"The scouts are all back. The tracks disappear in that direction," Gleeson pointed directly at the cyclones.
"Then she's out there," Jack said dully, his eyes half-way closed. "They're out there," Jack added, remembering (as if he could forget) Angela.
Gleeson looked momentarily puzzled, but did not press for further explanation. He felt there was little need to; if Laura was anywhere within a mile of the tornadoes, then she was dead. A pity, Gleeson thought; he had liked the girl.
"They're heading our way, Gleeson. You'd better get everyone ready."
Gleeson nodded and disappeared, his chores for the next half hour frighteningly clear. If any of the Edenites were going to survive the twisters, then they would have to be secured underground in Jack's massive bunkers. They had been designed with survivors in mind, but Jack felt that to keep people underground for vast periods of time was unhealthy, both physically and mentally. The entire population of Eden, some two hundred people, had never tried to cram itself into the bunkers in toto until now. It would not be an easy effort.
But for Gleeson, nothing was easy in the world anymore. He accepted the challenge of hopelessness as a mandate for living; this next hurdle would be only one more in a long line of impossible tasks. Whether he succeeded or not mattered not as much to Gleeson as the fact that he would try. For this endearing and admired trait, Gleeson was the next loved man next to Jack Calisto in Eden.
Jack watched the mutated tornadoes and his stomach knotted. Realistically, he had to confess that Laura's chances of still being alive were slim. Correction, non-existent. Nothing could live within the wake of what he was watching.
But she couldn't die, Jack needled himself mercilessly. She couldn't, because he loved her.
He surprised himself with the force of this revelation. Up until the storms appeared – and Laura's absence took on worrisome proportions, Jack had been completely absorbed with Angela. Now, Laura occupied his thoughts solely. Whatever had happened to Walter/Angela, Jack suspected, it was under the protective auspices of whatever magic or power that had enabled her to defy the natural laws of science, life and death. There was no doubt in Jack's mind, at all, that his dead wife - and former pigeon - was completely safe.
He could not, if pressed, say the same for Laura.
Jack dismounted from his gun nest and headed toward the driver’s side.
From the corner of his eye, Gleeson saw what was happening. He did not waste time trying to entertain conversation with his boss. Bounding from across the other side of the camp, Gleeson put two bear-like arms around Jack's body and lifted him in the air. Jack struggled, cursing, while Brandon and Mimi watched
nearby; a small crowd of Edenites gathered around and stared at the violent byplay in silence.
"I'm going out there, goddamn it!" Jack roared.
"No, doc, you're not. You'd be torn to pieces."
Gleeson knew he couldn't restrain Jack for long; he simply didn't have the strength or energy to do so. He needed an edge.
He found it in Jack's automatic pistol.
Quickly unstrapping the weapon from Jack's holster, Gleeson brought it down hard on the other man's head. Jack stared in momentary bewilderment, then dropped to the sand.
Gleeson released the gun and it, too, hit the ground. He sighed, mumbled something unflattering about himself then bent down and hauled Jack's limp form over his shoulder.
The crowd grew around Gleeson, but he did not turn to acknowledge it. They probably didn't understand, Gleeson thought tiredly; perhaps Jack wouldn't either, once he woke up. But better to be confused and pissed-off than dead, was Gleeson's motto of the moment. His maxim for living.
"We can't leave her out there," Jim Rosen spoke up.
"I know," Gleeson replied, throwing Jack's limp frame over his shoulders.
Brandon was staring at the storms on the horizon. "Jim and I could be back in an hour."
"No," Gleeson sighed. "Get everyone in the cellars."
Jim nodded and walked off. Brandon hesitated, but finally gave in. He became Garbo a moment later. "Hope you know what you're doing, sweetheart."
Gleeson sniffed and began walking back to the Dome.
"So do I, Garbo. So do I."
* * *
The Stiffer smiled.
It was almost time to break free of the ridiculous bonds that held him. The chains binding his arms and legs began to suddenly melt. It would be awhile still before they were rendered ineffective, but once again, the Stiffer knew that time was on his side. The cage would pose no more of a challenge to the Stiffer than the chains; in a few hours, the bars would be about as malleable as warm licorice.
The Stiffer closed its eyes. A part of him was miles away, guiding the body of the Growler, who in turn guided the hirsute army of Maddogs and living dead toward the destructive cyclones. But the Stiffer knew that by the time the Growler reached his destination, a small rock ridge in the middle of the desert, the deadly tornadoes would have passed out of the area. In fact, at the time the Growler was arriving to find Laura, the twisters would be ravaging Eden.
And shortly after that piece of rape, Jack Calisto would be in the Stiffer's ready hands.
The Stiffer thought briefly about Walter. It would be nice to get that one, too. But the Stiffer already suspected that the bird-woman had fled this place some time ago. The Stiffer's powers could not assist him in figuring out where Walter may have gone, no more than they could completely discern Walter's true nature. This very fact again made the Stiffer feel vaguely uneasy. Walter had taunted him; had, in fact, caused him pain. He would make her pay for that. If he could find her. He did not like being ignorant; for there was not much in this world the Stiffer did not understand. Walter was alien to the Stiffer. This translated simply that Walter was dangerous.
After Jack was dead and Eden destroyed, the bird creature would have to be searched for and killed. The Stiffer made a mental note of it.
But that was later.
For now, Jack's death was foremost on the Stiffer's list of things to have done with. And best of all, before he killed Jack, he would make the man regret the day he was ever born. Daydreaming of fine times ahead, the Stiffer chuckled and watched the chains holding his appendages quietly steam.
* * *
The world was suddenly a loud, clanging monster of noise. Laura brought a weak hand to her head, clawing at her face, as if this would somehow diminish the horrible sound that cranked up in volume around her. But even this slight movement shot waves of agony through her; so severe was the pain, in general, she found difficulty in focusing on a specific region where it was emanating.
The rocks that had plummeted on to her were large and deadly. In shock, with a massive concussion, Laura had no way of determining how serious her injuries actually were.
Consequently, she could not tell that she was dying.
She tried to move her body – and was rewarded with a thousand lacerating nails of excruciating anguish for her effort. With the little energy remaining within her, she began to cry softly. She hurt everywhere, and the taste of blood was strong in her mouth. She wanted Jack and she wanted to be held. But most of all, she wanted the noise to stop.
Her vision was wildly blurred, and yellow spots kept appearing intermittently whenever she blinked. A fever was brewing to a boil within her, but she was not yet hysterical; she could determine that the tornadoes had come and gone. Outside the entrance to the cave, which was now half covered with sand and stone, Laura could see calm skies. This minutiae of information gave her a little comfort; with the storms out of the picture, Jack would be searching for her with every resource Eden could offer.
But the skies were eclipsed a moment later by a large shadow. The shadow took on shape, definition and finally color. The Growler tore at the sand mound which had formed at the cave entrance, then forced his way through the aperture. Towering, the hideous mutant stared down at her.
Laura's heart sank, but it was accompanied just as quickl
y with her consciousness. Blackness settled over her once again, drowning out for the time being the incessant pounding noise and the dreadful picture of the Growler's knowing and evil smile.
FIFTEEN – INTO THE DARKNESS
But when she awoke, the ugliness of a world that wanted to destroy her had vanished. Like the bad dream she must have just had with the horrible, smiling beast standing over her. Her eyes fluttered open tenuously, feeling like lead weights and heralding the onrushing arrival of pain, beginning in her head then flooding to her toes. Her body felt like it was on fire.
Even as she stared at the worried face of Angela, touching her forehead gently, Laura could not help but give a quiet scream of agony. And surprise.
Angela felt helpless. There was nothing she could do for Laura; she did not have Jack's knowledge or training with regard to the human body. Jack was miles away, unaware of Laura's condition and, as evidenced by her own transformation to human form, probably asleep or unconscious.
Angela leaned forward and whispered.
"Laura. I've got to get you away from here."
It was hot, terribly hot; even Laura's eyes felt like fried eggs. Words echoed in her mind, nonsensical, blurs, garbled sounds muted by heat. Fight it, she begged herself desperately; fight it back and listen. She tried.
I've got to get you away from here. Someone had just said that to her.
Yes, a good idea. Because if you don't, I'm going to buy the proverbial farm, Laura thought she heard herself say from a thousand light years away. Something inside clicked and fell into place; fever temporarily gave way to a cold wave of reason. Laura bit her tongue savagely, stifling the delirium that enveloped her irresistibly, like a hot bubble bath.
She opened her eyes and stared at Angela, who was cradling her head and looking very anxious.
"You – you're her!" she managed weakly, her voice heavy and stupid to her own ears. Once, a long time ago, she had gotten very drunk with some friends in high school. Very drunk included consuming two carafe of cheap wine, a fifth of ninety-proof Popov vodka, and a putrefied looking worm that enjoyed eternal peace in an overly large bottle of tequila. After which, of course, she could have cheerfully faced disembowelment with a blunt party spoon. Very little of that night was coherently recalled, but the lasting impression on Laura was the outrageous perfidy of her own speech, if it could be called speech at that point. Time went by in a mumble; words, thoughts, anger, joy, everything that could be conveyed through the expression of the human voice was translated into the sluggish dialectic of a wasted worm-and-vodka filled grunt. The morning after found her disgusted with herself, not to mention grandly hungover. Not for any indiscretion she may have committed (Laura had never been one to chastise her own unique criteria for moral conduct); but the sense of complete and utter foolishness which she remembered enduring of herself, the inarticulate, slobbering idiot she had become due to her excesses – this was what Laura couldn't forgive herself for. Her one "very bad drunk" became her first and last major alcoholic experience; thereafter, she swore that the Blubbering Beast within her, a weak, tongue-tied moron that succumbed so willingly to booze, would be forever silenced.
Until now, of course; the Beast, it seemed, had returned with a vengeance. What a pity, she thought somewhat recklessly; what a fine time it would be for a little recitation of something light, like, say, Aristotle's Poetics. In standard Cherokee, no less.
Now wouldn't that impress my ghostly friend here, Laura thought and giggled a dangerously high feverish giggle.
Just as suddenly, the giggles died.
"You're – her, right?" Laura repeated once more, straining with the Beast.
Angela's eyes were kind; pitying, Laura thought, somewhat gratefully, again giving into that childish longing to be held and comforted. A primal desire that was becoming stronger by the second. Through the haze, she could see that Angela was startlingly beautiful. Her already perforated stomach gave a small roll of jealousy; no wonder, she thought, that Jack had loved her so.
"Yes," Angela answered in a whisper, looking behind herself quickly.
Laura noticed that they were near some rocks, partially concealing she and Angela from several mutants who were grunting among themselves about matters that were, no doubt, pressing in the psychotic world of Maddogdom. Her guards, Laura summed up painfully; a small part of a greater body of monsters that were no doubt in the immediate area. They were obviously unaware of Angela's presence; an advantage that Angela was taking great pains to preserve.
"We've got to get you out of here," Angela said softly.
It was a nice thought; but it looked fairly impossible to Laura at the moment.
"How?" she whispered, gradually realizing that she and Angela were smack in the middle of Maddog central.
Angela glanced up, her eyes coming to rest on the Ball Job parked about 50 feet away. Laura followed Angela's gaze. She groaned inwardly; with the way she was feeling, the Rover might as well be orbiting the nearest star. She couldn't blink without waves of agony pulsing through her; expecting her legs and arms to assist her in the 50 foot trek across a gulley to her vehicle was out of the question.
"You've got to try," Angela whispered. "They're getting ready to attack Jack. They want to use you as a hostage."
Laura's mind momentarily cleared, anger replacing pain. And they would win this time, Laura thought groggily, knowing that the mutants would try and use the Ball Job against Jack. Beyond the Rover, a hundred feet or so, was the howling hoard of the Maddog army, jumping, screaming, drinking and eating around an enormous bonfire that roared skyward. Apparently, they had not yet gotten around to testing the Ball Job's effectiveness; or, perhaps, they were just waiting until she was ready to show them how the Ball Job worked. And wouldn't that be something to look forward to, Laura considered glumly. She decided to hold off on imagining the various methods of torture these gibbering creatures might employ on her. Of course, she would never help them. But why stick around to see if they could make her try?
"Help – me," Laura begged, struggling up to an elbow.
Angela lifted the girl to a standing position, curled an arm over her shoulder and began steering her toward the Ball Job.
Angela moved only a few feet at a time; she was not strong enough to support Laura's weight for the entire move. She kept an eye on the guards, who were still involved in their dispute. After ten minutes, the two women reached the belly of the Rover. Laura crawled through the lower hatch which was open; the afterthought of actually closing it, she concluded, a complete abstract impossibility to whatever Maddog had boldly decided earlier to explore.
Angela followed the injured girl, taking one more cautious glance behind her before she disappeared into the bottom of Man's last ultimate weapon.
* * *
Angela noticed that Laura seemed suddenly stronger now, knowing exactly what she was looking for - and where - in the enormous Ball Job. Collapsing against an aft bulkhead, Laura pointed at a moveable section on the deck. The plating had a handle and Angela grabbed it; the section popped out with a resounding snap. Putting it aside, she peeked out of the lower hatch. The Maddog party was still in full swing and Laura's guards had elevated their argument to a gentle brawl. Obviously, they were under the mistaken assumption that Laura was still unconscious and would remain so for some time. So far so good, Angela noticed with satisfaction. Turning back to Laura, she found the girl already working.
The heart of the Ball Job's power glared out from beneath wires and lead casing. Glowing like some unearthly entity from another world was a translucent bubble which housed the plutonium core; the brain, heart and guts of Victor Talbot's Mars machine. Laura winced as she leaned over into the deck, rerouting circuits and pushing buttons.
While Laura occupied herself with the Ball Job, Angela remained silent. For the first time in hours, she could think. Everything had come back to her the moment she left the Dome; the instant, more specifically, when Jack had witnessed her transformation fr
om bird to woman on tape. The memories of her past life, Jack, even her own death were like brilliant points of starlight, like those in the Light Clouds, against an eternity of blackness, coalescing suddenly into a blinding patch of white. Her reincarnation was a mystery still; but she was not terribly interested in knowing how such a feat had been accomplished.
The fact that she had come back was all that mattered.
Perhaps, Angela conceded, such a miracle was not to be questioned or analyzed too closely; merely accepted, lest the sacrosanct powers in charge of miracle-making descend with ferocious vengeance on those who probed too deeply.
She would not be too curious. Not yet. Perhaps, not ever.
For she felt certain that even this new rebirth would soon undergo yet further transformation.
But this event was still a ways off. Angela's priorities were clear: save Jack from the Maddogs – and if possible, save Laura, too. This latter task was taking on added importance in Angela's mind. Notwithstanding the fact that she had come to love Laura, Angela strongly suspected that her own destiny lay somehow linked to the girl, and that without Laura's survival, her own life (or existence, as it were) was in serious jeopardy.
Yet Angela felt that the prospects for Laura's immediate future were glaringly dismal. Her powerful psychic intuition informed her that Laura would be dead in a few hours. Indeed, the injuries Laura had suffered in the cave should have killed her much earlier. Angela prayed that her heretofore perfect clairvoyance would on this one occasion fail her completely.
"Finished!" Laura declared suddenly, falling against the back wall and sucking in air.
Angela looked down at the spider web of wires and cables.
"What did you do?"
Laura stared at Angela for the first time. Her eyes widened a little – as if only now she realized this creature from beyond the grave, indeed, beyond comprehension was assisting her; was showing kindness to her.
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