Thunder Road

by Thorne, Tamara

  “Like what?”

  “You’re not squeamish, I assume.”

  Finally, something intriguing. “Not at all.”

  “You will receive instructions to perform a small task. One of our people will be watching, but you won’t see this person. If you can perform your assignment without anyone catching you, then all your questions will be answered and you will become a member of a very elite group. I think you might enjoy yourself very much. Plus . . .” He paused, giving Justin a twinkly-eyed smile. “You’ll have a high place in heaven.”

  He was tempted to ask what would happen if he told anyone about this so-called elite group or even what would happen if he spoke to Sinclair, because he had a strong feeling the Prophet didn’t know. This was, Justin surmised, Hannibal You-Can-Trust-Me Caine’s secret baby. “Why do you think this is a group I’d want to join?”

  “Think of it as God’s Green Berets.” Caine gave him a shit-eater grin. “That’s something you’d like to be part of, isn’t it, Justin?”

  Deciding that further questions would do more harm than good, Justin returned the grin. “I’m your man, Elder Caine. Just tell me what to do.”

  “We’ll be in touch, Justin.” Caine stood up and put out his hand.

  Justin rose and took it. Caine’s palm, soft and moist and white, belonged under a rock with other squirming, disgusting things, and Justin controlled the urge to wipe his hand when he let go. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you, Elder Caine.”

  “Good luck with your mission, Justin. Not a word of this to anyone, is that understood?”

  “Of course.” If he talked, he figured Caine would spill the beans about the goat, which wouldn’t get him in any serious trouble anyhow. He’d told people he wanted to be a doctor for years, and it was essentially true. He’d specialize in pathology, and had his sights set on being a county coroner, at least for a start.

  “We’ll talk very soon.” Caine crossed to the door and opened it.

  Justin exited. “Thanks again.”

  “You’re welcome, son.”

  On the way out of the building, Justin briefly spotted Sinclair hurrying toward the church, where resident Apostles were gathering for the nightly sermon. He didn’t even consider trying to waylay him now. After he found out what his “mission” was, and knew what Caine’s game really was, then he would figure out how to make nice with Jim-Bob Sinclair.

  He went out to his Mustang and sat for a moment in the darkened car. Opening the glove box, he removed a blue scarf he’d taken from his mother’s dresser drawer and lovingly unfolded it to reveal the rectangles of flesh he’d cut from Old Lady Marquay’s forearms.

  On the freshest, he’d written in indelible ink, “I know who you are,” but now he could see that it, like the first, was rotting, even though he’d done his best to preserve the flesh with table salt. But his methods were crude and the Peeler wouldn’t be inclined to do for Justin what he wished: tutor him in the art of peeling flesh from a living human being. He had intended to leave the skin in an envelope in Pelegrine’s mailbox tonight, but now he wasn’t so sure. He shouldn’t, he knew, have left the rabbit—it was too crude to impress an artist—and to follow it up with flesh that was imperfectly taken, with threads of muscle still attached and tears where he’d tried to shave it away, might have the wrong effect. The Peeler would refuse him as an apprentice.

  He examined each piece of skin, reminded of Boy Scout camp in fifth grade, when he’d been handed two pieces of leather of similar size, and cord to sew them into a wallet. Maybe sometime he’d make himself a wallet of human hide. The thought made him smile as he wrapped the flesh back up and put it away, then pulled through the parking lot, waited for a couple dweebie Apostles to open the gates, and drove out onto Thunder Road.

  He slowed to a crawl just before Old Madelyn Highway met Thunder Road. In the distance he could see Dead Man’s Hill, and beyond that, Spirit Canyon. Briefly he considered driving up to see Alexandra Manderley again. She’d been increasingly on his mind since his earlier visit, maybe because Christie Fox wouldn’t do anything but cry and whine after she found out about her dead boyfriend.

  He quelled the urge, knowing that he should go home and study up on preservation techniques, and decide on a strategy for picking out a fresh victim. He grinned. God knew, he needed the practice.

  28

  James Robert Sinclair

  THE VOICE COMMANDED HIM AND THE LIGHT SHOWED HIM THE way.

  As if in a dream, James Robert Sinclair rose from his bed. Clad only in blue silk undershorts, his long hair flowing loosely, he crossed the darkened room, going unerringly to the door hidden in one of the oak-paneled walls. He entered the four-digit code and the door slid smoothly away to reveal his secret exit from the compound.

  Stepping inside the cool passage, aware of the chill cement under his bare feet, he waited one long moment, then whispered, “I’m here.” Another moment passed, and then the light came, swirling to him from the blackness like clear water down a long, dark drain.

  Sinclair drew a deep breath, one filled with euphoria and fear, as the blue-white brilliance enveloped him. Then, weightless, he flew along the seemingly endless corridor.

  In an eternity, in an instant, he stood bathed in incandescent light so magnificent that tears of joy sprang to his eyes. He fell to his knees, knowing he was in the presence of a God he had dared to doubt.

  “Forgive me, Father,” he whispered.

  The light shone from above and around him, pulsing with life, with love, increasing in its brilliance, blinding him in His glory.

  “Forgive me.”

  Rise, Prophet.

  Slowly, shakily, he stood and clasped his hands, looking up in supplication. “I am no prophet, Father.” Tears of shame streamed down his cheeks. “I am a lie.”

  You do not yet know your true nature.

  “What do you wish of me, Father?”

  The time is at hand.

  “The Horsemen will ride?”

  Prepare now, my son, for you shall lead them.

  A pinpoint of darkness appeared in the distance and grew slowly. As it neared it metamorphosed into a near-human silhouette, a dark angel in the midst of the light, brilliance haloing its form, shooting and sparking like the sun’s corona.

  The angel stepped forward and was terrible to behold, its body gleaming, its huge eyes black and fathomless as it reached out its hand to him.

  You shall be the light.

  “I don’t understand,” he whispered, and reached out to touch the long-fingered hand of the angel.

  Sinclair’s eyelids jerked open on utter darkness. Heart drumming against his chest, stomach twisting under an onslaught of adrenaline, he had no idea where he was, why he was standing, or the origin of the pounding that filled his ears. His knees buckled and he sank to the floor as his dream of God and the dark angel returned in a rush.

  “Prophet Sinclair!” The voice of Tim Dresner, his personal aide, startled him out of his near faint.

  “Yes, Tim, what is it?”

  “The angels!”

  “Angels?”

  “They’re here, as you predicted, Prophet.”

  Stomach knotting, he pushed himself slowly to his feet and groped blindly for a light switch. He wasn’t even sure where he was: All he knew was that he should be in bed, and that he’d been dreaming.

  “They’re at Olive Mesa,” Tim called through the door. “Hurry!”

  “Just a minute.” What’s happening? Mind reeling, Sinclair crossed to his mirrored closet. As he put his hand on the handle to slide the door open, he caught sight of himself.

  “Dear God,” he whispered, seeing the red dust on his knees and feet. “It wasn’t a dream.” Wonderingly he pulled a tiny bit of sagebrush from his beard. “It wasn’t a dream!” he shouted.

  “Prophet! Is something wrong?”

  “No, Tim,” he called, trying to quell the trembling in his voice. “I’ll be right out.”

  Quickly h
e opened the closet, found a pair of trousers and a shirt, and slipped them on. He pushed his sockless feet into a pair of penny loafers, then started for the door, pausing at the dresser mirror to comb his fingers through his windblown hair, snare it with a rubber band, and tuck it beneath his shirt.

  When he opened the door, he saw that Tim Dresner’s young face was flushed with excitement. The youth wore a windbreaker over his pajamas and was barefoot. “The others are waiting. This way.”

  Tim led him up the flight of stairs to the main floor of the church, then up to the second. From there they took a narrow corridor that led behind the gallery and back to a door, normally kept locked but now ajar.

  Entering, they ascended the long spiral staircase into the steeple. The stairwell was a narrow spiral, white walls pressing claustrophobically on each side. The interior walls housed the huge electric cross, which was lowered from the tower into the church during Sunday services. Finally they reached the doughnut-shaped lookout platform in the top. There, looking out of the windows to the north, were Hannibal Caine and Senior Apostle Steve Clayman. The lights of the cross just above reflected on the glass, making it difficult to see out.

  “James,” Hannibal said, glancing back.

  “Turn off the cross,” Sinclair ordered.

  Hannibal, Steve, and Tim all looked at him. “But, James,” Hannibal protested, “you said it was to stay on all the time until Armageddon.”

  Sinclair moved to the window and stared at Olive Mesa and the lights moving above it. “Turn it off,” he ordered. “When the Angel of God departs, you may light it again.”

  “But—”

  Sinclair drew himself to full height and turned to glare at Hannibal. He summoned his pulpit voice, deep and forceful. “We are humbled to God, Apostle Caine. These are miraculous times, and those are miraculous lights. Ours are nothing in comparison. Turn them off.” He turned back to the window as the crucifix lights blinked out.

  Two glowing blue-green orbs cavorted beneath a glowing cloud. I was there, he told himself with wonder and delight. Still, it had been a dreamlike experience, and try as he might, he remembered little. He had heard God’s voice telling him the time was at hand, and something else as well, though he wasn’t sure what. Then a dark angel had appeared and reached out to take his hand, then . . . nothing.

  “What do you make of them, James?” Hannibal Caine asked as he joined him at the window.

  The small lights disappeared up into the clouds and, very slowly, the pulsing blue-green light moved westward within the clouds.

  “The time is at hand,” Sinclair said, and turned to them. “The Horsemen shall ride as I’ve prophesied. Gentlemen, spread the word. Talk to our Apostles, make them ready to go forth and persuade others to listen.” He crossed to the door, then looked back a final time. “I have been to Olive Mesa to commune with God and the angels. God has told me that these are truly the final days of the world.”

  29

  Tom Abernathy

  “TOM! HEY, TOM, GET OUT HERE!”

  Davy Styles’s urgent call carried in through the night air, drowning out Gary Cooper’s voice. Tom reluctantly clicked the VCR remote, stopping High Noon at a quarter of twelve, then stood and crossed to the window.

  “Something wrong?” he called.

  His ranch manager was standing halfway between his cottage and Tom’s house, staring at the northern sky. “Come on out here. You’ve gotta see this.”

  “Little green men?”

  “You got me. Hurry up.”

  Needing no more prodding, Tom let himself out the den’s sliding glass doors and trotted through his patio to join Davy. Styles pointed toward Olive Mesa just as the Apostles’ cross was turned off. “Check it out.”

  “I’ll be damned.” Tom had seen lights in the sky once or twice before, but they couldn’t compare to tonight’s show. Low over Olive Mesa, at the western end of the Madelyn Mountains, two brilliant balls of bluish-green light darted and danced. What he’d seen previously, he could write off as military shenanigans or maybe glow-in-the-dark hot-air balloons, weather balloons, for pity’s sake, but there was nothing earthly about what he saw now. They flew wide apart, then appeared to come together as one object, only to separate again and perform mad geometrical maneuvers like no aircraft he could imagine.

  There were high thin cirrus clouds over the mountains centrally lit by a bluish green glow that Tom wanted to write off to moonlight, but the crescent glowed overhead, slightly to the south.

  “What do you say, boss? Davy asked. “Still think those are jets?”

  Tom glanced at Styles and saw the humor in his eyes. Davy, whose bloodlines ran back to Cherokee royalty, never had much trouble accepting that there were things in the world that had no easy explanation. Tom envied him that, but wasn’t about to say so. “No, not jets. I guess those are spirit lights.”

  “What?”

  “Spirit lights. Last night at the campground, I told the tourists that maybe UFOs are spirit lights, and that the local tribes knew all about them.” The two bright balls swooped into the clouds and blue-green light flashed through the clouds, brilliant, startling. Unearthly. In the stables, several horses neighed nervously. Tom glanced at Davy again. “At least now I’ve got something to spin a story about.”

  “Look!”

  Something darker than the night, something huge, rose out of the clouds, visible only because it blotted out the stars behind it. An instant later, the two orbs reappeared, darting around the monstrous oval.

  “Those researchers must be happy as toads in a fly factory,” Tom said.

  Davy didn’t bother to reply, and Tom stood silently beside him as the satellites began to move east with regal slowness, toward Rattlesnake Canyon. Toward Marie.

  A shiver shook Tom’s entire body. “Marie,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Marie’s in the canyon,” he explained, doing his best to sound a lot calmer than he felt. “Saddle up Belle while I get my gear, Davy. I think I’d like to pay the lady a visit.”

  30

  Marie Lopez

  MARIE LOPEZ AWOKE, SAT UP, AND GRABBED HER RIFLE, ALL within fifteen seconds of the dogs’ barking.

  As she slipped from her bedroll and pulled on her boots, she looked for Dorsey and Bill, but couldn’t spot them. A moment later, having filled her shirt pocket with extra ammo, she rose, cradling the rifle in her arms.

  She’d made camp on a small outcropping above the area where the sheep were grazing. It was one of her favorite places because no one could approach without her knowing about him before he knew about her. The area was protected by a rocky ridge, and she realized that the barking dogs were standing on top of it.

  Quickly she climbed onto the cliff with the dogs, and they silenced instantly. Gazing down into the darkness, she saw the dim white sheep gathered in the meadow fifty feet below. Some of them were looking up, no doubt disturbed by the canine alarm, but Rex, her horse, grazed unconcerned, not far from the sheep.

  “What’s wrong, boys?” she asked, looking at the dogs. Oddly, they weren’t homing in on any particular direction. In fact, they, too, were looking up, and with a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, she also peered skyward.

  The clouds were lit with a blue-green glow that was slowly moving toward her position. Suddenly two bright balls of light swooped out of the cloud to fly so low over the canyon hills that she was sure they’d hit its jagged rim. The darting lights were nothing new to her, though she’d never seen anything quite like these. They halted suddenly right above the sheep. Rex whinnied and trotted out of sight.

  Marie raised her rifle.

  Bill and Dorsey started barking again, their teeth bared, snarling between the barks. Their tails were stiff and low, their ears back. They were putting on a good show, but she could tell they were scared half to death.

  Slowly the two globes descended into the canyon, outlining the sheep with cold bluish light. The animals, almost as one, looked
up. Instead of bolting, as she thought they would, they seemed mesmerized by the light.

  A straight blue beam suddenly shot from one of the orbs into the flock of sheep. The animals remained statue-still. Marie raised the rifle, aiming at the ball of light, but didn’t shoot, afraid a stray bullet might catch a sheep.

  The dogs barked hysterically as one sheep, bathed in blue light, slowly began to rise above the others. It wasn’t standing on its hind legs, but appeared to be standing normally on all fours. Then its hooves cleared the flock and there was no doubt about it: The sheep was floating upwards in the beam of light.

  Wild Bill howled, then Dorsey leapt off the overhang and started down the embankment. An instant later, Bill followed, barking his brains out.

  The sheep rose higher. Not knowing what else to do, Marie fired off a shot. It disappeared into the globe without another sound.

  As the dogs reached the meadow, she fired again, but with no effect.

  The dogs reached the flock and disappeared into it. “Dorsey, Bill, turn!” Marie cried, afraid the dogs would get caught in the light ray too. “Turn, boys!”

  The collies reappeared at the edges of the small flock, barking, racing back and forth, nipping at the sheep, trying to move the animals. The sheep that was caught in the beam was more than halfway to the orb now, and Marie shouldered her rifle and started down the embankment, whistling for Rex as she neared the meadow.

  Below, the sheep wouldn’t respond to the dogs’ commands.

  Reaching the valley, she heard the black gelding before she saw him. An instant later he appeared, standing still while she grabbed his mane and hoisted herself onto his bare back.

  The captured sheep disappeared into the ball of light. Marie dug her knees into Rex’s sides, using his mane as reins. “Gee-up, Rex!” She pointed him toward the flock and slapped his rear. The horse neighed, then took off at breakneck speed just as the blue ray cast into the flock again.

  In a moment, they reached the flock. Rex halted abruptly, and Marie reloaded the rifle and fired into the light beam, fired again, reloaded, and repeated the process. Despite this, another sheep began to rise above the herd.