Inside the cramped bus with the last residents of Panther Ridge, Ethan heard three shots. No one spoke about them, and no one asked any questions of JayDee when Dave helped him up into the bus. Last on was Olivia, who eyes were bloodshot and who looked as if twenty years of heartache and despair had been burdened on her overnight, which Ethan thought was probably true. He stood up so others could sit. He caught a glimpse of Nikki, standing further at the back and staring a hole through him, but he quickly looked away.
The terrible thing was…he knew he was changing. He was becoming something unknown…some kind of nightmare creature…and if he was anything human at all, he was in defiance of the Visible Man, because he figured he had died in the shockblast of a strip mall, and his bruises told the story, but he was not yet dead—as humans used to know death to be—and now his injuries were beginning to speak to him in another language, with a tongue of silver.
“Everybody hold on to somethin’ or someone,” said Hannah as she slid behind the wheel. She turned the lever that closed the door, as she must’ve done a thousand times. She started the engine and heard it knock and complain, but then the wheels started turning, and they were moving away from Panther Ridge, moving out through the wall and the metal-plated door, out into the violent world of cosmic war, out upon the road that led south to Denver and hopefully to pharmacies or hospitals that had not yet been fully looted. And hopefully, then, to some kind of refuge from the madhouse that had claimed the earth, and some kind of safety, wherever that might be. JayDee, sitting with his injured knee outstretched, stared into empty space, and Ethan noted that his blue eyes were moist, and where they had been very clear, they were now dimmed and clouded.
They passed within sight of a neighborhood burned black, everything looking like a firestorm had whirled through. Ethan saw Nikki staring out at it, and he figured her house used to be out there and now there were only ashes and bones, like the rest of the world.
“Looky here, looky here,” said Hannah. She was speaking to Olivia and Dave, who stood near her as the bus rumbled and jounced along. “Three fellas walking our way in the road. One of ’em’s waving us down. Want to stop, or go right on through ’em?”
Both Dave and Olivia could see the three figures ahead, walking in the middle of the road. The one at the center was waving his arms. On one side was a stocky man with long black hair and a beard and on the other a short bald-headed gent in a white shirt who might have been a banker out for his afternoon stroll, except he was filthy and staggering.
“Run ’em down?” Hannah asked. “Take no chances?” She was keeping her foot on the accelerator.
It came to both Olivia and Dave that three people had just been executed—and call it mercy if you want to, but that didn’t make it any easier. Three friends of theirs who had pulled the weight just like everyone else and at the end had been crushed by it. The bus hardly had room for one more person, let alone three…and there was always the chance that these were only counterfeit humans.
But there they were, right in front of the bus, and they weren’t getting off the road and Hannah wasn’t slowing down, and the decision had to be made in a matter of seconds.
Olivia took a deep breath to clear her head, and she made it.
They were not animals yet, and certainly not killers of human beings who could be helped. They had a dozen loaded guns if they needed to use them. They had accepted plenty of wanderers into Panther Ridge. What was the difference now?
“Stop for them,” Olivia said. “Let’s see what the story is. But,” she added, “let’s keep our guns ready.”
Hannah let up on the gas and mashed the brake pedal. The bus neared the three figures and began to slow down. Toward the back of the bus, Ethan was standing in the aisle with people packed all around him, and he could see nothing, but someone passed the word back that there were three men on the road. As the bus stopped with a squeal of protest, Hannah opened the door and pointed her big-ass pistol at the doorway. She called out matter-of-factly, “Any trouble and the first bullet comes from my cannon!”
The three men were talking and made no effort to approach the bus. Olivia said, “Dave, let’s find out what they want,” and they went out, cautiously, with Dave’s Uzi drawn and a .45 Colt automatic in Olivia’s right hand. Her finger was on the trigger, and her mind was set that they could spend only a few minutes here, and whatever these three wanted, they’d better have a good salesman among them.
Sixteen.
“I used to be…like they say…pretty well fixed,” said Burt Ratcoff, as he and Jefferson Jericho followed Vope on the long road that led through destroyed suburbs where no lawnmower would ever growl again and no summer lemonade would ever be poured. “My wife left me six years ago, but I learned to live with it. Kept in touch with our son. Lives in Glendale, California, he’s an insurance adjuster. That one with the talkin’ gecko.” Ratcoff nodded. “Yeah. I bet he’s okay. Him, Jenny, and the girls. They’re okay, I bet. They found someplace to hide, they’re gonna make it. Hey, spaceman! You’re killin’ my legs, I can’t keep up with you! Can you slow down a little…shit!” he said, wincing, and touched the back of his neck.
“I wouldn’t get him angry,” Jefferson said, but he too was short of breath, and his legs were starting to cramp. Had they walked across this entire damned city? It seemed like it. Vope had picked up the pace in the last half hour, as if eager to get to a certain place at a certain time. “Vope!” Jefferson called. “We’re going to have to rest awhile.” There was no response, and the pace did not falter. Jefferson said, “Vope, we’re only human. We’re not…as strong as you are. Our bodies give out, because we’re weak. Will you have some pity on us and let us rest for a few minutes?”
Vope suddenly stopped and turned toward them, and on the disguised face there was a second’s fleeting expression of haughty disdain. “You are weak,” he answered. “You do not deserve a world you are unable to hold. Even…” He paused, searching for a word from his inner dictionary of their language “…slaves are stronger than you.”
“I bow before you knowing I am weaker than a slave,” said Jefferson, keeping his voice light and easy. “But may I ask if we can rest? We’ll be useless to you if our fragile bodies are worn out.”
Vope’s small dark eyes slid toward Ratcoff.
“What he said,” was the New Yorker’s comment.
“Rest, then,” said Vope. “Eat.” He shrugged off his backpack, opened it and brought out two small cubes of the white tofu-like substance that Jefferson knew so well. He held them out to his captives.
“That shit again?” Ratcoff moaned. “What is this, your kind of dog food?”
“Take it and eat it,” Jefferson advised. “I don’t know what it is, but it’ll keep your energy up.” He took one and Ratcoff took the other, and they stood eating the manufactured nutrients under the low yellow sky in the land of the dead. The sun, a faint glow in the humid murk, was on its descent. Jefferson could feel darkness coming, and he didn’t care to be out here with a Gorgon—even one who was supposed to be his protector but had taken the role of master—when night fell.