“What are we looking at?” Annabelle said, pointing at them. “Are those some kind of vehicles?”
And when she said it, the shapes suddenly made sense to him, gray armored shells, some with massive tank treads, all moving together in careful formation past the Council House, bright lights searching the shadows. He counted two dozen, some as small as Fayette’s cars, some approaching the size of Gooty’s truck.
“Is that…?” Telly said, leaving the question hanging.
And then a spotlight on one of the smaller vehicles swept over the larger vehicle in front of it, and a flag flying from a tall antenna became clear—a four-pointed silver star on a black background. Other shapes became clear in the backwash of the spotlights, black bodies, glinting here and there, moving behind the vehicles for yards and yards all the way back to the southern gate and beyond. Uniformed men, marching in formation, hundreds of them. As David stared, slack-jawed and numb, one of the larger vehicles fired something from a mounted turret. A puff of smoke, a distant crackle, and a missile arced through the air, landing in the center of town with a boom.
“I think we just figured out who’s firing on us,” Telly said. He took his hat off again and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“I can’t…I can’t…” Annabelle’s voice shook. “I can’t be here! We have to go. We have to get away!”
She turned and pushed past Telly. Cakey grabbed her by the arm to restrain her.
“Calm down, Belle,” he said. “We’re all going together. They’re here for Fayette, not us.”
“We’re headed in the right direction, folks,” Telly said. “Let’s keep moving. All the way to the east gate. Don’t even look back.”
Telly turned, pointed the way and took off running up the slope, and the others follows. Behind them, the shelling continued, missiles raining down on the city, and the alarm, the new alarm, blared. Dickson Street crossed a broad intersection where an old streetlight lay across the road like some dead animal. Beyond it, the slope became steeper, leaving the shops behind and passing a row of massive trees and crumbling houses. They saw a couple of stragglers, smallish rubes in crude sack-shirts, loitering in a parking lot, peeking into cars. The rubes looked up as they passed and started to move in their direction, but Cakey drew his rifle and fired a shot in the air. They squealed and dashed out of sight.
Annabelle took the lead, pushing past Karl and Cakey, sprinting until she ran out of breath, then keeping up a pace that the others found hard to match. The road ahead curved upward to the very peak of a hill, and she charged right up the steepest part without slowing down.
“Belle, don’t get…too far ahead,” Telly shouted, in between great, gulping breaths.
She did not stop until she reached the top of the hill, then she caught herself against the trunk of a tree, wheezing and weeping loudly. When the others caught up to her, she wiped furiously at her eyes and pushed away from the tree.
“Calm down, lady,” Cakey said. “We’ll be fine. We're on our way out of here.”
She ignored him, looking left and right. Dickson Street came to an end here, and another street—the sign lay on the road, but the letters had worn away to nothing—curved off to the right, heading up and over the crown of another smaller hill. David dared a glance over his shoulder, down into the wreckage of the city, and saw the advancing army. They were well past the Council House, heading toward the nightclub, and the shelling continued at regular intervals. Far to the north, movement was visible around a nest of larger buildings, torches zigzagging back and forth.
“Rube versus rube versus rube,” David said, thinking out loud.
“The rube war to end all rube wars,” Cakey said. “Now, this is a sight I never thought I’d see, Disturby.”
“Keep moving, you two,” Telly said from behind them.
Annabelle had already resumed running, heading over the hill and down the other side. Karl, baring his teeth with the effort of carrying Gooty, hurried after her.
“She knows them,” Cakey said, leaning in close to whisper in David’s ear.
“She…what?”
Cakey pointed at the army. “Silver and black,” he said. “The army of Tockland. She knows them. Those are her people.”
David felt a stab of icy fear pierce his heart. “Tockland…her people? You don’t mean that.”
“Yep, that’s where she came from,” Cakey said. “And why she never wanted to travel this way in the first place. When we finally get out of here, expect rage, womanly rage, my friend. Telly will never live it down.”
He clapped David on the back and headed off to catch up to the others. David gazed at that ominous flag, the silver star on black, and saw it now in a new light. Annabelle’s people. And what kind of terrible life had she run away from? What would happen to her if they caught her and dragged her back there? David felt deep fear for her and a surge of such fury, such desire to protect her, that he was breathless. He turned to the others and saw that they had reached the top of the hill and were headed down the other side. He went after them. Tockland would not have her. He held up the knife, let the distant firelight catch the blade edge and took a swing, cutting down invisible foes. No, they would not have her.
At the top of the hill, he had a clear view of the eastern edge of the city. The hill dropped back down into flat land. Most of Fayette in that direction was overgrown, lit by sporadic streetlights, but here and there rooftops poked up from the sea of green. This part of the city remained relatively unscathed from the invasion of sick. Only a couple of fires burned. Another quarter of a mile or so and the city wall rose up above the trees, tracing a crooked course along the eastern border of Fayette, lit by the first hint of pink morning light. And there stood the gate right in the middle, a guard tower rising above it.
“A hop, skip and a jump, you clowns,” Telly said, gesturing toward the distant wall. “And then we’re on to greener pastures. Mark my words!”
Annabelle was already a good thirty yards down the hill, running full out, the knapsack flopping about in her grip. A small jar of makeup worked its way out of the top and fell to the street, shattering and gushing white greasepaint like bleached blood. She didn’t seem to notice. At the bottom of the hill, the road bent back to the left, and then it was a straight shot down a tree-lined path to the gate. As the missiles fell behind them, and the alarm blared, as the morning light crept over the wall, they ran. David sprinted to keep pace with the others, sprinted until the muscles in his legs burned, and his lungs ached. But at last they drew near the gate.
Annabelle finally stumbled to a stop and collapsed to her knees, flushed and sweating, gasping for air. The others came up beside her. Karl knelt down and set Gooty on a soft patch of grass beside the road. There was an open space in front of the gate of hard-packed dirt, and a small guard house, currently unoccupied, sat to one side.
“So, what do you think, folks?” Telly said, leaning again a tree and fanning his face with his hat. “Do we find a way to open the gate, or do we attempt to climb over it?”
“Gooty’s gotta wake up,” Karl said. “'Cause I’m not lugging him over the top.”
He patted Gooty on the cheek. Gooty grunted, his eyes fluttered, and he muttered something that might have been words but were unintelligible.
“Come on, pal,” Karl said. “Get up.”
He tried to get Gooty to sit up, tugging at his hand, but Gooty’s head tipped to one side, and he moaned softly. Annabelle, still struggling to catch her breath, gave Karl a look of disapproval but said nothing. Cakey paced in front of the group, his orange hair wilted with sweat.
“Okay, folks, enough rest,” Telly said, jamming his hat on his head. “Let’s find a way to get that gate open.”
He turned toward the massive gate, gestured for the others to get up and took a step in that direction. David wiped his face with his left sleeve—he had already ruined the right sleeve—and a delightful mélange of makeup, dried blood and sweat sloughed off. Karl picked
himself up, grunted unhappily, and scooped up Gooty, flopping him over his shoulder.
Less than fifty yards from the gate. It stood in silhouette against the growing band of morning light. The night was ending, and David felt like it might have been the single longest night of his life, the best, perhaps, and then most certainly the worst.
“From now on, we play the east coast,” Telly said. “And only the east coast.”
Karl chuckled, but it was half-hearted.
And then the early morning sky broke, smoke and fire burst through the cracks on either side of the gate, and the metal, massive as it was, buckled. With a deafening boom, the eastern gate fell into the city. The force of the explosion, coupled with the great rush of wind as the gate slammed into the dirt, knocked David on his back. He saw Telly fly up into the air, feet kicking up over his head.
David picked himself up, feeling heat on his face, and cast about for his friends. Everyone had fallen. Karl had dropped Gooty, who flopped about like a doll and wound up in a ditch beside the road.
“More shelling?” Annabelle said, standing up and brushing the dust off her backside.
“There’s your answer,” Cakey said and pointed.
Tendrils of smoke rose from the gaping hole where the gate had been. The large hinges hung down like broken fingers from the post. And the first of the vehicles appeared, gray and black with massive tires and a mounted gun on top. It rolled over the fallen gate and into the city. And there, unfurling from a radio antenna as an early morning breeze caught it, the silver star on black.
Annabelle saw it and screamed. She turned to flee, but Cakey grabbed her by the shirt and held her back. When she rounded on him, slapping and punching, he pulled her into an embrace, pinning her arms against her body. Telly rose, limping slightly, clutching his crumpled hat in his hands.
“Drop your weapons, gentlemen,” he said. “Nobody run.”
“Drop our weapons?” Karl asked. “Did you really just say that?”
The mounted gun swiveled in their direction, and the truck turned toward them. Through the mirrored windshield, David saw only a hint of faces. A little cone-shaped speaker on the front corner of the hood gave a high-pitched bark, and then a voice, heavily modulated, spoke.
“Do not move, or you will be shot,” it said, followed by another high-pitched bark.
Cakey, still clutching a frantic Annabelle, looked at Telly, his big blue eyebrow raised questioningly. “Blaze of glory?” he said.
“It’s not a blaze of glory to be shot down in the road like rabid dogs,” Telly said. “Let the rifles slip off your shoulders. Don’t reach for them. No sudden movements.”
David’s heart leapt into his throat. He wanted to run, with every fiber of his being, he wanted to run, but that singular black eye gazing at him from atop the truck kept him in place.
“Telly, is your final act as boss of this organization gonna be telling us to surrender to Tockland?” Karl said.
“Not final act,” Telly said. He dropped his pistol in the dirt and kicked it away. “Look, they’re here for Fayette, not us. We’re just performers. There’s a chance they’ll let us go. Drop your rifles, and, Belle, please, please, stop squirming like that.”
“I’m kinda leaning toward the blaze of glory,” Cakey said, struggling to hold onto Annabelle.
“I won’t go,” she shouted. “I won’t go!”
The massive truck rolled to a stop a few yards from them. A side door opened, and black-uniformed men stepped out, bearing heavy rifles. No wooden stocks, these rifles were sleek plastic, black like the uniform—like the flag of Tockland—with long barrels and curved magazines. David had never seen guns like these. The speaker barked again, and the voice spoke.
“Drop your weapons and put your hands in the air.”
For a second, none of them moved. The black-uniformed guards closed in, two, then four, then six of them. Annabelle ceased squirming and slumped in Cakey’s grasp. Then Telly set his hat on his head and strode forward, raising his hands.
“No need to shoot, good people,” he said. “We surrender.”
“Oh, you tiny bastard,” Karl muttered.
Cakey looked at Karl. Then he looked back at David. “Call it, lads. Blaze of glory or surrender. Call it quick.”
Karl grunted. “I’m undecided,” he said, after a moment.
David said nothing. He was frozen in place, his whole body quaking with each heartbeat. More troops appeared, slipping through the open gateway and around the truck. Ten of them, twelve, twenty. They fanned out, forming a semi-circle, every weapon pointed, ready to fire.
“Undecided’s the same as surrender,” Cakey said. “Make a decision.”
“I didn’t say surrender,” Karl said. “I ain’t decided yet.”
It was a ludicrous conversation considering the amount of firepower aimed at them.
“Drop your weapons and put your hands in the air, or you will be shot,” the voice said again. “We will not warn you again.”
Cakey sighed. “Very well,” he said, but quietly enough that the Tocklanders would not hear him. “No blaze of glory, not here. We’ll fight them from the inside. Is that the plan, Karl, old friend?”
“I suppose it is,” Karl said, but he sounded utterly weary, a defeated man. He let his right arm slump, and the rifle slipped off. He caught the strap as it fell, then set it down on the ground gently. Then he raised his arms over his head.
“I won’t go,” Annabelle hissed, shaking her head, tears spilling down her face.
“Lady, I’m not gonna let you run off and get shot,” Cakey said. “There’s a slight chance Telly is right. We might be able to talk our way out of this.”
“Telly’s never right,” she said. “Never. I won’t go.”
Cakey, still clutching her arm with one hand, relaxed the other and let his rifle slip off. He didn’t bother to soften the fall, and it hit the ground with a clatter. Then Cakey raised one hand over his head—a half-surrender was the most they were getting out of him. David watched all of this with a strange feeling of detachment, as if he were hovering over the scene, a ghost watching the world end, but at some point he realized he had raised his own hands as well.
The initial half dozen soldiers approached. One of them shouldered his rifle and strode over to Telly. A severe-looking man, pale and unhappy face, dead eyes. The uniform was crisp, black with polished silver buttons and the four-pointed star upon the breast. He had a small pack attached to his belt. He reached in and pulled out what appeared to be a long plastic strip.
“Don’t move,” he told Telly. “Keep your hands in the air.”
“Of course, good sir,” Telly said. “I’m sure we can straighten this all out in short order. You see, we are traveling performers—“
“And shut your mouth,” the soldier added.
Telly smiled an uncomfortable smile and shut his mouth. The solder placed the plastic strap around his wrists, looped it, and pulled it taught, cuffing Telly’s hands together. A second soldier walked around behind Telly, prodded him with the barrel of his rifle and led him toward the back of the truck.
Cakey was next. The soldier beckoned him with a curt flip of his hand. Cakey frowned and gave Karl one last look.
“Please, don’t,” Annabelle said, grabbing onto the collar of his suit. “Please, I can’t go back there.”
“Well, we can’t let poor Telly get dragged off to Tockland all alone, now, can we?” Cakey said. “Look, we’ll have our blaze of glory, I promise, just not here, not now.”
“I can’t…”
He cupped her chin with his hand. “We’re all in this together, right? To the bitter end. Isn’t that how it was always meant to be?”
She closed her eyes, and her lip trembled. But when Cakey released his hold on her, she did not run. He stepped forward and raised both of his hands.
“Alrighty, gentlemen,” he said. “I’m all set. Where’s my limo?”
“What is that all over your face?” t
he soldier asked, flicking a finger at him.
“That would be my skin,” Cakey said.
“The colors. What are all the colors?”
“I fell in a paint bucket on my way to church,” Cakey said.
The soldier received this with no amusement whatsoever. He frowned and proceeded to cuff Cakey with the very same kind of plastic strip he had used on Telly. Cakey was led away at gun point. Annabelle was next, wringing her hands, eyes shut as she wept silently. She did not raise her hands as they approached her, neither did she fight them when they slipped on the cuffs and led her away.
When they came for Karl, he gestured with his head toward the ditch. “We got an injured friend over there. Can we bring him along?”
“We’ll deal with him,” the soldier said, cuffing Karl.
“He’s alive, that’s the thing,” Karl said, as they led him off. “Despite appearances. Might need a little medical attention, is all.”
The soldier ignored him and approached David. David’s breath came shallow and ragged. He thought he might very well pass out. When he presented his hands to the soldier, they shook badly, up and down, as if he were waving in some strange way at those come to bind him.
“And you,” he said. “What is that on your face?”
David tried to answer, but only a long string of gibberish came out of his mouth.
“I see,” the soldier said. He turned to one of his fellows and added, “I believe this one is brain sick.”
“Shall we shoot him and leave him here?”
The soldier considered this, then shook his head. “No, take him along with the others. It could be an act.”
David felt the little plastic strip bite down on his wrist, pulled tight to the point of pain. Then he felt the barrel of a rifle, cold and small against his back, and he walked toward the truck. It was an endless walk, every step plodding, and his breathing had become an irregular hiss from a constricted throat. He couldn’t seem to get any air into his lungs. Darkness edged into the corners of his vision, and his legs buckled. As he fell into the black abyss, he couldn’t tell if he was fainting or if he’d been shot. And which would be worse? He did not know.
Shadows of Tockland Page 26
