Thunder Road

by Thorne, Tamara

  “So let’s get a look at you, Davy.” Tom pulled on a pair of black gloves, then crossed his arms. “We’re waiting.”

  Alex took his arm and tugged him forward. “He’s gorgeous. Come on, show yourself.”

  He stepped out, and Moss was stunned. He was the horseman Pestilence, but he looked like a king in his white, gold-trimmed robes and his silver crown. He, like Alex, had traded his stage bow and arrow for the real thing, in his case a crossbow found in the back of one of Tom’s closets last night. He wore a light coating of some sort of makeup that made his skin glow with pale luminescence, and Alex had sprayed his eyebrows and hair a silvery white. His dark eyes glowered beneath the makeup. “I feel ridiculous.”

  “You’re not getting any sympathy from me.” Marie laughed and patted his shoulder. “I never knew you had the face of a monarch,” she added, then turned and looked at Tom, who had donned the heavy skull mask and pulled up his cowl. “And you’re just an old hunk of a skeleton.”

  Tom bowed slightly. “You’re not bad for a starving stocking-head.”

  “Okay, okay, you people have to take this seriously.” Crossing his arms, Moss stared at the group, knowing their jokes were born of nervousness. He’d seen cops act the same way. The best remedy for their incipient hysteria was gruffness. “This isn’t Halloween, so quit clowning around. You’re all carrying more weaponry than my men even dream of.”

  “Moss,” Tom drawled, “don’t get your bowels in an uproar. We know what we’re doing.” The note of hilarity was gone from his voice. “It’s just looking at each other that makes us want to laugh.”

  “That’s what worries me,” Moss said. “What if those Apostles laugh at you right before they kill you?”

  “No,” Alex said, all seriousness now. “It won’t happen. The Apostles are expecting this. They’ve had it pounded into them. And there’s the eclipse. That guarantees success.”

  “Why so?”

  “Instinct, pure and simple. We’re still prey to that same emotion that our cave-dwelling ancestors were when they saw the sun swallowed up in the daytime. For most people, it’s mild—an eclipse is exciting because it’s a safe thrill, like a roller coaster. For the Apostles, who have, for all intents and purposes, been brainwashed, it will be far more frightening.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Moss said.

  “Me too.” Alex’s smile looked fierce because of the makeup.

  “Okay. Al and I will be parked at Marie’s as you enter the compound,” Moss said. “We’ll try to get through the gates after you’re inside.”

  Tom nodded. “We’ll see you later, Chief.”

  “Good luck!”

  The four mounted their horses, and Moss had to admit they were an eerie sight as they moved up the canyon road. “I hope to hell this works,” he called to Mad Dog, then turned around and started back down the road. Behind him, Mad Dog turned the truck and trailer and followed slowly.

  “Lord, if you’re listening,” Baskerville said aloud, “please give us a break.”

  138

  Hannibal Caine

  THE CHURCH WAS LIT WITH CANDLELIGHT AND HANNIBAL CAINE stood on the rostrum, enjoying the eyes upon him. Behind him, the tattooed whore and Eldo Blandings, clad only in a loincloth, hung from the crosses on each side of the church.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “A miracle happened here last night, and that is why I am here, speaking for our beloved Prophet.”

  He signaled the choir to sing, and as they did, he looked out over his flock. Though only half were in attendance, they were a sight to behold in their white robes, their eyes bright with wonder as they stared up at him and the two sinners on the crosses. They were at a fever pitch this morning, far beyond questioning anything that happened now. As far as they were concerned, this was the end of the world, and everything that happened now, miraculous. Jim-Bob Sinclair had done his job well. The Senior Apostles and the committee members, along with those who had unknowingly helped him accomplish his task, were seated in the front two rows, and even they were filled with wonder. Hannibal detected no questioning looks among them, except for Justin Martin, who smirked at him from his seat on the central aisle. At least he was now wearing a robe, just as Caine was.

  Justin didn’t worry him, because the youth was interested only in whatever it was he wanted to do to the whore—Caine didn’t want to know what—after the service.

  The choir finished their song and the silence was perfect. Caine adjusted the pulpit’s microphone. “The Savior has come,” he thundered. “He has come before the Horsemen, and do you know why? Because He wants to give us a second chance. Last night the Lord came to our Prophet and told him that if one man would be willing to let the Spirit come inside him, and would give his life as His son incarnate, then the world might be given a reprieve.”

  A hushed murmur filled the church. The doors at the rear were wide open and the day had dimmed slightly. The eclipse was beginning.

  “And do you know what our humble Prophet did? He offered his own body to God to save us all. You all saw Prophet Sinclair last evening as he spoke to you from this very pulpit. But do you realize that you witnessed him in his transformation, in his magnificence? Can you doubt you were in the presence of holiness?”

  Again the murmur, softer now, filled with awe. They were buying the goods. They were nothing but children in white robes, all the same except that some wore bits of gold on their sleeves to signify rank.

  “Last night our Prophet, filled with the spirit of Christ, disappeared into the desert. And now he is back, miraculously back.”

  He raised his arms and the main cross began its descent from the tower.

  Sinclair as Christ was truly an inspiring vision, one leg bent over the other, just so, head tilted down, the crown of thorns placed exactly as it was in the most famous Crucifixion paintings. The silence was perfect; the entire congregation held its breath.

  Suddenly Eldo Blandings, on the right-hand cross, cried, “You killed him! You killed the Prophet!”

  Startled, Caine glanced at him, saw the bleary eyes glaring at him. He had personally reapplied chloroform only moments before the service began. This shouldn’t have happened, but then Eldo had always been full of surprises. Mind racing, Caine decided to denounce Blandings as a murderer, but before he could turn back to the flock, a real miracle happened. Sinclair, who should have been deep in a coma, raised his head and spoke.

  “I am the Lamb of God,” he whispered in a voice that echoed throughout the church. “As it is written, so shall it be.” He gazed at the congregation. “God bless and forgive you all.” His head drooped and he fell silent.

  “You are witnessing a miracle, my friends,” Caine thundered. “A true miracle. Remember this day. The Prophet has asked me to watch over his flock as we begin the world anew. We must not waste this precious gift the Prophet and God have given us.” He turned toward Sinclair. “God’s Son has entered this man’s body to show his unquestioning love. He has given His life so that we may live.”

  The sky darkened as the service continued, interspersed with hymns and prayers. Finally, when the sky was deep twilight, Caine began the Communion service. He came off the rostrum and stood behind the Communion table overseeing as ushers took bowls of wafers to pass along each row. After that, they returned to the table and poured wine from the pitchers into paper cups, then placed them on trays and began distributing them, beginning two rows back, as Caine had instructed. Just before the last usher took his tray, Caine took one of the untainted cups for himself, then began pouring cups from the silver urn for the first two rows, knowing no one would question that the ranking members should be given special treatment. Very special. Smiling to himself, he placed the cups on a silver tray and carried it to the first row, handing it over with a flourish.

  After pausing to retrieve his own cup and wafer, he returned to the rostrum and raised his cup. There was darkness outside, and stars.

  And then there were shouts
from the guards outside, and the sound of the gates being rolled open.

  “The Horsemen are coming! The Horsemen!”

  “Quickly!” Caine yelled. “Finish Communion or you will not be saved.” With that, he popped the wafer and tossed back the wine, so that the flock would follow his example. But few did. In the front rows, he saw half a dozen drink, but the rest turned instead to peer at the doors at the back of the church. Then, as one, the entire congregation rose, hearing the sound of hoofbeats thundering out of the darkness.

  Caine stayed at the pulpit. Behind him, the whore moaned, and then Sinclair’s voice could be heard over the clattering of hooves.

  “I forgive you, my Judas,” he said softly. Then he cried out for all to hear, “The Horsemen come, just as I told you.”

  139

  Tom Abernathy

  THEY RODE THROUGH THE DARKNESS AND TOM FELT A STRANGE deep fear as the sunlight disappeared and unreality set in. Ahead, the compound loomed and he heard the shouts as he led the other riders down Thunder Road. The gates rolled open and some of the white-robed figures ran toward the church, shouting that the Horsemen had arrived. Others remained at the gates, and Tom heard them shut behind them. That took care of the backup. Maybe.

  He rode Belle right into the church, and found it filled with a sea of white-gowned Apostles, standing and staring with wide eyes. Many fell to their knees as he started down the center aisle, the dry ice attached to his boots wafting foggy mist around Belle’s flanks. Behind him, Alex remained in the doorway while Marie and Rex moved to the left aisle and Davy rode Lil to the right, keeping pace with him and Belle. Dry ice smoked around them.

  The church was lit dimly, but the rostrum was clearly visible, lit from behind and above with golden light. Hannibal Caine stood unmoving at the pulpit, a paper cup in his hand. Behind him were not two but three crosses, all bearing bodies, the central one a lifelike effigy of Jesus. Cassie was tied up on Marie’s side, and an old man—Eldo Blandings, he realized—on Davy’s. Tom glanced around, hoping to see Carlo, but there was no sign of him.

  There was utter silence as they approached the rostrum. Tom rode to the first row and signaled Belle to halt. As she did, he turned on the microphone and spoke in the New England tones of his boyhood. “We are here to receive our sacrifices.”

  He nodded at Davy and Marie and they rode forward, right up onto the rostrum, each to one of the outer crosses, to cut down the prisoners.

  Suddenly Belle shied as the Apostle standing next to him on the left moved. Tom turned his head and found himself staring into the barrel of an AK-47, the weapon half-hidden in the billowy robe sleeve. His gaze moved upward, into the cold blue eyes of Justin Martin. The boy smiled, edging around Belle to stand before the Communion table. His eyes darted back and forth and he opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly a pair of hands appeared from beneath the tablecloth. Tom barely stopped a gasp as he recognized the onyx ring on one of the long, tapered fingers. Carlo!

  The hands closed on Justin’s ankles and yanked. As the youth went down, Tom signaled Belle to rear and whinny, covering the action, he hoped, as Justin disappeared under the table. As Belle came down, he heard the distinct sound of a fist connecting with its target. There was a barely discernible grunt, then silence.

  Praying for it to continue, he looked left and right, relieved to see that the incident seemed to have gone unnoticed. Half a dozen Apostles on either side of him were lying unconscious, or choking, clutching at their throats. One convulsed. All eyes were on him or the poisoned Apostles.

  Tom urged Belle around the table and up to the rostrum steps. He stared at Caine. “You are not the Prophet,” he intoned, thinking he probably sounded more like Darth Vader than the Pale Rider. Dry-ice smoke curled around him, tickling his nose. He gave Belle the signal to rear back on her hind legs and whinny again.

  “These sacrifices are not for you,” Hannibal Caine said as Marie and Davy cut the ropes. “They are for God.”

  “We are His messengers, fool!” Tom was surprised by the fury in his voice. He raised his scythe. “Who are you that you dare speak to a Horseman?”

  Suddenly the effigy of Jesus on the cross lifted its head and spoke in a voice that carried through the entire church. “He is Hannibal Caine. He is Judas Iscariot.”

  Immediately Tom rode onto the rostrum, up to the Christ figure. To his left and right, Davy and Marie were easing Cassie and Blandings across their saddles.

  “You are Sinclair?” he asked, horrified to see that spikes were driven through the man’s hands and feet.

  “Yes. And the Son, as Hannibal said.”

  Tom switched off the mike. “Did Caine do this to you?”

  “He is my Judas.”

  “Tell your congregation, Sinclair. They’ll save you.”

  The smile was beatific. “Hannibal was chosen, just as I was. I am one with the Lamb, as he is with Judas.”

  “I’ll get you out of here,” Tom said softly, “very soon.”

  Again the soft smile. The man seemed to glow with a light of his own, and Tom understood why he so confounded Moss Baskerville. “I am already saved, you see. I fulfill the prophecy, as does Hannibal. As do you.”

  For a second, Tom was sure that this man, in his delirium, knew his identity. But that was impossible. They’d never even met, and his own mother wouldn’t know him in this costume. He noticed that Marie and Davy were no longer on the rostrum, then heard the horses’ hooves as they made their way back up the aisle, following the plan to the letter, whereas Tom had been ad-libbing ever since Justin disappeared under the table. He figured he’d better stop before he got them all killed.

  “Apostles!” Sinclair’s voice boomed in Tom’s ears. “Hear me now and remember. The Horsemen have taken their due, and I have taken your sins upon myself. The world will not end this day. Go, Horseman, and tell my Father I am on my way!”

  Suddenly the cross Sinclair was nailed to began to rise.

  “What the hell?” Caine cried, forgetting his microphone. “Get that thing back down here now!”

  “I can’t. It’s moving by itself!” yelled a bespectacled young Apostle standing at a console below the choir loft. “I didn’t touch anything! It just started moving!”

  The cross disappeared into a light-lined opening in the ceiling. Sinclair had given him his chance to get out, and now Tom turned Belle to face the congregation and saw that the other riders were waiting at the rear entrance. He pulled a smoke bomb from his saddle and threw it hard toward the rostrum. It exploded in a miasma of colors, but Tom didn’t wait around to watch. He spurred Belle and she took off down the center aisle at lightning speed.

  He joined the others and they rode toward the compound gates. Tom pulled his revolver and pointed it at a surprised guard. “Open it!”

  Behind him, an engine revved and an old black Mustang streaked out of the lot. Almost instantly, another engine roared and a white Cadillac pulled up. The window hummed down and Carlo Pelegrine peered out at Tom. “Alex?” he asked.

  “On Tess.”

  Carlo glanced back at her, then looked at Tom. “If I don’t come back, tell her I love her.” The window started to roll up.

  “Hold it,” Tom hissed. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Duel,” he said. “Justin chose the weapons.” He patted the steering wheel, then the window went up and he drove out of the lot and a hundred yards down the road, where he idled as the Mustang’s taillights dwindled toward Spirit

  Canyon.

  140

  Carlo Pelegrine

  UNDER THE COMMUNION TABLE, CARLO HAD PUNCHED JUSTIN IN the jaw, then kicked away his gun. Then he was on top of him, twisting his arm behind him with one hand and holding his knife to the boy’s throat with the other.

  And while Tom played Horseman, he and Justin struck a deal in tight urgent whispers. A fight to the death, just the two of them, Carlo told him, a fight to see who was the better man. As Carlo expected, it was the kind of power trip the
youth could not resist.

  “You challenged me,” he whispered. “I pick the weapons.”

  Carlo was surprised when he chose cars, not knives. “A game of chicken?” he asked.

  “It’s no game,” Justin replied. “On Thunder Road. You start here, I start at Spirit Canyon. I’ll flash my lights twice and then we drive.” The tone of his voice told him that he had no intention of ditching the duel. Neither did Carlo.

  When the smoke bomb went off and chaos broke out, Carlo shoved the youth out from under the table and they ran out of the side door of the church and into the parking lot. Justin had jumped in his Mustang and was out the newly opened gate just as Carlo had lucked out and found the keys in the white Cadillac.

  Now in darkness, he sat awaiting his death, heart pounding, as two police cruisers pulled out from behind the ruins of Marie’s place and drove slowly up. The first stopped beside him, and he rolled down the window. “Hello, Moss.”

  “Is Cassie okay?”

  Carlo nodded. “But you’d better get in there. Things are dicey.”

  Moss nodded. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask what you’re doing.”

  “Thanks.”

  As the second cruiser passed him, Justin’s headlights flashed once, twice. Leaving the window down, Carlo swallowed and gripped the steering wheel, then punched the accelerator. The Cadillac roared with power and he let off the brake, the wheels digging into the earth, spitting gravel.