The picture again. Not a snake… a tentacle.
A hatchling.
Were they there to kill him? To take revenge?
Hello…
A voice. More pictures, more images. Hatchlings. Hundreds of them, building something, making something.
Something beautiful. Something… holy.
The heat went yet higher. Ogden felt his brain tearing. AC/DC had once sung that “hell ain’t a bad place to be,” yet Ogden knew that was some crazy shit, because he would have done anything to escape this endless agony.
Can you hear me?
The voice. The voice of an angel coming for him. The heat seemed to drop. Just a little, but even that tiny bit felt like a miracle.
Ogden made a noise that was supposed to be a yes, but through the gag it sounded like yay!
Hands touching his head, his hot head. The gag lifting. Fresh breath in his lungs. A foul taste on his thick, sore tongue.
Can you hear me?
“Yes,” Ogden whispered. Was the voice making the heat fade away? He loved that voice.
Good. We need you.
Ogden felt hands lifting him, sitting him in a chair. He looked around. There was Corporal Cope, beaming with love. There was Nurse Brad, drooling, smiling, a saggy-lidded socket where an eye used to be. There was Dustin Climer, grinning, nodding as if he and Ogden shared a secret. They did share a secret, the best secret the world had ever known.
Ogden took a deep breath, trying to handle the new emotions ripping through his soul. “What do you need me to do?”
What you were born to do. Protect the innocent.
Ogden nodded. Protect the innocent. He’d done that his whole life.
We need your men in Deeeee-troit, the voice said. You must hurry, but be careful. The devil will try to stop you. Stop you so he can get to me.
Ogden shook his head. Cope and Climer shook theirs as well.
“They won’t get you,” Charlie said. “I won’t let them.”
Good. Bring your weapons, bring your men.
“But… the men… they don’t all feel like this. I think some won’t see.”
Then you must show them love. Hurry, please hurry.
The voice seemed to wash away on a mental wind. It faded, but the love did not. Charlie Ogden knew what he had to do. He looked at Dustin Climer. “How long did it take for me to see the light?”
Climer checked his wristwatch. “You went under at twenty-one-thirty five, sir. It’s oh-four-thirty, so about seven hours. It only took Corporal Cope four hours to convert. Maybe because he’s younger, sir.”
Ogden knew. He knew exactly when the gate would open. Chelsea had pushed that information into his head, a ticking clock to the beginning of heaven. He had a little over fifty-two hours to make it all happen.
“Corporal Cope,” Ogden said. “Order all troops confined to barracks. Order First Platoon to prevent access to or egress from camp. No one gets in or out, not even a four-star general. Order Second Platoon to conduct detainment drills. They are to immobilize all men in Third and Fourth platoons. Tie them to their bunks, hands and feet. Inform all squad leaders from Third and Fourth platoons to cooperate without hesitation, that I’m evaluating the ability to restrain large numbers of able-bodied individuals. After this is complete, First Platoon is to return to their barracks and wait for further orders.”
“Yes sir,” Corporal Cope said. He moved to the radio.
Ogden turned to Climer. “How many of us are there now?”
“Just us four, including you, sir.”
Ogden nodded and checked his watch. It would take about an hour to restrain Third and Fourth platoons and show them God’s love. Add four to seven hours for the gestation period, and he’d have the first sixty men fully converted a little after noon.
His DOMREC men owned the airport. They could control all movement in and out. Gaylord was still evacuated—the only problems he might face would come from the police, emergency workers, or the media. Reporters were undoubtedly outside the checkpoints, waiting to come in with lights blazing and cameras rolling. He’d have to take his men out at night, using the same back roads they’d guarded since yesterday.
“Corporal Cope.”
“Colonel?”
“Start planning logistics,” Ogden said. “At twenty-three hundred hours, I’m taking Platoons Three and Four to Detroit. Climer, you make sure Platoons One and Two complete the conversion process. By tomorrow they need to be ready to head to Detroit when I call them.”
“Yes sir,” Climer said.
“That leaves Whiskey Company,” Cope said. “What about them, sir?”
The 120 fighting men of Whiskey Company. A wrinkle in his plans. He could convert them, but that would take more time, add risk. Might be best to just avoid them. Leaving them at the Gaylord airport, even after he moved all of X-Ray Company to Detroit, would maintain appearances for Murray and the Gaylord police. Not for long, of course, but now everything was about buying a few hours of discretion here and there.
“Tell Captain Lodge that Whiskey Company is to immediately take over all roadblock work and interaction with law enforcement,” Ogden said. “Whiskey Company is not to interact with anyone from X-Ray Company. Tell Captain Lodge about our detainment drills, and that I need to test Whiskey Company’s ability to operate solo. He and Nails can handle things just fine. That will buy about a day, maybe two, before anyone notices that I’m gone.”
“Yes sir.”
“Come to think of it, Cope, you’d better stay here with Climer,” Ogden said. “Everyone knows your voice, knows you deliver my orders. Who can come with me and operate as my communications man?”
“The most skilled would be Corporal Kinney Johnson, sir,” Cope said. “But to be honest, he’s not too bright.”
“He’ll have to do,” Ogden said. “Make sure he’s in the next batch to be converted. Now get cracking.”
Ogden leaned over the table, staring at the map of Michigan. He could create only so many protectors in the next forty-six hours, and that number paled in comparison to the forces he would face.
Despite the odds, he had to find a way to win. It would take strategy. Grand strategy.
The kind that would put you in the history books forever.
DADDY IS SO SILLY
The building was perfect.
Rusted, once-white metal beams held up a peaked ceiling way above. There were holes in that ceiling. Through them Chelsea could see little patches of early-morning sky, tiny stars still flickering their fading light. She could see the heavens. It was such a long building—her Mickey Mouse watch said it took her thirty seconds to run from one end of the trash-strewn floor to the other. On one side of the building, a second deck and even a third deck looked out over a long, open, central area. There was lots of graffiti. Some naughty words, too. If anyone else came in to paint bad words, Chelsea would have Mr. Jenkins take care of them.
They’d found a big entrance in the back. Mr. Jenkins called it a loading dock. Up above was a metal roll-up door, stuck three-quarters of the way open. Mr. Jenkins said it worked exactly like a roll of paper towels, that people used to just pull it down, but it was rusty and broken. Grafitti-covered plywood blocked the rest of the entrance. Mr. Jenkins had to drive the Winnebago right into the plywood, and the whole wall fell in like one of those drawbridges like in the princess stories. He drove over it, cracking the wood in many places, but then he and Daddy and Old Sam Collins and Mr. Korves were able to put it back up again.