Armageddon's Children Part 27

Owl wheeled, dark eyes intense. "How did this happen?" she asked, a mix of amazement and deep suspicion mirrored on her face. "We all saw it. He was dying, Hawk."

Hawk shook his head. He was as confused as she was, although for different reasons. He knew what had happened, knew the part he had played in it, but didn't understand how it could possibly be.

"That dog, that's a devil dog," Panther murmured, looking over at Cheney, his brow furrowed. "Ain't no way he should be walking around. He was all tore up, couldn't hardly draw a breath. Now he's moving like he's just the same as always." He shook his head. "Yeah, he's a devil dog, all right."

Candle glanced up from where she knelt beside Cheney, saw that Hawk was awake, and rushed over to give him a big hug. "Isn't it wonderful?" she whispered.

Hawk guessed it was. He guessed it was a miracle of sorts, although he thought it was something else, too-something more personal and more mysterious, perhaps, than even a miracle. He wanted to understand, but at the same time he was afraid of what he might learn. Cheney had indeed been dying, so far gone that he barely knew that it was Hawk who cradled his big head, his eyes glazed and his breathing harsh and ragged. There was nothing anyone could do for him, nothing that could save him, and yet. ..

Yet Hawk had saved him.

How had he done that?

He detached himself from Candle, climbed to his feet, and walked over to where Cheney lay quietly in place, his drink finished. The yellow eyes shifted to find Hawk as he approached, no longer glazed, but sharp and clear. Hawk knelt next to him, running his hands over the thick coat, across the grizzled head, pausing to scratch the heavy ears. Every injury had healed. There were ridges of scar beneath the fur-as if the injuries had all occurred a long time ago-but Cheney's coat was virtually unmarked.

Hawk looked down at the big dog, wondering if he were imagining his part in all this. Maybe he only thought he had done something by wishing for it.

Maybe the injuries hadn't been as severe as they all presumed, more superficial than they seemed, and . . .

He stopped himself. He was being foolish. He hadn't imagined anything about those injuries. No, something had happened last night, something between himself and Cheney that only they had been witness to, something that he didn't yet understand.

Or might never understand.

He rose, feeling alien to himself. He wasn't the same person anymore. He was someone else entirely because only someone else, someone he didn't know anything about, could have done for Cheney what he had done.

"Look at him," Panther murmured. "He knows something, but he ain't telling. Devil dogs don't ever tell."

Hawk put them all to work then, deciding that it was better to just get on with things rather than sit around puzzling over mysteries. Given yesterday's events, he knew instinctively what was needed. For the next few days, they would live aboveground on one of the upper floors of the building. It wasn't as safe as he would have liked, but nothing felt very safe at the moment. He delegated Fixit and Chalk to choose a set of rooms that could be closed off and defended.

They would move today, taking with them what they could carry of stores and necessities, and leave the rest for later. They would leave the carca.s.s of the giant centipede, as well. It was too heavy and too c.u.mbersome to try to move, and there was little reason to do so in any case. He hoped there weren't any more of these monsters, that there had been only the one, a mutation that had climbed out of the sewers and underground tunnels. Where it had come from and what had caused its mutation were mysteries he doubted any of them would ever solve. But at least they knew now what they should look for if the killings and mutilations of the Lizards and Croaks and other tribes continued.

As he joined the others for a quick breakfast, served cold and salvaged from amid the debris of the kitchen area, he found himself thinking anew of the signs he had missed. He should have been more alert after encountering the savaged Lizard and hearing of the dead Croaks. He should have known to keep his guard up after Candle's sense of danger in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the old warehouse where they'd retrieved the purification tablets. He felt certain now that bas.e.m.e.nt had been the centipede's lair. It must have nested there, then gone out searching for food. Somehow it had tracked Tiger and the Cats, caught them off guard, and killed them before they could defend themselves. Then it had tracked the Ghosts back to their underground home, wormed its way in through the old air ducts, and dug down through the ceiling.

He shook his head, a mental image forming of a nightmarish creature, a monster that could burrow through steel mesh, plaster, and concrete.

It made him wonder anew at Sparrow's bravery in standing up to it to protect Owl and Squirrel. He glanced over at her, making sure she was still the same little girl, that she wasn't somehow changed in the way he felt himself changed. She sat eating quietly, not saying much, her face composed beneath her mop of straw-colored hair. She looked the same, but he didn't think she was. How could she be?

She caught him looking. He smiled and gave her a wink. She smiled back uncertainly and then went on eating.

When they were finished, he sent Chalk and Fixit off on their search for new quarters and Panther and Bear down to the waterfront to find River and the Weatherman. After what had happened, he couldn't bring himself to leave the girl and her grandfather out there unprotected, plague or not. He would isolate them in one of the upstairs rooms, somewhere they would be as safe as he could make them. Maybe Owl would know what to do to help the old man, once she saw the symptoms. If not, they would simply do the best they could for him until it was time to leave the city.

And they were leaving, that much he knew for certain. He had been debating it for days now, but the unexpected appearance of the giant centipede had decided him. Staying in the city was too dangerous. Things were changing, some of them visible, some that he simply sensed. He didn't think they should be around to see how it would all turn out. It was time to fulfill the vision, even if he wasn't certain how to do so. It was time to take his family and find the home the vision had promised them.

That meant convincing Tessa to come with them. He didn't know how he was going to do that, either. He only knew he would have to find a way. He would meet with her tonight, at their prearranged place, and he would tell her what he was going to do. Then he would convince her in whatever way he could, using whatever means were necessary, to come away with him.

He went to work with Owl and Sparrow, gathering up the supplies and equipment they would need to take with them, making preparations for the move upstairs. Chalk and Fixit returned shortly after to say they had found a suitable place. On going with them to inspect it, Hawk found it adequate, a series of rooms with more than one exit, not too far up, not too exposed, a perfect compromise. It wasn't as secure as the underground, but then the underground hadn't turned out to be all that secure, either.

By the time Panther and Bear returned carrying the Weatherman on a makeshift litter with River trailing after, they were ready to install the girl and her grandfather in a room that was physically isolated from the others, but still close enough that they could be protected. The Weatherman looked the same, still covered in purple splotches, still feverish and unresponsive. River hugged Hawk and told him how much it meant to her that he was doing this, and he hugged her back and reminded her again that they were family and must look out for one another. Panther slouched around muttering that they had all lost their minds, that taking chances was becoming a way of life and he, for one, wanted no part of it. Then he pitched in with the rest of them to haul supplies up the stairs to their new quarters.

It took them all day to finish their work. By then, Owl had examined the Weatherman and done some more reading on types of plagues. She thought she understood the nature of the one the old man had contracted and how best to treat it. She instructed River on what to do, using a combination of medicines she already had, if only in limited quant.i.ties, liquids to keep him for dehydrating and cold cloths intended to bring down his fever. It was rudimentary, but it was all they had. Hawk promised to speak with Tessa about it when he saw her that night, already knowing that it wouldn't make any difference, that he was not going to allow her to go back inside the compound, even for additional medicines.

By sunset, the Ghosts had everything pretty much in order and had settled in for the night. Cheney was back guarding the doors, his strength returned at least in part, and Hawk had established a schedule for two-hour guard shifts until dawn. There was no point in taking chances, even knowing how reliable Cheney was. It would only be for a few days, and then they would be gone from the city and everything would change. He tried thinking of what that meant and failed. He knew he couldn't hope to foresee everything, even though he desperately wanted to end the uncertainty. He would have to take their departure and their journey one day at a time and hope that he would discover what he needed to know along the way. It was a big risk, but he had the feeling that staying put and hoping for the best was a bigger risk.

Sometimes, you just had to trust in things. He believed that if they stayed together and looked out for one another, that would be enough.

It was deep twilight when he left the building for his meeting with Tessa.

From the weapons locker, he took one of the prods and a pair of viper-p.r.i.c.ks along with his hunting knife. He considered taking Cheney, as well, but he was worried that the big dog might not be fully recovered and did not wish to put him in harm's way until he was. He had made this journey many times, and he knew how to go in order to stay safe. He would just have to be extra careful.

"Keep everyone inside," he told Owl, bending close so that the others couldn't hear. "If anything goes wrong, don't separate-stick together. I'll try to be quick."

She gave a small nod, but her eyes reflected her misgivings. "What will you do if she won't come back with you?"

He hadn't talked to her about what he intended, but Owl could read his thoughts as easily as she could read her books. She knew what he was going to attempt and what he was up against.

He smiled rea.s.suringly. "She'll come."

"Promise me that if she chooses not to-no, wait, let me finish-if she chooses not to, you will come back anyway. You won't go into the compound and you won't hang around waiting for her to change her mind."

Her eyes searched his, waiting. When he hesitated, she said, "We need you, Hawk. We can't do this without you. Promise me."

He understood. He bit his lip, looked at his feet, then said, "I'll come back, I promise."

He said his good-byes to the others, went out through the heavy door that Fixit had rigged to protect their common room, and descended the stairs to the street. Standing just inside the door, he looked out at the shadowy shapes of the derelict vehicles and rubble mounds.

Then, taking a deep breath, he set off toward the compound, wanting to get this over with. He moved to the center of the street, giving a sweeping glance to his surroundings as he went, but not slowing as he did so. He had an uneasy feeling about being out here alone in the dark in violation of his own rule that no one should ever go out alone at night. He shivered as the wind blew in off the sound, chill and cutting. It felt wrong going without Cheney, despite what he had told himself. But there was no help for it. He would have to rely on his own instincts.

But his instincts weren't like Cheney's.

Besides which, he was tired and preoccupied.

Which was probably why he missed seeing the shadowy figure standing in the doorway across the street, watching him go.

THE WALK UP First Avenue toward the compound was still and hollow feeling and filled with shadows and ghosts. Hawk held the prod ready to use in front of him and himself in the center of the street, away from places where predators might lurk. He kept up a steady scan of his surroundings, searching out movement and strangeness and unexpected sounds that could signal danger, but found nothing. He knew he wasn't alone in the night, but it felt to him as if he might be. He was content with that, and his thoughts drifted.

Mostly, they found their way to mulling over what had happened with Cheney the night before. He could not stop thinking about it. He kept remembering how he had begged for a miracle and how that miracle had happened. He kept remembering the way his body had changed when the healing had begun, turning hot from the inside out-how a kind of energy had flowed out of him and into the big dog. He kept remembering how Cheney had responded, almost instantaneously, and then begun recover right before his eyes. Had he really been responsible?

Accepting this changed everything he believed about himself and his place in the world. If in fact he had healed the big dog, then he was possessed of a power that transcended anything he had even imagined possible. It meant that he really didn't know himself at all, and that was disturbing. He had never been anything special, never anything but an ordinary boy trying to survive in a world where boys were eaten up and spit out regularly. Now he had to consider the possibility that he was something more than a boy with a special vision.

He thought about that for a moment, wondering if it were possible that the vision was in some way connected to what had happened to Cheney. Even accepting that Cheney had been healed because of something he had done or something inside him that had responded to his desperate need to help his dog, it was a stretch to believe that this had anything to do with his vision. But he couldn't quite discount it, either. The two marked him as different when nothing else did, so it was possible that they had a similar source.

But what was the nature of that source? Had he been born with it? Had he acquired it? Everything about it-whatever it was-was a mystery.

He slowed, still aware of his surroundings, but caught up in his exploration of what might be the truth about him. It occurred to him that had never experienced a clear and complete elucidation of his vision. It had only come to him in pieces and only occasionally since that first time. It had never revealed itself fully, not even enough so that he knew where it was supposed to take him and those he led. He had trusted in it, but in truth he had never really understood it.

Did that make him a fool? He had never thought so, had never believed he was being misled or deceiving himself about what he was meant to do. He had acted on faith, and that had always seemed enough. But a closer examination gave him pause. Following a vision that was incomplete and unsupported by anything concrete did not seem all that intelligent.

And yet he believed in it. Even now, despite everything-or maybe even because of it-he still believed.

Ahead, something moved in the shadows off to one side, something that walked on two legs. He slowed further, moved away from it, and then watched it fade back into the darkness and disappear. Another creature of the night, like himself. Hunting. Trying to find its way, perhaps. Seeking a place in the world, just as he was.

He shook his head. He was being foolish with that sort of poetic thinking.

Everything was predator or prey. Everything hunted or was being hunted. The only unknown at any given moment was your own place in the food chain. It was as simple as that.

He shrugged against the chill of the wind as he pa.s.sed out of the shelter of the buildings and into the openness that surrounded the compound. He was too far away to be seen, but he would have to be more careful as he got closer, would have to make certain he blended in completely with his surroundings. The compound was still a dark featureless bulk ahead with only a scattering of lights visible against its black surface, tiny eyes looking out. He could hear voices, faint and distant. It always felt vaguely surreal, looking in from the outside, as if he were newly arrived from a faraway place. It always reminded him that he could never fit in.

He dropped into a crouch and began working his way toward the transportation shelter where Tessa would be waiting. He crossed the open ground in short spurts, pausing often to look at and listen to his surroundings- watchful, ready. But there was no sign of movement on the compound walls, no indication of anything out of the ordinary. He pa.s.sed through a frozen landscape, empty and lifeless. Or seemingly so, like so much of the rest of the world. He wondered again how it had felt when the city was alive and bright with lights and filled with the sound of voices and laughter. He could not imagine it.

Off to one side, deep in the shadows, a sc.r.a.ping broke the veil of stillness, causing him to freeze in place. He waited, listening. But the sound was not repeated, and he saw nothing move. He waited some more, watching the lights on the walls of the compound, searching for any change in his surroundings.

Finally, satisfied that it was safe, he began to move forward once more.

The concrete ap.r.o.n surrounding the old bus station was clogged with piles of rubble, and he was able to move easily from one pile to the next with only brief moments in the open. It was dark enough that he couldn't be seen from the walls, so mostly he worried about what might be hiding close at hand. It was unlikely that predators would lie in wait here, a place so empty of life and so close to the compound walls. It was simply too dangerous and unproductive to do so. In all the times he had met Tessa, he had never once encountered a Freak, let alone a human being. He did not expect that to change tonight.

He reached the bus shelter and slipped noiselessly inside, hunkering down as he took a quick look around. Nothing. He turned to the steps leading to the underground tunnel door, easing forward until he was below the lip of the stairwell and hidden from view. He paused again, staring at the door and gathering his thoughts, trying to think through what he was going to say to Tessa. He had to persuade her, had to convince her that coming back with him was the only sensible thing to do. But with her father disappeared, would she be willing to leave her mother alone? His thoughts spun like windblown leaves.

Perhaps her father had returned. Perhaps her mother had already told her she should do what she thought best. Perhaps Tessa had come around to his way of thinking already.

Perhaps he was dreaming.

He brushed aside his misgivings and moved all the way down to the bottom of the stairs, where he stood before the doorway. Something made him hesitate, something about the way the closed door made him feel. He couldn't identify its origin, but it was strong enough to make him pause.

Then he rapped sharply on the door, two hard and one soft.

Instantly the locks on the door released and the door opened into blackness. Hands appeared out of the dark-two pairs, three, more- seizing his arms and fastening on the prod's insulated handle so that he could not bring it to bear. Bodies surged through the opening and slammed into him, bearing him to the floor. He fought like a wild beast, knowing what was happening, desperate to break free. But the hands had a firm grip on him, and he could not escape.

He had time to shout once in dismay, then something crashed into his head and he tumbled into blackness.

Chapter TWENTY-SIX.

LOGAN TOM STOOD motionless in the deep shadows across the street as the boy emerged from the doorway, looked around carefully, and then started walking.

He could tell, even in the bad light, that it was only a boy he was looking at and not a man. The boy seemed to know where he was going; he did not hesitate in choosing his path and picking his way through the rubble-strewn landscape. This was familiar territory to him. A street kid, Logan thought. How many others were hiding inside the building this one had come out of? Which one was the gypsy morph?

Because he was certain by now that one of them was. He could feel the finger bones shifting restlessly in his pocket. They had begun doing so earlier in the day, when he had first reached the edge of the city. He had thrown them again to make certain he was on track, watched them gather and point right at the heart of the downtown, then pocketed them once more. Almost immediately he had felt them begin to shift and stir, making a faint clicking sound as they knocked together. It had startled him so he had been forced to fight down a strong sense of revulsion.

By now, hours later, he was used to it. Evidently, they were responding to the closeness of the morph. It was a strange sensation, having them move around like that, but it meant that his journey was almost over, his search nearly ended. His last cast of the bones had brought him directly to this square and the empty buildings surrounding it, but he had known immediately where the morph was to be found.

He thought momentarily about going after the kid on the street, and then decided against it. Any attempt to confront him here might cause him to cry out and alert the others. He didn't want the whole bunch of them scattering to the four winds. Better to let this one go and concentrate on the others.

He watched the boy disappear into the gloom, remained where he was for several minutes more, then stepped out of the shadows and started across the street.

His instincts and the force of his magic told him that the building he was about to enter was occupied. He could hear movement within. The finger bones knew it, too. Their rustling inside his clothing grew almost frantic.

He reached the doorway from which the boy had emerged and paused. Nothing seemed amiss. He could still hear the scurrying sounds of the occupants inside, somewhere upstairs from where he stood. He turned and looked around carefully, making certain he had missed nothing in his approach. But the night was empty and still, the square a graveyard of old vehicles, fallen walls, and windblown trash. There was a parched and bitter quality to everything that matched what he had found in the countryside he had pa.s.sed through to get here. The feelings it engendered were the same-of a time and place, of a world and its inhabitants, pa.s.sing into dust.

He thought back momentarily to two nights earlier, when he had encountered the ghosts of the dead in the mountains. The deadening he had experienced coming out of that strange and terrible encounter had lessened by now, and he had come back to himself from the dream world of the mist. Ghosts, he knew, must be relegated to the past; the future was for the living. Knights of the Word lived with one foot in the past, the legacy of their dreams, but their purpose in waking was to serve the future. He struggled with this. He knew he always would.

There was a joining of sleep and waking, of past and present, that could not be completely sorted out. Yet his mission in coming here, in finding the gypsy morph, transcended the confusion and misgivings and fears to which such a joining gave birth. What he would do here might change the destiny of the human race. His belief in that possibility demanded that he put aside everything else, everything personal, until he had done what he had been sent to do.

Inside his head, the ghosts chattered and laughed like small animals, and the steel of his determination shivered.

He proceeded through the doorway into the near blackness of a small entry, found the stairway beyond, and began to climb. He went slowly and silently, not wanting to alert the street kids to his presence, not wanting them to have a reason to bolt and scatter. It wasn't that he was afraid of losing the morph.

But tracking down the morph, if it fled, would consume time he was not sure he had. Other forces were at work, and sooner or later he would come up against them. He did not want that to happen before his quest was complete.

He found the street kids on the night-shrouded fourth floor, barricaded behind a heavy iron-sheeted door. By then, they had gone quiet, alerted to his presence. Perhaps they had heard him approach. Perhaps they had simply sensed him. They possessed preternatural instincts or they would not still be alive. He looked up and down the hallway through the gloom for clues and found none. He looked again at the door. He could hear them breathing, right on the other side of the barrier. Interestingly, they had not fled. That meant they were prepared for intruders and not afraid. He would have to be careful.

"My name is Logan Tom," he said to the door. "Can one of you talk to me?"

No answer. He waited awhile longer, and then said, "I am not here to harm you. I am looking for someone. I have come a long way to find this person. I think you can help me do that."

Still no answer. But there was a faint stirring, a whispering that was almost inaudible, and the sound of a very big animal's low growl.

"Are you from one of the compounds?" a voice asked. It was an older girl or a young woman, her voice steady and confident. He took a chance. "No, I'm not from the compounds. I serve a higher order. I am a Knight of the Word."

More whispering, including someone's inadvertently sharp query, "What's that?"

"Do you have any weapons?" the first speaker asked. He had left everything in the Lightning, which was parked and secured on the main north-south highway, perhaps a mile east. "I am unarmed," he said.

"What about your staff?"

So they could see him. Even in the near blackness. He showed no reaction, deliberately not looking for the peephole through which they were viewing him.

"It is a symbol of my order. It is not a weapon." A white lie, because it could be a weapon, of course, even though he would never use it against them. He waited, but no one spoke. He started to ask them if he could come inside, but stopped himself. It would be better to let them make that decision without any pressure from him.

"Tell us who you are looking for," the speaker said. "I'm not sure. I have never met this person. I have something that will tell me who it is. A talisman.

That is what led me here to you. It tells me that the person I am looking for is inside."

"Can you describe who it is?"

He shook his head, and then said, "No. The talisman will point the person out to me. If you will give me a chance to use it."

Further muttering, longer and more intense this time. An argument was taking place, but it was difficult to tell its nature. He tried to think what else he could tell them that would make them open the door.

"We don't know whether to believe you or not, but it doesn't matter. We don't let anyone inside but members of our own tribe. The older girl's voice was firm. "One of us might agree to come out, but you will have to convince us that it's a good idea."

Logan nodded, mostly to himself. "What can I tell you that will help?"