But Miranda was on the motorcycle, clinging tight to Cody’s waist. She screamed “Run!” to Rick, and Cody throttled up. The machine shot away from the curb and sped toward Republica Road.
Rick scrambled on his hands and knees up over the curb. He heard the slithering of the thing coming after him, the scrape of the talons on the concrete. He got to his feet and ran north, across a yard and in between two houses. And in that narrow space he stepped on a loose stone and his left foot slid, the ankle twisting with a pain that jabbed all the way to his hipbone. He cried out and fell on his face in the sand and weeds, clutching at his ankle.
The houses on either side of him shuddered and moaned. Boards cracked, plaster dust puffing from the walls. Rick looked back, and saw the dark shape trying to squeeze its body into the space after him, its strength breaking the houses off their foundations.
Eighty yards away, Cody and Miranda were almost across the bridge when something—a human figure—rose up from the smoke directly in front of them. Cody instinctively hit the brakes, started to swerve the machine aside, but there wasn’t enough time. The motorcycle smacked into whoever it was, skidded out of control, and flung both of them off. It crashed into the side of the bridge, the frame bending with a low moan like guitar strings breaking and the front tire flying up into the air. Cody landed on his right side and slid in a fury of friction burns.
He lay curled up and gasping for breath. Fate bit my ass this time, he thought. No, no; must’ve been the Mumbler, he decided. Old fuckin’ Mumbler just crawled up on the bridge and gave us a whack.
Miranda. What had happened to Miranda?
He tried to sit up. Not enough strength yet. There was an awful pain in his left arm, and he thought it might be broken. But he could move the fingers, so that was a good sign. His ribs felt like splintered razors; one or two of them were snapped, for damn sure. He wanted to sleep, just close his eyes and let it all go, but Miranda was somewhere nearby—and so was whatever they’d crashed into. Some protector I turned out to be, he thought. Not worth a damn. Maybe the old man was right after all.
He smelled gasoline. Motor’s tank ruptured. And about two seconds later there was a whump! of fire and orange light flickered. Pieces of the Honda clattered down around him and into the Snake River’s gulley. He got up on his knees, his lungs hitching. Miranda lay on her back about six feet away, her arms and legs splayed like those of a broken doll. He crawled to her. Saw blood on her mouth from a split lower lip and a blue bruise on the side of her face. But she was breathing, and when he spoke her name her eyelids fluttered. He tried to cradle her head, but his fingers found a lump on her skull and he thought he’d better not move her.
Cody heard footsteps—two boots: one clacking, one sliding.
He saw someone lurching toward them from the Bordertown side. Rivulets of gasoline had run from the smashed motorcycle, and the figure kept coming through the fire. It was hunchbacked, with a spiked tail, and as it got nearer Cody could see a grin of needles.
Half of Sonny Crowfield’s head had caved in. Something that shone like gray pus had leaked through the empty left eye socket, and the imprint of a motorcycle tire lay across the cheek like a crimson tattoo. The body jittered, one leg dragging.
It came on across the streams of flame, the cuffs of its jeans smoking and catching fire. The grin never faltered.
Cody crouched over Miranda. He looked for the nail-studded baseball bat but it was gone. The clacking boot and dragging boot closed in, the hunchbacked body and tail of spikes silhouetted by fire. Cody started to rise; he was dead meat now, and he knew it, but maybe he could get his fingers in that remaining eye and jerk it off its strings. Pain shot through his ribs, stole his breath, and hobbled him. He fell back to his side, wheezing for air.
Stinger reached Miranda. Stood over her, staring down. Then a metal-nailed hand slid over her face.
Cody was all used up. There was nothing more. Tears were in his eyes, and he knew Miranda’s head was about to be crushed and there was only one chance to save her life. The words were out of him before he could think twice: “I know who you’re lookin’ for.”
The dripping head lifted. The hand remained clasped to Miranda’s face. She moaned, still mercifully unconscious, and Stinger gripped her hair with the other hand. “The guardian.” The voice was a gurgle of fluids. “Where is she?”
“I… can’t…” Cody felt close to a faint. He didn’t want to tell, and tears burned his eyes but he saw the fingers tighten on Miranda’s face.
“You’ll tell me,” Stinger said, “or I’ll tear this bug’s head off.”
Lying between the two houses on First Street, Rick hugged the ground and started crawling. The monster couldn’t get its body into the space, and neither would the arm reach Rick. He heard a crash that seemed to shake the earth. Timbers flew around him, and he realized the thing was beating the two houses to pieces with its tail. He struggled up, hobbling on his good leg, as roof shingles and shards of wood exploded like bomb blasts. Ahead was a chest-high chainlink fence and on the other side the river’s gulley. He saw fire on the bridge but he had no time to concern himself with what was burning; he clambered over the fence, slid down a slope of red dirt, and lay in the muddy trickle of water. From Bordertown he could hear the crash and shatter of the houses coming apart. In another couple of minutes the creature was going to break through and come across the river. He roused himself, shunting aside the pain in his swollen ankle, and started climbing up the opposite slope toward the rear of the buildings on Cobre Road.
On the bridge barely fifty yards from Rick, Cody Lockett knew his luck—and possibly Daufin’s too—had finally run out. Stinger would destroy the town and everyone in it, starting with Miranda. But the fort was protected from Stinger not only by its foundation of bedrock and its armored windows, but by its electric light. Even if he knew where Daufin was, there was still no way he could get to her. Cody sat up, his brain doing a slow roll, and smiled grimly. “She’s up there,” he said, and pointed to the faint smudge of light. He saw an expression of dismay flicker across the ruined face. “Pretty, huh? Better wear your sunglasses, fuckhead.”
Stinger released Miranda. Both hands gripped Cody’s throat, and the tail thrashed above the boy’s head. “I won’t need sunglasses,” the gurgling voice replied. The face pressed toward Cody’s. “I’m gonna earn my bounty by scoopin’ up some live bugs to take on a little trip. I’m real close to findin’ her pod too. If she doesn’t want to go, that’s fine: she can rot in this shithole. Comprende?”
Cody didn’t answer. The thing’s breath smelled like burned plastic. And then it let go of his throat, put an arm around his waist, and lifted him off the concrete as easily as if he were a child. The pain in his rib cage savaged him, brought cold sweat to his pores. Stinger lifted Miranda with the other arm. Cody tried to thrash loose, but the pain and effort were too much. He passed out, his hands and legs dangling.
Stinger tucked the bodies to his sides and continued walking across the bridge toward Inferno, dragging the malfunctioning leg. He entered a sky-blue house near the intersection of Republica and Cobre roads. The living room had no floor, and Stinger dropped into darkness with his cargo of bugs.
* * *
50
High Ground
Ed Vance and Celeste Preston were sharing a third bottle of Lone Star at the Brandin’ Iron and waiting for the end of the world when they heard the shriek of tires turning onto Travis Street. Several times in the past fifteen minutes the Brandin’ Iron’s floor had shuddered, and a stack of plates had crashed down in the kitchen with a noise that had almost shot Sue Mullinax out of her sneakers. The old-timers who’d been sitting at the back had fled, but Vance didn’t budge off his seat because he knew there was nowhere to run to.
Now, though, it sounded like a lot of cars were heading north up Travis. Sounded like some of them were banging into each other, they were in such a hurry. Vance got off the counter stool and went out to the street.
He could see the headlights and taillights of vehicles roaring along Celeste Street, turning onto Travis, some running up over yards and adding more dust to the thick air. Looked like a mass exodus, but where the hell were they going? He could barely make out the glow of the ’Gade fort, and he figured that was drawing all the cars. They were racing like the devil himself was snapping at their fenders.
He realized Celeste had followed him out. “I’d better get up there and find out what’s goin’ on,” he told her. “Seems that’d be a safe place for you too.”
“I’m gettin’ my ass out of here.” She still had hold of the Lone Star bottle, about three swigs left in it, and she dug into her jumpsuit pocket for her Cadillac keys. “Best thing about that big ole house is, it’s got one hell of a strong basement.” She started around to the driver’s side, but paused before she slid under the wheel. “Hey, Vance!” she called. “Basement’s got a lot of room. Even enough for a fat sumbitch like you.”
It was a tempting offer. Maybe it was the beer sloshing in his belly, or maybe the fact that the light wasn’t worth a damn, but Vance thought at that instant that Celeste Preston was… well… almost pretty.
He wanted to go. Wanted to real bad. But this time the monsters of Cortez Park would not win. He said, “I reckon I’ll stick here.”
“Suit yourself, but I think you’ve seen High Noon too many times.”
“Maybe so.” He opened the patrol-car door. “You take care.”
“Believe it, pardner.” Celeste got into the Cadillac and plugged the key into the ignition.
Vance heard a sound like clay plates cracking. Celeste Street seemed to roll like a slow wave, fissures snaking across the concrete. Sections of the street collapsed, and human figures began to crawl out of the holes. Vance made a choking sound.
Something burst up out of the street next to Celeste’s Cadillac. She looked into the seamed face of a heavyset Mexican woman, and the woman’s hand darted in through the open window and closed on Celeste’s wrist. Celeste stared dumbly at the brown hand, at the saw-blade-edged fingernails digging into her flesh. She had a split second choice of whether to scream or act.
She picked up the beer bottle beside her on the seat and smashed it into the creature’s face. Gray fluid splattered from the slashed cheek. Then she let the scream go, and as she jerked loose, ribbons of flesh flayed off her arm. The thing reached for her again, but Celeste was already squirming out the passenger door. The claws ripped across the back of the driver’s seat.
Celeste tumbled to the curb. The creature hopped nimbly up onto the hood, was about to leap at her—and then Vance shot it point-blank in the head with the Winchester rifle he’d pulled out of the patrol car.
The bullet went through its skull and shattered the windshield; now Vance had the creature’s full attention. He put the next bullet between its eyes, the third one knocking its lower jaw out of joint and fountaining broken needles into the air. It made a shrieking noise and jumped off the hood, its spine bowing and the scorpion tail bursting loose. Its arms and legs elongated, mottled with black scales, and before Vance could fire again the thing scrabbled off and dropped into a hole in the street.
Another hunched and misshapen replicant, its spiked tail weaving like a cobra’s head, rushed out of the smoke at Vance. He had time to see it wore the ooze-wet face of Gil Lockridge and then he started shooting. A bullet ricocheted off the pavement, but the next thunked into the body, staggering the creature, and Vance shot it in the forehead. The tail crashed against the front of Celeste’s Cadillac, caving in the radiator grille, but it backed off and retreated.
An acidic, sickly-sweet smell was in the air. Vance saw other figures scuttling in the haze, and he ran the four strides to the patrol car, popped out the spent clip of bullets, and shoved a fresh one in. He had two more, each holding six cartridges, and those he jammed into his pocket. A third figure lurched toward him. Vance fired twice at it, didn’t know if he did any damage or not but the thing—a scorpion’s body with the dark-haired head of a man—hissed and darted away. “Come on!” Vance shouted, his gaze sliding from side to side and his heart slamming. “This is Texas, you sonsofbitches! We’ll kick your asses!”
But no more of the things rushed him. There were others out there, maybe five or six of them, emerging from the holes like scorpions stirred up from a nest. They were racing toward Travis Street.
Oh Jesus, Vance thought. Stinger’s found out where Daufin is.
There was a crashing sound and the thud of falling bricks. Vance looked to his right, saw the smoke and dust swirling around a shape as long as a train’s engine moving along Celeste Street. He caught a glimpse of a massive spiked tail, and then it slashed from one side to another and the storefronts exploded as if hit by a demolition ball. The thing’s tail swept aside the chainlink fence that surrounded Mack Cade’s used-car lot, hit a car, and knocked it onto its side. Then the thing was clambering through the cars like a roach over food crumbs, and as the tail kept smashing cars Vance saw sparks fly. A pickup truck upended and slid into the street. The creature got amid the cars and madly flailed left and right, and there was a hollow boom of gasoline going up, followed by a leap of red flame that let Vance and Celeste see the black, eight-legged body and the narrow head that was a bizarre combination of horse and scorpion. The thing flung cars in all directions, more fires started up and fed on the ruptured gas tanks, and then it continued its progress through the heart of Inferno.
Vance grasped Celeste’s bleeding arm and pulled her up. Sue Mullinax was standing in the cafe’s doorway, her freckled face milky white as she watched the monster coming. Vance saw that it would be on them in seconds, and its tail was battering everything on both sides of the street. “Get inside!” he yelled at her. She backed into the cafe, and Vance pulled Celeste with him through the door. Sue scrambled over the counter, huddling down beside the refrigerator. Vance heard stones crash into the street: a wall toppling. He dropped the rifle, hefted Celeste Preston and shoved her over the counter, and he was climbing over too when the entire front wall of the Brandin’ Iron imploded in a storm of white stones and mortar. The patrol car slewed in, smashing chairs and tables out of its path. Three fist-sized pieces of rock slammed into Vance’s shoulder and side and knocked him over the counter like a bowling pin.
The roof sagged, the air white with rock dust. Pools of fire burned around the broken oil lamps. The Brandin’ Iron’s front wall was a gaping cavity. Outside, the creature veered to the right, its tail whipping through the front of the House of Beauty, and then it crawled north along the buckled wreckage of Travis Street. In its wake, five more of the smaller things came up out of holes and followed like scavengers after a shark.
In the Hammonds’ house, Scooter was barking fit to bust. Sarge lay on the den floor, his hands covering his head and his body trembling violently. About a minute before, something had hit the wall that faced Celeste Street and the entire house had jumped off its foundations in a shatter of glass and breaking stone. Sarge sat up, his nostrils stung by dust and his eyes wide and glassy with the memories of incoming artillery rounds. Scooter was right beside him, still barking furiously. “Hush,” Sarge said; his voice was a husky rasp. “Hush, Scooter,” he said, and his best friend obeyed.
Sarge stood up. The floor had been knocked crooked. He’d gone into the kitchen ten minutes before to raid the refrigerator and had found a pack of wooden Fire Chief matches, and now he struck one of them and followed its light to the front door.
There was no front door. Most of the wall was gone too. Antitank gun, Sarge thought. Blew a hole clean into the house. He could see the red leap of fires in the direction of Cade’s used-car lot. And something else out there, gliding through the smoke and flames. Tiger tank, he thought. No, no. Two or three Tigers. Maybe more. But he couldn’t hear the clank of treads, and the thing didn’t lumber like a machine. It had the fluid, terrifying power of life.
Celeste Street had broken open. Sarge could see other s
hapes—human-sized, but hunchbacked things that moved with the quick purpose of ants swarming toward a meal.
The match burned his fingers. He shook it out and let it drop, and he retreated from the collapsed wall. Struck another match, because the darkness had claws. Scooter circled his legs, whining nervously. The house was no longer safe; it was laid open like a wound, and at any moment those things in the street might scurry in. Sarge dared not leave the house, but he knew he and Scooter couldn’t stand out in the open like shell-shocked fools, either. He backed out of the den and into a hallway. There was a door on his left; he opened it, faced a closet full of boxes, a vacuum cleaner, other odds and ends. It was too narrow for both himself and Scooter. The match went out, and he struck a third one. Panic was eating into him. He remembered a captain’s face, the man saying, Always take the high ground. He looked up, lifted the match, and found what he was seeking.
At the hallway’s ceiling there was a little recessed square and a cord hanging down about six inches. Sarge reached up, grasped the cord, and pulled it. The square opened, and a folding metal stairway came down. Just as in his own house, there was a small attic. The high ground, Sarge thought. “Go on, Scooter!” he said, and the dog scampered up the steps. Sarge followed. The space was a little larger than the attic in his house, but still there was just enough room to lie flat on his belly. He got himself turned around, pulled the steps back up, and the attic door clicked shut.
1988 - Stinger Page 45
