intricate wooden framework, made from sturdy telephone poles bolted and lashed together to support a central staircase that ascended more than seventy feet into the air. The stairs had been taken from houses in the dead residential district around the shopping center. The long staircase curved slightly forward at the pinnacle and ended in a ramp that could be unhinged and dropped outward like the drawbridge of a castle. Barbed wire and scavenged pieces of metal from wrecked cars covered the outside surfaces, with gunports cut here and there on several of the staircase landings. To help support the weight, some of the telephone poles had been driven onto iron spikes bolted to the bulldozer, and they thrust upward to hold the war machine steady.

  Roland knew what it was. He’d seen pictures of them in books.

  Alvin Mangrim had built a siege tower, like medieval armies had used to storm fortified castles.

  And then the bulldozer’s upraised scoop crashed into a mailman’s armored truck that was covered with graffiti like LOVE THE SAVIOR and KILL IN THE NAME OF LOVE and began to shove it backward, out of the defensive line. The mailman’s truck slammed into a car, and the car was crushed between it and an armored Toyota van as the bulldozer pressed forward, its engine screaming and the treads throwing back wakes of snow. The siege tower shivered and creaked like arthritic bones, but it was built strong, and it held.

  Gunfire flared from the left and right flanks of the Allegiance’s defenses, but the soldiers who manned the center were forced back in confusion, some of them being crushed to death at once as the bulldozer came powering through. Through the hole the bulldozer had opened rushed a swarm of shouting AOE infantrymen, dealing out more death from their guns. Bullets whined and sparked off metal, and further down the line a gas tank was hit and exploded, lighting up the battleground with a hellish glare.

  The bulldozer pushed the wreckage aside and kept going. When its steel shovel slammed against the fortress’s wall, the driver cut his engine and locked the brakes. A truck loaded with soldiers and ten drums of gasoline roared through the hole the bulldozer and siege tower had broken open and skidded to a stop alongside. As other infantrymen supplied a covering fire, some of the soldiers began to unload the gasoline drums while the rest, who carried coils of rope, ran to the siege tower and started up the steps. At the top, they unlocked the ramp and shoved it forward; on the underside of the ramp were hundreds of long nails, which dug into the snow on the mall’s roof as the ramp fell into place. Now there was a seven-foot-long wooden bridge connecting the tower and the roof. One by one the soldiers ran across it, and once on the roof they began to drop the ends of their ropes to the men who were rolling the gasoline drums against the wall. The ropes were already looped and knotted, and as one was slipped around the end of a drum another was tied to the other end. The drums of gasoline were hauled up to the roof, one after the other, in quick succession.

  More soldiers streamed up the siege tower, took their places at the gunports and fired down at the mass of Allegiance infantry, who were retreating toward the mall’s entrance. And then the soldiers on the rooftop began to roll the gasoline drums through the central skylight and down into the densely-packed midst of the American Allegiance, many of whom had been sleeping and still didn’t know what was going on. As the drums hit bottom the soldiers took aim and fired with their rifles, puncturing the drums and spewing gasoline into the air. The bullets threw sparks, and with a tremendous whump! the gasoline ignited.

  Standing up in his Jeep, Roland saw flame leap into the night through the shattered skylight. “We’ve got them!” he shouted. “Now we’ve got them!”

  Beneath the skylight, in the shopping mall’s crowded atrium, men, women and children were dancing to Roland Croninger’s tune. More gasoline drums plummeted through the skylight, exploding like napalm bombs in the conflagration. Within two minutes the entire floor of the atrium was aw
ash with blazing gasoline. Hundreds of bodies were charring as hundreds more tried to fight free, trampling their brothers and sisters, clawing for a breath of air in the firestorm.

  Now the rest of the Army of Excellence vehicles were crashing into the Allegiance’s defensive line, and the air burned with bullets. A flaming figure ran past Roland’s Jeep and was broken like a straw doll beneath the wheels of an oncoming truck. The Allegiance soldiers were panicking, not knowing which way to run, and the ones who tried to fight were slaughtered. Smoke was streaming from the mall’s entrance, and still the men on the rooftop continued to drop the gasoline drums. Roland heard the explosions even over the screams and gunfire.

  Army of Excellence soldiers were breaking into the mall. Roland picked up his M-16 and jumped from the Jeep, running through the confusion of bodies toward the entrance. A tracer bullet streaked past his face, and he tripped and fell over mangled bodies, but he got up again and kept going. His gloves had turned crimson, and somebody’s blood covered the front of his coat. He liked the color; it was the color of a soldier.

  Inside the mall he was surrounded by dozens of AOE infantry who were shooting at enemy soldiers in the stores. Gray smoke churned through the air, and people on fire came running down the corridor, but most of them crumpled before they got very far. The floor shook with the blasts as the final gasoline drum blew, and Roland felt a sickening wave of heat from the atrium ahead. He smelled the intoxicating reek of burning flesh, hair and clothes. More explosions jarred the floor, and Roland thought it must be the Allegiance’s ammunition going off. Allegiance soldiers started throwing aside their guns and coming out of the stores, begging for mercy. They received none.

  “You! You! And you!” Roland shouted, pointing out three soldiers. “Follow me!” He raced in the direction of the bookstore.

  The atrium was a solid mass of flame. The heat was so terrible that the hundreds of corpses were beginning to liquefy, oozing and melting together. Searing winds screamed around the walls. Roland’s coat was smoking as he ran past the atrium into the corridor that led to the bookstore. The three soldiers followed right behind.

  But Roland suddenly stopped, his eyes widening with terror.

  One of the Allegiance’s tanks—the Love Bug—was parked in front of the B. Dalton store.

  The soldier behind him said, “Oh Je—”

  The tank’s main cannon fired; there was an ear-cracking boom that blew the rest of the glass from the store’s windows. But the cannon’s elevation was too high, and the shell’s hot wake threw Roland and the other men to the ground as it passed four feet overhead. It pierced the roof at the end of the corridor without exploding and blasted like a thunderclap about fifty feet in the air, killing most of the soldiers who had dropped the gasoline drums.

  Roland and the soldiers opened fire, but their bullets pinged harmlessly off armor. The tank jerked forward, began to grind toward them and then stopped, backed up and started turning to the right. Its turret began to rotate, and then the cannon went off again, this time knocking a truck-sized hole through the brick wall. There was a noise of gears grinding and stripping, and with a backfire that gouted gray smoke the multimillion-dollar machine shuddered and stopped.

  Either the driver doesn’t know what he’s doing, Roland thought, or the tank’s a lemon!

  The hatch opened. A man popped up with his arms raised. “Don’t shoot?” he shouted. “Please don’t—”

  He was interrupted by the force of bullets passing through his face and neck, and he slithered back into the tank.

  Two Allegiance soldiers with rifles appeared at the B. Dalton entrance and started shooting. The AOE infantryman to Roland’s right was killed, but in another few seconds the firefight was over and the two Allegiance men lay riddled. The way into the bookstore was clear.

  Roland dove to the floor as a shot rang out, closely followed by a second. The other two men fired repeatedly into the gloom at the back of the store, but there was no more enemy resistance.

  Roland kicked the storeroom door open and leapt to one side, ready to fill the room with bullets if any more soldiers were in there guarding the Savior.

  But there was no movement, no sound.

  A single oil lantern glowed within the storeroom. His rifle ready, Roland darted in and crouched on the floor.

  The Savior, wearing a lime-green coat and beige slacks with patched knees, was sitting in his chair. His hands gripped the armrests. His head was tilted back, and Roland could see the fillings in his molars.

  Blood was trickling from a bullet hole between his eyes. A second bullet hole was black and scorched against the lime-green coat over his heart. As Roland watched, the Savior’s hands suddenly opened and closed in a convulsion. But he was dead. Roland knew very well what a dead man looked like.

  Something moved just beyond the light.

  Roland aimed his rifle. “Come out. Now. Your hands above your head.”

  There was a long pause, and Roland almost squeezed off a few rounds—but then the figure stepped into the light, hands upraised. In one hand was a .45 automatic.

  It was Brother Timothy, his face ashen. And Roland knew he’d been right; he was sure the Savior wouldn’t let Brother Timothy very far from his side.

  “Drop the gun,” Roland ordered.

  Brother Timothy smiled faintly. He brought his hands down, turned the .45’s barrel toward his own temple and squeezed the trigger.

  “No!” Roland shouted, already moving forward to stop him.

  But the .45 clicked… and clicked… and clicked.

  “I was supposed to kill him,” Brother Timothy said as the .45 continued clicking on an empty clip. “He told me to. He said the heathen had won, and that my last act was to deliver him from the hands of the heathen… and then to deliver myself. That’s what he told me. He showed me where to shoot him… in two places.”

  “Put it down,” Roland said.

  Brother Timothy grinned, and a tear streaked from each eye. “But there were only two bullets in the gun. How was I supposed to deliver myself… if there were only two bullets in the gun?”

  He continued clicking the trigger until Roland took the gun, and then he sobbed and crumpled to his knees.

  The floor shook as the atrium’s roof, weakened by the flames, seven years of neglect and the tons of water from melted snow, collapsed onto the burning corpses. Most of the gunfire had stopped. The. battle was almost over, and Roland had won his prize.

  Seventy-seven

  What the Junkman saw

  One afternoon, as new snow drifted across Mary’s Rest, a panel truck with a sagging suspension entered town from the north. Its backfiring engine immediately made it the center of attention—but new people were coming in almost every day now, some in beat-up old cars and trucks, some in horse-drawn wagons, and most on foot, with their belongings in cardboard boxes or suitcases, so newcomers didn’t draw the curiosity they once had.

  Painted in big red letters on both sides of the truck was THE JUNKMAN. The driver’s name was Vulcevic, and he and his wife, two sons and daughter had been following the pattern of a new society of wanderers—staying in a settlement long enough to find food and water and rest and then realizing there must be a better place somewhere else. Vulcevic was a former bus driver from Milwaukee who’d been laid low with a flu bug the day his city was destroyed, and whether that was good fortune or bad he still hadn’t decided.

  For the past two weeks he’d been hearing rumors from people they’d met on the road: Ahead was a town called Mary’s Rest, and in that town there’s a spring with water as sweet as the Fountain of Youth’s. They’ve got a cornfield there, and apples fall from the sky, and they’ve got a newspaper and they’re building a church.

  And in that town—so the rumors had gone—there’s a girl named Swan who has the power of life.

  Vulcevic and his family had the dark hair, eyes and olive complexions of generations of gypsy blood. His wife was particularly attractive, with a sharp
ly chiseled, proud face, long back hair streaked with gray, and dark brown eyes that seemed to sparkle with light. Less than a week before, the helmet of growths that had covered her face and head had cracked open, and Vulcevic had left a lantern burning for the Virgin Mary in the midst of a snow-shrouded forest.

  As Vulcevic drove deeper into town he did indeed see a waterhole, right out in the middle of the road. A bonfire burned just past it, and further along the road people were reconstructing a clapboard building that might have been a church. Vulcevic knew this was the place, and he did what he and his family had done in every settlement they’d come across: He stopped the truck in the road, and then his two boys opened the truck’s sliding rear panel and started hauling out the boxes full of items for sale or trade, among which were many of their father’s own inventions. Vulcevic’s wife and daughter set up tables to display the goods on, and by that time Vulcevic had an old megaphone to his lips and had started his salesman’s spiel: “Come on, folks, don’t be shy! Step right up and see what the Junkman’s brought you! Got handy appliances, tools and gadgets from all across the country! Got toys for the kiddies, antiques from a vanished age, and my own inventions specially designed to aid and delight in this modern age—and God knows we all need a little aid and delight, don’t we? So step right up, come one, come all!”

  People began to crowd around the tables, gawking at what the Junkman had brought: gaudy women’s clothing, including spangled party dresses and color-splashed bathing suits; high-heeled shoes, penny loafers, saddle oxfords and jogging sneakers; men’s short-sleeved summer shirts by the boxful, most of them still with their department store tags; can openers, frying pans, toasters, blenders, clocks, transistor radios and television sets; lamps, garden hoses, lawn chairs, umbrellas and bird feeders; yo-yos, hula hoops, boxed games like Monopoly and Risk, stuffed teddy bears, little toy cars and trucks, dolls and model airplane kits. Vulcevic’s own inventions included a shaving razor that ran on the power of wound-up rubber bands, eyeglasses with little rubber-band-powered windshield wipers on the lenses, and a small vacuum cleaner run by a rubber-band-operated motor.