Thunder Road

by Thorne, Tamara

  “Hold your fire!” yelled Blandings. “I want her alive!”

  “Shit!” At least he didn’t know she was armed. But he will soon! Marie grabbed one of the grenades from her belt and pulled the pin. “One, two, three,” she whispered, then rose up and lobbed it straight into a group of Apostles huddled at the foot of the rocks.

  She didn’t watch the explosion, but ducked and grabbed a second pineapple, yanked the pin with her teeth, and stood, this time throwing it into another group, well away from the van. She didn’t want to hurt Janet.

  As the second grenade exploded, she lowered herself behind the rocks, but not before she caught sight of the human wreckage the first grenade had created. “God forgive me,” she whispered.

  “Retreat!” Blandings yelled. Marie looked out, saw him and a few others climbing into the van. The engine choked, then caught, carrying the remaining Apostles toward the compound at breakneck speed. They were scared shitless. Her smile faded as she saw the dead and heard the moaning of the wounded. The Apostles would come back for them soon, and they’d be armed to the teeth.

  “Come on, Evie,” Marie said, turning. The girl was all over her and Marie held her, stroking her hair. “We have to go, Evie. Can you climb down?”

  “The ghost men got my mama! We have to get her back!”

  “We will, Evie. We’ll tell your daddy.”

  As she spoke, Marie watched the van grow smaller and smaller until it was just a speck pulling up at the compound gates.

  “Okay, Eve, we’ll go this way.” She pointed to the western side of the rocks, where there were no bodies. “My house isn’t far. We’ll get Rex and ride to town.”

  The rocks rumbled beneath them as an earthquake began to roll. Marie clung on to Eve, glad they hadn’t started down already. Unlike the earlier jolt, this sounded like distant thunder and felt like she was on a boat riding gentle waves. She counted to ten before it stopped, then counted another sixty seconds of stillness. “Okay, Evie, let’s go.”

  116

  James Robert Sinclair

  JAMES ROBERT SINCLAIR SAT ON HIS BED, LEGS CROSSED, HANDS clasped. He had spent the day in prayer and meditation, preparing himself for the trial to come.

  In those hours he had begun to understand what was happening in a way that had eluded him until now, and the revelation awed and frightened him at first. Now he still felt the awe, but with acceptance came tranquillity, and a sense of sadness, intermingled with joy.

  He felt the earth roll gently beneath him, and he knew this was a sign from God, a sign of something greater on its way.

  117

  Alexandra Manderley

  MADLAND WAS OPEN AND A FEW TOURISTS—A VERY FEW—strolled the forlorn, muddy streets as Alex rode Tess toward the Sorcerer’s Apprentice. Hopefully the phones were back in order now, but if they weren’t and Carlo hadn’t already driven her Bronco down to Tom’s, she’d ask him to go into town and alert the police about Dole’s accident while she took the horse back to the ranch.

  As she approached Carlo’s, she wasn’t surprised that the Bronco was gone, because if he was there, he’d have moved it around to the parking lot. Dismounting, she led Tess between Carlo’s building and the next, tethered her to the back-stairs railing, then walked to the access road and peered at the parking lot. Only a dozen vehicles were parked there, none of them a red Bronco.

  She returned to the mare, then heard a creaking sound. The back door wasn’t latched. It creaked again, touched by the damp breeze. Curious, she walked up the stairs and pushed the door open a few inches.

  “Carlo?” she called. “It’s Alex. Are you here?”

  There was no reply. A knot of alarm formed in the pit of her stomach. Carlo, she already knew, was very exacting in his habits. He’d never forget to lock a door. Unless something’s happened.

  “Carlo?” She stepped inside the little back room containing his washer and dryer and turned on the light. Everything. looked right, except that the door leading into the reading room hung ajar. As she approached it, she detected a faint but familiar odor beneath the fragrances of incense and perfumed oils. She sniffed again and the hairs on her arms and neck prickled up.

  Nervously she pushed the door open a little more and reached around the comer, feeling for the light switch. There were two, and she tried the first. The ceiling fan whirred to life, its motor humming loudly in the confines of the small room. She flicked the second and the light came on. Swallowing, she stepped inside.

  Drops of moisture hit her face and she looked up.

  At first she didn’t comprehend what she saw. She stared at the thick golden ropes attached to the fan blades, then at the hunk of red—meat?—at the lower end. “What the—?” It can’t be. Then a droplet splashed her hand and she stared at it in horror—blood! The thing rotating lazily on the fan was a scalp attached to long blond hair.

  Faint, Alex staggered between the green curtains and sat down on the bottom step of the staircase to the apartment. “Carlo,” she whispered. “Dear God, Carlo.”

  Emotions rushed through her, fear for Carlo, fear of Carlo, a flurry of feelings that gave her no answers. Finally she stood and, willing herself to stop trembling, peered around the shop, saw nothing unusual. She hesitated, wondering whether or not she should go upstairs. What if Justin’s up there? What if Carlo’s up there? What if he’s hurt? What if he’s not?

  Refusing the thought, she started up the shadowy stairwell and arrived at the top to find the door to his apartment wide open. “Carlo?” she called. He’s not here, Alex. The Bronco’s gone, remember? But maybe someone else took it, hurt him and stole it. Wasn’t that possible? Anything’s possible.

  She shivered and stepped inside.

  Without the masking fragrance of incense and oil, the metallic smell of blood was much stronger here. Nothing was out of place in the living room, or so she thought until she looked down and saw bloody footprints on the pale carpet. Stifling a gasp, she forced herself to examine them. They probably belonged to a man, but that’s all she could tell. If you’re smart, you’ll get out of here now.

  But she couldn’t turn back now—she’d never forgive her own cowardice. Steeling herself, she entered the bedroom. The bedclothes had been torn back—she and Carlo had made the bed together this morning. Also, the bedroom window was wide open, letting cold damp wind blow into the room. She crossed to it, looked down, and saw the ladder below. She felt unbridled relief to know absolutely that someone had broken in. Justin! It has to be!

  She tiptoed into the bathroom, found reddish soap scum ringing the sink and streaks of blood on the sky blue towels.

  Only the kitchen remained now. Hesitantly she walked back through the living room, into the dining room, then peered through the wide kitchen entrance.

  The counter, its white tiles spotless this morning, was covered with raw meat. In horror Alex stared at it from the edge of the dining room, her mind slowly deciphering what she saw: a body, covered in blood. The skin, what she could see of it, was piled in the sink.

  Nausea hit abruptly, starting in the pit of her stomach and moving upwards so quickly that she barely made it to the bathroom. After, hugging the toilet bowl, trying to catch her breath, she had only two thoughts: Either Justin Martin was a cold-blooded psychopath—or Carlo Pelegrine was. She hadn’t doubted Carlo when he’d told her Justin had delivered the square of skin last night. But could she be wrong? she wondered. Justin gave her the creeps, while Carlo excited her. Seduced by the man’s charm, could she have been fooled because she disliked one man and was falling in love with the other?

  He’d been so understanding, so gentle and loving, and so obviously regretful for what had happened in his past. But sociopaths are consummate actors. They’re neighbors, husbands, boyfriends, and those who love them are the last to suspect.

  Tears threatened, and she refused them fiercely. Alex Manderley never gave in to weakness. Never. She rose, flushed the toilet, then turned on the bathtub faucet and kneeled,
rinsing her mouth, then letting the water run over her face and arms, washing the blood droplets away. She turned the faucet off, knowing she was fouling the crime scene, not caring.

  She had to find Carlo, had to talk to him. She had to find out the truth, whatever it was, and then, if he convinced her of his innocence, she would help him take care of Justin, as she had promised. If Justin was responsible for the horror in the kitchen, she would do whatever it took to stop him. And if Carlo is?

  Eyes forward, she walked out of the apartment, down the stairs, through the reading room, and out the back door.

  The horse whinnied as she approached. Maybe she smells the blood. “It’s okay, Tess,” she said, petting her muzzle, then untethering her. “It’s okay, girl.”

  The mare stamped its foot, head nodding back, a flash of white showing in her eye. Alex took the rein firmly, murmuring her name. Behind her, she heard the sound of a foot scuffing wet cement, but before she could turn, a white cloth reeking of chloroform was clamped over her nose and mouth. The world began to fade, and as it did, strange hands caught her beneath her arms and she heard Tess galloping away.

  118

  Tom Abernathy

  TOM ABERNATHY WALKED OUT OF DOC HARTMAN’S SMALL CLINIC feeling more than a little relief. Eric Watson was running a fever, and the leg had a nasty break, but Hartman had assured him the young man would be fine.

  Moss Baskerville drove up, and he strolled over to the cruiser. “Eric’s okay,” he told the chief. “Any word on Marie?”

  Moss shook his head. “No, not yet. Henry brought the boy’s body in.” He paused. “Cassie and Eve are missing, Tom.”

  “They’re not at the ranch?”

  “House was broken into.” Baskerville’s eyes were dark and indecipherable. “Goddamned religious nuts.” He paused, then asked gruffly, “Eric tell you anything?”

  “No. He passed out a few minutes after I found him. The doc thinks he’ll come around before too long, though. You get that search warrant?”

  “No. Shirley never showed up. I just went by her place, and she and Larry have their hands full sandbagging. They live up by Rhyolite Wash, and their whole street’s threatened.”

  “You want to go to the compound and try to get in again?” Tom asked.

  “You bet your ass I do.” His face reddened with barely contained fury. “Goddamned Apostles and their goddamned Apocalypse. First the graffiti, now the people.” He took a deep breath. “Tom, we’re not going to get inside before they open up to the public for their big morning service, and I’m afraid that by then, it’ll be too late. We’ve got to get that warrant, and hope it gets us inside today. If it doesn’t, well then, we’ll explore other options. You willing to make the drive to Barstow?”

  It was something to do to keep his mind off Marie. “Be glad to.”

  119

  Hannibal Caine

  “VERY GOOD, JUSTIN,” HANNIBAL CAINE SAID, LOOKING AT THE unconscious body of Alexandra Manderley on a rear church pew. The boy had performed beyond his expectations and looked inordinately pleased with himself.

  “I get her tomorrow; that’s the deal.”

  “Correct.”

  “She’s all mine,” he persisted.

  “Yes. If you’re worried, why don’t you spend the night here? Attend our morning services.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess. But I’ve gotta go home first.” He stared at Caine with those disturbing blue eyes. “Clear it with my parents, you know?”

  Caine nodded, smiling cherubically. “Of course, of course. I’ll leave word with the guards that you may come and go as you please.” He didn’t want the young killer to leave, but he didn’t want to hold him against his will, and thought it was a sure bet Justin would be back, especially if he gave him the freedom he demanded.

  “What are you going to do with her now?”

  “We’ll lock her up. Don’t worry, she’s not going anywhere.”

  The boy grinned, then turned on his heel and trotted out of the church.

  Troubled, Caine watched him for a moment, then turned to two hulking Apostles he’d appointed as his personal guards. “Put her in the room with the tattooed whore. Tell the guards to check on them every hour. And do it in pairs,” he added, remembering how easily the shepherdess had escaped. “Make sure the door is secure.”

  He watched the men lift the woman off the wooden bench and position her between them, her arms over their shoulders. “Take the back stairs and don’t draw attention to yourselves.”

  He walked to the front of the church and stood in the side doorway, staring at the Fellowship House, where tonight’s dinner would take place. About half the Apostles were still out on their day’s missionary work, and the compound seemed nearly deserted at the moment. Hannibal was taking extra precautions because few of these people were aware of the activities of the Special Projects Committee. Tomorrow, the women on the crosses would be an awe-inspiring, mystical sight for them, but today, the more Apostles who witnessed preparations, the more who would have to be marked for death. He didn’t care to diminish his flock any more than necessary.

  He was about to go out the door and return to his office when he heard Eldo Blandings call his name.

  “Yes, Eldo?”

  Half a dozen blood-stained, muddy Apostles stood behind the wild-eyed old man, two of them dragging a forlorn-looking woman between them.

  “We’ve had casualties, Hannibal. We have to go back for the wounded with reinforcements.”

  “Back where?”

  “Dead Man’s Hill.” Blandings paused. “I have disturbing news, Hannibal. About the shepherdess. Somehow she infiltrated our group, then escaped, heavily armed, up Dead Man’s Hill, and we think the child is with her. She killed a dozen of us, at least.”

  “That was very incompetent of you, Elder Blandings,” Caine said, his voice soft and controlled. “Get back out there immediately and recapture them both. Is that clear?”

  “That was my intention.”

  “Who’s this?” Hannibal stared at the woman as he walked forward.

  “She’s the replacement you requested, Hannibal.”

  “She’s in worse shape than the tattooed whore. I told you to be careful.” He shook his head. “I’ll be surprised if this one lasts the night. Shoddy work, Eldo. You know better.”

  Blandings’s face blazed with humiliation, his eyes with icy anger. “We’ll procure another.”

  “No. Confine yourself to cleaning up your messes. Young Justin has brought us a fine specimen. I’m very impressed with his work,” he added, enjoying twisting the knife into Eldo’s back.

  “Put her with the others,” he told the guards who had just returned from taking Justin’s trophy away. He turned back to Eldo. “Don’t let me down again, Elder Blandings. More importantly, don’t let the Prophet down.”

  PART FOUR

  Apocalypse

  . . . Then they shall seek a vision of the prophet . . .

  —Ezekiel 7:26

  And I will show wonders in the heavens and in the earth.... The sun shall be turned into darkness, and the moon into blood . . .

  —Joel 2:30, 31

  . . . I beheld Satan as lightning fall from heaven.

  —Luke 10:18

  Perhaps the truths about alien contact, like those of the metaphysical kind, are the truths of masks.

  —Jacques Vallee, Revelations

  120

  Tom Abernathy

  BACK AT THE RANCH, TOM HADN’T EVEN GONE IN THE HOUSE. He’d put Belle’s reins in Davy’s hands, then climbed in his blue Ford pickup and headed down to Interstate 15, intent on getting to Barstow and returning with the warrant as soon as possible.

  Though Tom doubted it would get them inside the compound, it was worth a try. He also had every intention of asking the Barstow police if they could spare a few hands; he doubted that Moss would mind, but since cops could be awfully territorial, he had decided not to mention it beforehand.

  Raggedy swatches of
blue had appeared to the south, and as the lowering sun came out from behind a cloud, he pulled the visor down to shield his eyes. He passed a double semitruck, its open trailers loaded with oranges, and as he swung around it, he was glad to see that there was little traffic ahead of him.

  His watch beeped five o’clock as he passed the sign announcing that Barstow lay just ten miles ahead. Halfway there.

  Something’s on the wind. With the thought, his skin rose in gooseflesh, and as he continued driving, he felt as though some internal compass were spinning out of control. A second passed. Two.

  The world cracked with thunder unlike anything he had ever heard, like a thousand rifle shots combined with the savage roll of timpani. A flash of brilliant light blinded him momentarily, and the truck started to fishtail on the rain-slicked road.

  Tom regained control, cursing himself for his slow reflexes, for his unaccountable fear. The primitive within screamed at him to turn around and race home, but he told it to shut the hell up and he clenched the steering wheel, knuckles white.

  This all in the space of a heartbeat. Then something went wrong with the truck, a blowout, he thought, or he’d dropped an engine bolt. He hung on to the wheel, slowing, trying to keep the vehicle under control until he could pull over.

  He caught a glimpse of the semi in the rearview mirror, saw oranges tumbling out of its open trailers, rolling across the freeway like billiard balls.

  The earth was shaking, not his truck, and that realization calmed him. Long seconds passed, and more. Silently he began to count, knowing that every shaker felt like it lasted forever while you rode it out, waiting to see if it was the Big One.

  Fifty-nine. Sixty. He’d never counted past twenty seconds before and his alarm returned, growing in tandem with the unending force of the temblor.

  Suddenly the truck jumped, landed, jumped again, a bucking bronco. Up ahead, a black Camry skittered across three lanes of highway, onto the shoulder, crashing against the chain-link fencing. Behind him, one of the semi’s trailers jackknifed and overturned.