From the man who failed to climb the fence, I took a centerfire combat rifle. I had never used any weapon like it.
I had been raised by a mother who was mentally ill but never institutionalized. She pretended to have suicidal tendencies, though she used her pistol only to intimidate her child. As a consequence, I disliked guns, but I learned to use them. I had come to understand guns, that they were tools and that they were no more evil, in their essence, than pliers and wrenches. At times, they were a necessity. In a world of evil, they were often also a blessing. Now and then, as I’ve said, I was able to fight off a thug with my encyclopedia of unconventional weapons, such as a clarinet, an oboe, and a trombone (a confrontation in a musical-instrument shop), three buckets full of pig slops (not in a musical-instrument shop), a wet mop, coconuts, wasp spray, and once in fact with a twelve-volume encyclopedia. But often firearms saved my life and the lives of others who depended on me.
From personal experience in the orchard, I knew that these fully automatic rifles, as illegal as briefcase nukes, were capable of firing a single round or a deadly burst of bullets. I didn’t know how this one was set or how to change the way it was set. I assumed it was still on fully automatic fire. These lunatics were unlikely to practice gun safety.
From the dead man’s utility belt hung four spare magazines. They appeared to hold perhaps thirty rounds each. On the rifle, I found the release button and ejected the current magazine, slapped a full one in its place. I found the bolt catch. Made sure the bolt was not locked. I recognized the trigger. That was the extent of my knowledge of this kind of weapon. It was going to be a learn-as-you-go event.
I took a spare magazine from the dead man. Put it in an inside sport-coat pocket, tearing the lining in the process. Mr. Bullock would never lend me another garment. I put a second spare magazine in an exterior pocket.
With the rifle slung over my shoulder, I went up and over the fence. How ironic it would have been if someone had shot me in the back as I climbed.
In my mind’s ear, I heard Emory and Carl.
Five or six minutes till maybe they blow that church.…
They’ll blow whatever they find.
The next explosion would be only two or three minutes away now, not five. I didn’t know which church and had no time to go looking for one.
Although math had never been my strongest subject, I could put two and two together. The crew that pursued me through the orchard might or might not be the only one at work this night. They weren’t using all the C-4 to break the dam. They didn’t need all of it for that. They were blowing up anything they encountered.
Ain’t we anarchyists?
It’s pronounced an-are-kists. And no, we aren’t.
I thought we was.
We rule through chaos. That’s different.
The behavior of these cultists wasn’t as insane as I had first thought. They had a strategy and tactics to support it. The almond-processing plant and the church were distractions. Whatever else they blew up in the next hour would also be meant to distract the police, overwhelm them, and leave them with insufficient resources to deal with the true threat when it came.
I needed to call Chief Porter, but I didn’t have time just then. I thought I knew where the farmhouse was, the identity of the woman and her two daughters who were in imminent peril. With all the chaos erupting, the police would never get there in time.
It’s the farmhouse that has you hot.
You, too. You seen the pictures — them two girls, their mother.
They aren’t for us, anyway.
But we can watch it bein’ done.
I’ve already seen it done. Lots of times.
In the midst of sowing chaos, and before the main event of the night, the cultists were intending to take time for a quick religious ceremony. They were going to make an offering to ensure that the prince of this world, his satanic majesty, would look with approval upon the catastrophe that they hoped to bring down upon my beloved Pico Mundo.
Three human sacrifices.
Beyond the orchard fence lay a much-patched single-lane blacktop driveway, dating back decades, cracked and crumbling at the edges, tufts of grass and withered weeds growing through it in places, overhung by California live oaks as old as any trees in Maravilla County. This picturesque lane connected the nearby county road to Blue Sky Ranch, a place with a great deal of history both triumphant and tragic.
I turned at once eastward, into the green night, away from the county road, and I ran for my life, as well as for the lives of the mother and her two daughters who lived on the ranch. If Emory and Carl had their facts straight, I no longer had ten minutes. Maybe seven.
Or six.
Not even half a minute after coming off the fence and setting out for Blue Sky Ranch, I halted when it sounded as though God, in disgust, had slammed his big door on the world. I felt the explosion tremble the ground underfoot, and scores of dead leaves rattled down through the live oaks, falling upon me and around me, as if Death himself, in a mood to mock, were sprinkling me with his equivalent of the holy water that a priest shook upon the faithful from an aspergillum.
I pivoted, searching the night. Stepped between two of the live oaks on the south side of the lane. The brightness overwhelmed my goggles, and I slipped them up onto my forehead. Perhaps a mile away, to the southwest, a hundred- or even two-hundred-foot tower of fire cast off gouts of flaming debris that showered down the night like fireworks out of season.
No church would burn that fiercely, that fast. They had blown up something else. Later I would learn that it was the county highway department’s fuel depot, to which bulk gasoline was periodically delivered for the fueling of all county- and municipal-owned vehicles. A packet of C-4 with a timer had been lowered on a wire into the underground storage tank. With the blast, hundreds of gallons of burning gasoline had been at once spewed high into the night, and thousands of gallons remaining in the ruptured tank had been set ablaze.
Even as I stood awestruck by the cultists’ boldness and by the terrible scope of the destruction they had committed — and must intend yet to commit — another explosion slammed the night. Nearer than the first blast. Perhaps a quarter mile this side of the raging gasoline fire. A fierce flash of white light was at once followed by an oak-shaking bang and an echoing roar, as if Thor, Scandinavian god of thunder and rain, wielding his hammer, Mjölnir, had smote the vault of heaven.
I imagined that some church had just been reduced to rubble.
Nearly two years earlier, before the mass murder at the Green Moon Mall, the lesser coven, that quartet of maniacs led by Officers Bern Eckles and Simon Varner, had distracted me and had fogged my understanding of what was soon to happen. Had they not planted a corpse in my apartment and shot Chief Porter the night before that massacre, I might have put the pieces together more quickly, might have gotten to the mall five minutes sooner. Now I had the sense, yet again, that although these more ambitious cultists had failed to kill me in the cottonwood grove and in the orchard, they had nonetheless put me on the run and distracted me, so that when they pulled the trigger on their main event, I would be crucial minutes late, as before.
I didn’t wait to see the more modest flames that would build now in the wake of the blast. Turning east again, pulling the goggles over my eyes, I sprinted toward Blue Sky Ranch.