Maybe this is the Big One. He gave up counting but decided to keep driving, even though most everyone else had given up. As a longtime Californian, he had ceased to believe that the fabled Big One was anything but a good tale. Sure, there were quakes, and damage here and there, sometimes major like the Landers quake or the Northridge shaker in ’94, but the Big One, the one that kept on going and going and going until everything came loose or turned the Mojave into beachfront property, well, he just didn’t believe in it. Maybe you should reconsider.
He watched the asphalt road roll like low breakers on the sea and he surfed them doggedly, hanging on to the wheel, refusing to let anything, not even Mother Nature, keep him from his task.
He wasn’t too worried about his ranch. His stables were built the same way as his house, with springs and reinforcements in the foundation and walls, and glass that would bend long before it would break. He also knew that Davy would calm the animals. He prayed that Marie, Cassie, and Eve were safe.
“Whoa!” he yelled as the truck bounced sideways. It came down on the passenger side wheels and he thought that he was going over, but miraculously the truck fell back on all fours. And kept going, creaking and groaning with every buck of the earth.
He was coming up fast on the Cuhilla Wash Bridge, and he slammed on the brakes as the pavement on the bridge pushed up in a mountain before him. The low pillars holding the road above the wash suddenly broke free, exploding out sideways like broken teeth. Tom let off the brake and prayed no one was behind him as he turned the steering wheel hard left. Brakes locking, the truck skidded. He corrected the wheel and abruptly the Ford stalled out sideways in the number three lane.
Delirium tremens. The earth rattled beneath him, and he stayed with the truck, riding it out. Finally it began winding down, the ground shivering with little shakes and tremors. Death throes.
Sitting there facing the wrong way on the freeway, Tom stared out at the scattering of cars, trucks, and oranges. Some of the vehicles were still moving, others beginning to move again. Tom opened the door and got out, his legs still insisting the ground was moving, his eyes telling him otherwise. He walked to the broken bridge. It looked like a drawbridge, raised and open in the center, and there was no way to cross it—the damage was done on both sides of the highway. In the distance, a billboard hung sideways, and a few cars dotted the road. The sun, low in the sky, cast beautiful colors on the silvery clouds around it. It was a particularly magnificent sunset.
Then he heard a sizzling sound, an electric crackling buzz. On the shoulder, directly opposite his truck, a towering utility pole was cracking like a matchstick, the lines swaying drunkenly. “Christ Almighty!” He jumped in the truck and turned the key. It didn’t start. The pole cracked and tilted more as Tom tried again. No luck. “Lord, if you’re there, I could use a hand!”
The engine caught. Stomping the accelerator, he tore out of the way just before the pole crashed down right where he’d been parked.
Slowly he drove the wrong way along the buckled median strip until he found a break in the oleander bushes that separated the two sides of the interstate. He pulled across it, then began the ten-mile trip back to Madelyn.
121
James Robert Sinclair
CHAIRS HAD TIPPED OVER AND SMALL OBJECTS FLEW TO HIS BEDROOM floor, but Sinclair had barely noticed. This earthquake was far more than broken glass and toppled furniture; it was the unmistakable herald of Armageddon, the thunder of horses’ hooves as the Four descended to earth. It filled him with sadness and joy as he went forth, to minister to his people.
He found only minor damage to the compound: broken windows, fallen paintings and furniture, broken dishes in the cafeteria. There was much to clean up, but he had built this place to withstand earthquakes, and it had protected his people well. The electricity had been out for less than a minute before the compound’s emergency generators kicked in, giving them light once more. The cross would burn brightly tonight in an otherwise lightless land, a beacon to the faithful, a promise of hope for mankind.
His people stared at him, and he smiled and soothed, knowing they had never before seen him as he appeared now: barefoot, in robes, his hair loose over his shoulders.
He was glad that they seemed to find comfort in his appearance as he made his way to the infirmary. The twenty-bed clinic was two-thirds full, most of the patients suffering cuts that needed stitching, some with broken bones. Then he saw Senior Apostle Steve Clayman, hooked to an IV, his left arm swathed in bandages.
“What happened to you?” Sinclair asked as he sat in the chair by the bed.
Clayman stared at him, then opened his cracked lips. “Struck by lightning during the mission.”
“The mission?” Sinclair asked. “While you were witnessing in Madelyn?”
“No. When we did the UFO freaks.” Clayman tried to smile. “I killed one for you—”
“Prophet Sinclair! I didn’t expect to see you here!” Hannibal Caine bustled up. “Don’t try to talk, Steve. Doctor’s orders.”
Sinclair rose and motioned Caine to follow him outside. “What’s he talking about, ‘UFO freaks’? Who was killed?”
“I don’t know the details, James,” Caine said in a conspiratorial tone. “But I believe that Eldo may be interpreting your orders as carte blanche to behave in a more aggressive manner than you intended.” He laid his hand on Sinclair’s wrist. “I was just trying to find out what happened myself.”
“I know Eldo has his problems, but I believe in his ability to follow my orders.” He studied Hannibal, and for the first time, saw something he didn’t like. It had always been there, a calculating look behind the smiling blue eyes, but it had never registered before. Perhaps because he didn’t want to see it. He’s the one.
“Are you intending to speak to Eldo?” There was the slightest hint of worry in Caine’s voice. “Perhaps you’d like me to do it for you?”
“No, that won’t be necessary.” The words filled him with infinite sadness. “It is the way of things. The signs are progressing as God told me they would, and whatever happened today is part of the cycle. Tomorrow the world ends, Hannibal, and Clayman’s being struck by lightning is just another portent of what is to come. Others will fall as well.” He paused, watching Hannibal’s cheerful mask fade slightly.
“Is the radio station broadcasting yet?” Sinclair asked after a long pause.
“Not presently, but we have a crew on their way up to the tower. There are no stations on the air at present, James.”
“Good. Perhaps the earthquake has ensured that we will have a large audience tonight.”
“Including many of our resident Apostles,” Caine said. “About half were out on missionary work when the earthquake struck. I doubt if many will be able to return.”
“That’s unfortunate. I hope they’re all well.” Sinclair hesitated. “Keep watch for them. I’ll see you in the private dining room at six-thirty.” He turned and started to walk away.
“Prophet?”
Sinclair turned. “Yes, Hannibal?”
“About tomorrow’s open services.”
Sinclair waited.
“The earthquake did some damage, and Davis in the business office says we can’t open to the public until an inspection is completed. We may have to be content with a closed service. We can broadcast, of course.”
“That would be a shame, Hannibal. Perhaps we can hold an open-air meeting instead. Work on that, will you?”
Hannibal looked supremely pained. “Yes, Prophet. Are you returning to your chambers now?”
“Soon. Why?”
“Just in case.” Caine smiled, waved, and walked off in the opposite direction.
122
Marie Lopez
“EVE? WHERE ARE YOU?”
Marie’s mobile home had fallen off its foundations and lay in a crumpled heap on its side. She’d left the little girl inside while she was out saddling Rex for the ride into town. Thankfully, she’d left the stable do
ors wide open, and when the shaking began, she was able to lead the horse out without problems. An instant later, half the building was gone. Sheep were still running out of the destruction, thanks to Dorsey, who was herding for all he was worth.
Marie stared at the wreck that had been her home. “Eve?” she yelled. “Eve? Answer me!” She turned off the propane tank. “Eve! Where are you?”
“Marie!”
The voice was small but strong, and Marie waded into the wreckage. “Eve. Where are you?”
“Under the table.”
“Keep talking so I can find you.”
Climbing through the debris, she followed Eve’s voice until she finally spied the top of her dinette table, tilted sideways against the wall. “Eve?”
The child’s face appeared, then she crawled out from behind the table, and Marie lifted her out of the mess and carried her outside.
“Wait here. I’ll be back.” She went back into the wreckage and soon reemerged with her Remington rifle. Despite all the fancy weaponry she’d stowed in the barn to pack on the horse, the Remington was her favorite, and the only material possession she really cared about. She brought it out, then walked behind the trailer, peering around it into the after- . noon sun. Down the road she could see the compound, the guards at the gates, and if she could see them, they would see her.
“Eve,” she told the little girl. “I’m going back in to find us something to eat. We have to wait a little while before it’s safe to leave.”
123
Moss Baskerville
“WIPE YOUR FACE, MOSS,” RAY VINE SAID, HANDING BASKER-ville a dish towel. “Won’t do for the chief of police to go around bleeding on people.”
“Thanks.” The cut on his forehead wasn’t bad, but it bled like a son of a bitch. He wiped the blood away, then pressed the towel firmly against it and stared at Ray’s Cafe. He, Ray, and Rosie, along with a group of other shell-shocked people, stood outside the diner. Across the parking lot, trailer rigs had been tossed about like Tinkertoys, and cars had bounced and crashed into one another. The café itself was a disaster. Ray had extinguished two kitchen fires and turned the gas off. Now the biggest immediate problems were the broken glass and fallen light fixtures and ceiling fans.
“Won’t be shut down more than a week,” Ray said, reading Moss’s mind.
Moss nodded. “I wonder where the quake was centered.”
“Good question.”
The electricity, in addition to the phones, was out now, and none of the radio stations were on the air, not even the fifty-thousand-watt station that broadcast from Los Angeles. The thought that L.A. might be completely knocked out was almost too much for him. After dark, when the strong stations in Colorado and Nevada began coming in, he’d know more, but right now there was only uncertainty. Even the police band gave nothing but static. “Looks like we’re on our own, Ray.”
“It sure does.” Ray shook his massive head, surveying the damage.
“I’m going to need some help,” Moss announced. Action was not only called for, it was the best cure for worry.
“I can’t leave my property, Moss. I’m sorry, but I’m dead-on for looters.”
“Didn’t expect you to. But you’re a deputy as of now, just the same.” He smiled grimly. “That’ll make it easier for you to protect your place. You got a piece?”
“Thirty-eight semiautomatic.”
“Carry it. Now, listen. It’s going to be dark soon and people will come here from town, just like they always do. Pick out someplace to set up a campground in your parking lot, will you?”
“I can do that. Look there.” Ray pointed at a blue pickup coming across the center divider on I-15. It cut across the westbound lanes of the highway.
“It’s Tom.” The eastbound Madelyn exit was an underpass, and Abernathy was obviously taking no chances. Moss watched as he turned down the westbound off-ramp, disappeared for a moment, then came around the bend and into the lot, weaving between cars. The cowboy pulled up and hopped out.
“Couldn’t get through,” Tom said, wiping sweat from his brow with his kerchief. “Almost bit the bullet a couple times. It’s bad out there, and we’re cut off. The interstate’s out of commission ten miles up the road.”
“Things look bad here, too.” Moss shook his head. “I was just about to tell Ray that we need to organize groups to go into town and check every house for wounded and to make sure the gas is off. We’re making Ray’s lot command central.” He smiled bitterly. “That’s the most official-sounding thing I’ve ever heard leave my lips.”
“I’ll organize a group to go into Madland,” Tom told him.
“Great. Ray, I’ll send Ken Landry over with maps, and you two can figure out who to send where in town.”
“Okay.”
Tom glanced at his watch, obviously eager to get to his ranch. “Moss, did you go back to the compound yet?”
“Just left there, right before the quake. They had guards posted on all sides, and they’re packing some serious weapons. A warrant wouldn’t have done us a bit of good,” he added grimly.
“We’ll just have to get in tomorrow morning.” Tom shook his head. “Damn.”
“Afraid not,” Moss answered. “They also had a sign posted on the gate announcing that the compound would be closed due to earthquake damage.”
“Earthquake damage?” Tom repeated. “before the quake? I guess old Jim-Bob really is a prophet.”
“I assume it referred to the earlier quakes,” Moss said dryly. “Not that I believe it for a minute.”
“Might be true now,” Ray murmured, staring at the wreckage of his coffee shop.
“Might be,” Moss agreed. “In any case, we’re not going to see backup any time soon.”
Tom took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “We’re going to have to get in there one way or another.”
“What the hell are those psychos guarding, anyway?” Ray asked.
“My guess is that they’re afraid we’re going to come in and get Marie, Cassie, and Eve back,” Moss told him.
“It’s got something to do with their big Apocalypse tomorrow,” Tom explained. “And I’m guessing that means we have just until tomorrow morning to get them out of there safe and sound.”
Moss studied him. “I hope so. In the meantime, I’m declaring martial law. Needs to be done, plus it gives us more leeway in dealing with the Apostles, or whoever else is causing us trouble.” He patted his gun.
“You thinking of Dole?” Tom asked.
Moss nodded. “If you see that bastard, bring him to the station. Maybe we’ll get some answers out of him.” He looked at Ray. “I’ll be by every little while. I hope.” He turned back to Tom. “After you get done checking Madland, we need to meet up. Bring your sorry ass back down here and we’ll figure out how to get into that compound.”
Tom climbed back in his truck. “I’ll do that.”
124
Justin Martin
JUSTIN SAT IN THE MUSTANG AND FONDLED CARLO’S KNIFE. AFTER he’d left the compound, he’d gone home to clean up, but then the quake struck and his mother went into hysterics, clinging to him and sobbing about the shattered this and the broken that. Her histrionics were so disgusting that he’d been ready to bash her brains in, just to shut her up. He would have, too, if dear old Dad hadn’t shown up. Relieved of his mother, Justin quickly dressed in black for tonight’s meeting with Carlo and went out to kill a couple hours.
He was parked in Madland’s lot, way back at the rear where he wouldn’t be noticed, but where he could keep an eye on the road. He wanted to know when Carlo returned. If he returned. Justin wanted to tell him where Alex, sweet Alex, was and to invite the Peeler to accompany him to the compound, where there would be one big difference: Justin would be in charge, not Carlo.
When he’d first arrived, he’d immediately checked Carlo’s place to make sure the fortune-teller wasn’t inside. Though he couldn’t get upstairs because most of it was now downstairs
, the little reading room was virtually untouched by the quake. Christie’s scalp still hung from the ceiling fan, and that probably meant that Carlo hadn’t been here.
After that, he’d checked on the mine ride and was pleased as hell to find that it was impassable. He thought it unlikely that the lower level where the bodies were buried would ever be accessible again. Smirking, he gazed up at the twilight sky. Everything was going as promised. He was invincible.
After checking the mine, he’d looked around a little more, telling the stunt people and others whom he ran into that he was searching for injured persons. They thanked him and left him alone, too involved in moving the animals and assessing their own damage to waste his time with idiot questions.
Finally he had returned to the Mustang. He’d been sitting there about twenty minutes now, listening to the Doors and thinking about tomorrow, about the things he’d do to Alex while the Peeler watched and instructed.
Killing Christie had been easy, skinning her, hard work, and it was a damned shame she was too hard to find in the wreckage, because he thought he’d done a fine job, by far his best. He wanted Carlo to see—it might help convince him of Justin’s natural abilities.
Hearing the roar of engines, he looked up and saw a set of headlights coming up the highway. He turned off the tape and waited. It was a full-size blue pickup truck, and Justin slid low in the seat watching as it pulled into the parking lot.
As soon as the driver climbed out of the cab, Justin recognized that rich hayseed, Tom Abernathy. His passenger stepped out. It was Carlo Pelegrine.
“Bingo,” he whispered.
Justin waited until the pair disappeared into the park’s main entrance, then exited the car and let himself in the far end. Quietly he moved down the service road, climbing over wreckage, skirting glass and metal, until he arrived at the Sorcerer’s Apprentice’s back entrance. He figured Carlo would show up sooner or later, so he let himself into the little reading room and sat there, stroking the knife and contemplating Christie’s magnificent mane of blond hair.
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