by Alan Rodgers
It looked like it’d all be over before anyone could do anything to put a stop to him; President Green was threatening to blow the world to kingdom come, and the Official Russian Spokesman was saying that the man with the bomb wasn’t going anywhere but to trial, and from there to the gallows.
Ron took his dinner from the girl in the Burger King, parked the car in a spot a few feet away, and killed the engine. He turned off the headlights and turned the key back past the lock position so he could listen to the radio as he ate.
When the announcer finished reading the report, there was a tape of another man, giving a analysis of the situation. After him there was another, and another. Nothing that any of the analysts said was new. The things they had to say were interesting, and for a while Ron listened carefully — until they began to sound like parrots, repeating the same terrifying things over and over and over. . . . Before the last of them was done Ron turned off the radio, set his Whopper on the seat beside him, and sat there with his head against the steering wheel fretting quietly.
He was still sitting like that when the old woman tapped on his window. He didn’t feel like talking to her — he wouldn’t have wanted to talk to anyone just then — but he rolled the window down anyway, because it wasn’t polite to ignore somebody when they were that close by.
“Have you heard the word, brother?” she asked him once the window was all the way down. Her eyes were all lit up and crazy-looking, and there was a tiny drop of spittle oozing from the left corner of her mouth.
“Uh. . . ?” Ron blinked. “Which word? Or about what, I guess.”
She smiled at him, and Ron shuddered at the strangeness of that expression on a face so . . . worn. She was missing three teeth from the front of her mouth; two from the top and one from her lower jaw. And her blotchy, wrinkled skin was caked filthy with dirt.
“The word,” she said. “The word.” She reached down into one of the deep pockets of her overcoat and fished around until she found a tiny pamphlet, a little newsprint thing no bigger than Ron’s hand. “Take this. It’s important. You need it,” she said, and she thrust it at him. Reached right in through the open window and shoved it to within an inch and a half of Ron’s nose.
Her hand was so close to his nose that he could smell it, and he didn’t want to think about where it smelled like it had been.
“What — ?” Ron asked, but he knew what. Even though the pamphlet was too close to his eyes to focus on he recognized it; he’d found one just like it once, left on the seat of a bus. It was a comic book, sort of. Or maybe it was a religious diatribe in comic book form.
Two inches tall by four wide, printed on coarse white paper. And there in the upper left corner was that symbol: a cross with a circle that overlapped its top and right branches, and just above it, a tiny figure of a dove.
Those people again. Sometimes it seemed as though they were everywhere. Or as though their symbol was. Ron had even seen it on a few of those hardbound books in Herman Bonner’s office.
He took the leaflet from the woman, and opened it, at least partly to get the scent of her hand away from his nose.
“Read it,” she said. “You need to know.”
He leafed through the pages, and as he did he felt an awful chill: the comic book was exactly what he’d thought it was. Not the same one he’d seen before, but something an awful lot like it.
And worse, too. It was all about the Book of Revelation, and about the Apocalypse.
“Two dollars,” the woman said.
“What?” Ron shook his head — not to say no, but to clear it.
“Now you’ve got to give me two dollars. For the Word. To pay me, so that I can afford to spread it to others, too.”
Ron almost closed the booklet and handed it back to her. Bad enough that the woman was going around handing out tracts. Asking for money for them? It was too much.
Then it occurred to him that he actually wanted to read it. And what with the end of the world coming any moment now, what did money matter, anyway?
So he reached into his pocket, took out three one-dollar bills, and handed them to the woman. Before she could try to sell him anything else he rolled up his window, started the engine, and pulled out of the parking spot.
He thought about pulling over someplace, stopping to read the comic book, finish his burger. Glanced at his watch, read it by the light of a streetlight passing overhead. There wasn’t time; he’d been away from the institute for more than an hour already, and even if there was a bomb scare going on, it was time to get back. Besides, the smell of that woman had pretty much killed his appetite — what little of it the radio report hadn’t took care of.
He tossed the leaflet onto the dash, and forgot all about it.
When he got back to the institute the security guard was sitting in his booth looking bored. He had a television in there with him, and it was making a dumb racket. The man looked up from the screen, saw Ron, and pressed the switch that lifted the gate for him.
“Bomb scare over yet?” Ron asked. The guard frowned vacantly and shook his head. Ron was about to ask him what exactly was going on, but the guard was already watching the TV again, watching in such a video trance that Ron didn’t think the guy would hear the question if he asked it.
So he took his foot off the brake and drove on to the parking lot, where half a dozen people were sitting around on the hoods of cars looking tired and impatient under the street lights. The professional staff had all headed home a while back, from the look of things; the only ones there were the two guys from maintenance, Ralph Hernandez, and the three other night-shift janitors. The situation was written all over their faces — the bomb scare was a bust, as dead and stupid as Ralph had said it would be when he got on the intercom. The bomb scare was a bust, and security wasn’t taking any chances, security was going to search the whole institute, top to bottom, end to end, and Ron and Ralph and the rest of the night crew were going to have to spend the whole night sitting in the parking lot, staring at each other.
And there was not a damned thing to do but sit back and try to enjoy it.
Ron parked the car and cut the engine. It hung on knocking for thirty seconds after he turned off the ignition, and he promised himself for at least the thousandth time that he was going to break down and spend the money he needed to spend on that valve job.
When it was finally quiet he opened the car door and looked at the supervisor. “So, Ralph,” he said, “why don’t you let us call it a night and head out of here? We aren’t going to be able to get anything else done tonight. You know that as well as I do.”
Ralph shook his head. “Forget it.”
Ron was going to ask him why — rib him, maybe, about being too cheap to let them go, even when there was nothing for anyone to do, but then Hernandez turned, and his face was shifted into the light, and Ron saw that the man’s expression was tense and sour. Something was eating him, enough to put him in the sort of mood that Ron didn’t want to have anything to do with. It was better, much better, to just let it go. Better to be bored than have the man take a leak on you.
The way the stray dog, the one Ron called Tom, was taking a leak against one of the shrubs near the corner of the institute’s north building.
He nodded at the supervisor, to let him know that the matter was dropped, and sighed. Everyone was quiet, too quiet, as though they’d all asked the same question before, and maybe hadn’t had the sense to let the matter go soon enough. Ron called the dog, more to break the tension than because he wanted to see the mangy thing.
“C’mere, Tom. Come on over here. That’s a boy.” For a stray, Tom was incredibly trusting. He didn’t have a collar, but his brown coat was generally pretty clean — clean enough that sometimes Ron wondered whether the dog was a stray at all.
It took the dog a couple of minutes to walk across the closely trimmed lawn; Tom wasn’t in any hurry.
The dog only hurried when he caught sight of a rabbit or a squirrel, which wasn’t all that often since he was too nearsighted to see anything more than a couple dozen yards away. When Tom did see that squirrel, though, then he’d run — run like Ron didn’t know what. Fast. So fast that it was hard to believe it was the same dog.
Another thing that made it hard to believe that Tom was a stray was the fact that he never ate what he caught. The poor dog never even seemed to know what to do with a squirrel once he’d got ahold of it. Tom would just stand there, holding the thing down with one paw, and sooner or later the squirrel would realize it was still alive, and it’d take its nasty little claws or its tiny wicked-sharp teeth, and it’d start wreaking havoc with old Tom’s foreleg. And the dog would yelp — almost scream — with surprise and terror, and he’d take off running like he thought the sky was falling.
Ron had seen it happen exactly like that, at least half a dozen times.
He turned in the car seat so that his legs hung out the door and his feet rested on the blacktop, watched the dog pace the last few yards toward him. Tom’s tongue was hanging out, and he was panting, and he looked about as happy as a dog ever looks. He stopped a few inches from Ron’s feet and sat down, panting, watching Ron expectantly.
“Heya, old boy. What’s up with you, huh?” Ron stooped over and patted the dog on the head. “You hungry, boy?” Ron didn’t have to wait for an answer; Tom was always hungry enough to eat your leftovers. Ron fished around on the passenger seat behind him until he found what was left of the Whopper he’d bought for dinner.
He tore the sandwich into bites he didn’t think would choke the dog, and Tom took it from him eagerly. Eagerly, but not so eagerly that Ron was in any danger of losing a finger. When it was gone the dog sat up on his hindquarters and begged for more.
“Sorry, Tom. Ain’t nothing else to give you.” The dog didn’t take that for an answer; he sat there, patient as a statue, panting and staring at Ron like a hungry orphan. Ron patted the dog’s head and told him that he was a bum and a thief, but he couldn’t manage to make himself say it in a tone that would make the dog ease off. Then he noticed the weathered stick on the blacktop not far from his feet. Bent down, picked up the stick, teased Tom with it a little; once Ron was sure he had the dog’s attention he threw the stick hard as he could in the general direction of the north building. It flew out over the parking lot, and farther — it finally landed twenty yards into the lawn. Tom went chasing after it almost as hard as he chased after squirrels.
Ron had played this game with the stray before; the dog had some pretty strange ideas about playing fetch. Once Tom had the stick in his teeth he’d chew at it for a while, and eventually he’d carry it back to Ron. But he wouldn’t give it to him. Instead, he’d taunt Ron with it, offer it to him and back away. Either that or show Ron he had it and carry it off in the opposite direction. Or lie on the ground and chew it like a bone, which was what he did this time.
That was fine by Ron.
Tom was still splayed out on the grass gnawing at the stick when Ben Hooper from Security came out of the north building. At first Ron was relieved to see him; if Hooper was coming out of the building, then most likely it meant that Security was finally through with the search, and that meant that they could finally get back to work. Not that Ron was all that eager to finish collecting the trash and start mopping the fifth floor, but it was a damn sight more interesting than sitting in the parking lot contemplating the lawn.
Then Hooper got a little closer, close enough to see his face clearly, and in the time it took to blink relief was gone and dread was in its place.
Hooper was scared. Pasty-faced, and sweating, and scared.
Oh shit.
“What’s the good news, Ben?” Ralph Hernandez called out from his place on the fender of an old white Ford. Ralph was nearsighted — even with his contacts there was no way he could see Ben Hooper’s face clearly from that distance. “We finally going to be able to get back to work?”
Hooper shook his head. “No good news at all. In fact, I’m going to have to ask you all to move your cars back to the far end of the parking lot. We got a live one in there right now. Lucky it didn’t go off already — would have, too. Looks like there’s something wrong with the clock they got wired to the damn thing. Got to call in the bomb squad from the county sheriff’s department. Even clearing the Security people out of there.”
Ralph’s dark face went slack and pale. “Goddamn.” He rubbed his eyes and looked around kind of queasy-like. “Christ all mighty.” He coughed and swallowed. “You heard him, everybody. Better get a move on. . . . No. The hell with that. Enough of this shit. All of you might as well get the hell out of here. There’s no way they’re going to get this taken care of before the shift’s through. And it isn’t safe, anyway. Go on home. You left any loose ends, you try and be up early enough in the morning to give the morning shift a call and let them know what’s what.”
Thank God, Ron thought. Or thank Ralph anyway.
“I think that’s just as well,” Hooper said. “I don’t know that anywhere on the grounds here is going to be safe if this damn thing goes off.”
Ralph Hernandez nodded. He was already in his Buick; the engine was already running. Before Ron thought to say good night to him he was half-way across the parking lot, heading toward the gate at a speed that wasn’t especially safe.
Ron waved to Hooper and started his own engine. For a moment he thought about the stray dog, Tom, who was still there on the institute lawn, wearing away at the stick like there wasn’t anything special going on. Maybe, Ron thought, he should get the dog in the car and drive him off the institute grounds, or at least shoo him out the gate. But the stray was a stray, damn it. The dog was its own master. And besides, Security was always trying to shoo that dog off the grounds, and the damn thing never went in the direction they meant it to. Ron could end up spending an hour getting Tom the dog out the gate, and even then he wouldn’t know for sure if the damn thing hadn’t decided to hide in the bushes right beside the building where the bomb was, and he wouldn’t know that it wouldn’t just wander back in through under the barrier as soon as he was gone.
So Ron put the car into gear, and started toward the gate. He was the last one to get clear of it.
And went home, and slept — earlier than he usually got to bed. Sleeping wasn’t any use; all night he dreamed of terrorists and bombs and nuclear explosions that woke him, and wore him, and sent him sliding back down toward miserable sleep.
THURSDAY
July Fourteenth
(Radio Moscow shortwave broadcast
9.720 mHz.
01:00 UTC, Thursday, July 14.)
. . . .our Views tonight on News & Views come from Pravda correspondent Gregor Samsa, who is concerned and upset over recent events in the United States. Gregor?
Thanks, Anna. You are right: I am upset about the events in Washington these last few weeks. And frightened as well. And I know that I speak for the entire Russian people when I say that I begin to grow angry and impatient with the constant bullying and humiliation we receive from the American President.
In recent weeks he has threatened us, belittled us, and insulted our nation beyond all reason. And for most of that time we have abided his abuse, for our collective heart was still heavy for the death of his wife in our land.
Now a madman has attempted to smuggle a nuclear device into our borders. By all appearances the criminal is the personal emissary of President Paul Green; certainly it is beyond doubt that they are close friends of long standing — and it is equally apparent that no one else in the United States government was remotely involved in this attempted crime against all humanity.
Our grief over the death of Ada Green is still boundless, but we cannot allow ourselves to be cowed. The demands that Paul Green has made upon us are preposterous. We will not free the man who would
have murdered so many millions of people. The nuclear criminal will be prosecuted. And in due course — after a fair, open, and public trial — he will be executed.
³ ³ ³
Chapter Two
MOUNTAINVILLE, TENNESSEE
Ron prided himself on the fact that he was still in school.
He hadn’t come from the sort of family where anyone expected to graduate from high school, let alone college; he’d dropped out a month and a half after he turned sixteen. Then he’d got himself into trouble a few times, but the law didn’t get very serious with you when you weren’t yet eighteen, and he’d only got himself into more trouble.
Then, the year he’d turned nineteen, Ron and two friends had got drunk out of their minds and gone shoplifting for beer in a convenience store at three a.m., and they’d been so drunk and so blatant that the clerk had seen them at it. And if that’d been all that had happened — if the clerk had been sensible and just shaken his head and called the law as soon as Ron and his friends were done — if that were all that had come of it he would have come out of it okay. Even if the cops had somehow traced them down and arrested them. Shoplifting could get you put in jail, but not in prison.
It didn’t happen that way at all.
The clerk got tough with them, tough like he’d been ripped off a thousand times and finally had his chance to do something about it. He got a baseball bat out from somewhere, and stood in front of the door and locked it.
“You boys ain’t going anyplace,” the clerk said.
And Billy Wallace was too drunk to see exactly how mad the clerk was, and he’d gone at the clerk ready to grab the bat and good-naturedly whop him upside the head. But the clerk wasn’t drunk, and he was serious, and he’d bashed Billy so hard and so fast that before Ron and Joey Harris even knew what they were doing they were jumping on the guy to keep him from pounding Billy into a bright-red pulp.
