Stinger Part 16

Then you don't have anything to worry about, Jessie thought. Your pages are blank.

"-or controllin' em, even. h.e.l.l, she might have a death ray or-"

"Cut the hysterics," Rhodes said firmly, and Vance immediately silenced. "First of all, Captain Gunniston and my chopper pilot are out searching for Daufin right now; secondly, I agree with Mrs. Hammond. The creature doesn't seem threatening." He didn't use the word dangerous-he recalled shaking hands with a lightning bolt. "As long as we're not threatening to her," he added.

"What are you plannin' on doin' when you find her? How you gonna get her back in her ball?" A shroud of cigar smoke floated around Early's head.

"We don't know yet. The sphere's missing, and we think she hid it somewhere. If it's any consolation, I don't think she meant to land here. I think her vehicle malfunctioned, and she was on her way to somewhere else."

"By vehicle I reckon you mean s.p.a.ceship." Reverend Hale Jennings was standing at the window, his acorn-shaped bald head tinged violet by the skygrid. He was a stocky, broad-chested man in his late forties, built like a fireplug, and had been a boxing champ during his days in the navy. "How'd she pilot a s.p.a.ceship if she was inside a sphere?"

"I don't know. We can only find out from her."

"Okay, but what about that? " Jennings's head tilted toward the black, scale-covered pyramid. "I don't know about you gents, but that particular visitor makes me a mite nervous."

"Yeah," Vance agreed. "How do we know Daufin didn't call it down to help her invade us?"

Colonel Rhodes measured his words carefully. To tell them that Daufin was terrified of that pyramid would not help their peace of mind, but there was no longer any use in hiding the truth. "There's no proof she brought it down, but she must know what it is. Just before it landed, she kept repeating something: Stinger."

There was a silence, as the possible meanings of that word sank in. "Might be the name of the planet she comes from," Vance suggested. "Maybe she looks like a big ol' wasp under that skin."

"As I said," Rhodes continued doggedly, "she just learned English. Evidently the word stinger was suggested to her by something she saw." He remembered the picture of the scorpion on Stevie's bulletin board. "What she intended it to mean, I don't know."

"There's much you don't know, young man," Father LaPrado said, with a wan smile.

"Yes sir, but I'm working on it. As soon as we find Daufin, maybe we can clear some of these questions up." He glanced quickly at his wrist.w.a.tch; it was 10:23, a little more than thirty minutes since the pyramid had come down. "Now: about the power failure. All of you have seen the smoke clouds hanging at the top of the grid. We're in some sort of force field, generated from inside the pyramid. Just as it keeps the smoke from getting out, it's cut the power and telephone lines. The thing is solid, though it appears transparent. It's just as if a big gla.s.s bowl was plopped on top of us. Nothing can get in and nothing can get out either." He'd tried the sheriff's CB radio and gotten a squeal of static as the radio waves were deflected.

"A force field," Jennings repeated. "How far out does it go?"

"We're going to take the chopper up and find out. My guess is that it's limited to the immediate area around Inferno and Bordertown-maybe ten miles at the most. We don't have to worry about the air giving out"-I hope, he thought-"but the smoke from those fires isn't going to go away." The blazes were still burning, and black smoke from burning heaps of tires was not only thickening at the top of the grid but beginning to haze the streets too, and the air was permeated with a scorched smell. Early grunted, took one more long draw on his cigar, puffed the smoke away, and crushed the stogie out on the floor. "Reckon I'll do my part against air pollution," he grumbled.

"Right. Thanks."

"One moment." Father Ortega, a slim, somber-faced man with swirls of gray at his temples, stood next to LaPrado. "You say this field of force prevents entering and escape, si? Is it not clear that it has a particular purpose?"

"Yeah," Vance said. "To keep us caged up while we get invaded."

"No," the priest went on, "not to keep us caged. To imprison Daufin."

Rhodes looked at Tom and Jessie; all of them had already warily circled that conclusion. If the black pyramid-or something inside it-had come for Daufin, she obviously did not want to be taken. He returned his attention to Ortega, his expression studiously composed. "Again, we can only find that out from her. What we need to talk about now is crowd control. I doubt if anybody's going to be getting much sleep tonight. I think it would be best if people knew they had places to congregate, where there were lights and food. Any suggestions?"

"The high school gym might do," Brett offered. "That's big enough."

"Folks want to be closer to their homes," Jennings said. "How about the churches? We've got a ton of candles already, and I reckon we can get some kerosene lamps from the hardware store."

"Si." LaPrado nodded a.s.sent. "We can share food from the bakery and the grocery store."

"Probably a pot of coffee or two still at the Brandin' Iron," Vance said. "That might help."

"Good. The next question is, how do we get people off the streets?" Rhodes looked to suggestions from LaPrado and Jennings.

LaPrado said, "We have bells, up in the steeple. If they haven't been knocked loose, we can start them ringing."

"That's a problem for us," Jennings answered. "We've got electronic bells. Took the real ones out four years ago. I reckon I can find some volunteers to go house to house, though, and let folks know we're open."

"I'll leave that and the food for both of you and the mayor to organize," Rhodes said. "I doubt if we can get everybody off the streets, but the more people indoors the better I'll feel about things."

"Domingo, will you see me back, please?" LaPrado stood up with Ortega's help. "I'll get the bells started, and ask some of the ladies to round up food." He shuffled to the door, and paused there.

"Colonel Rhodes, if someone asks me what's happening, do you mind if I use your explanation?"

"What's that?"

"'I don't know,'" the old priest replied, with a grim little chuckle. He allowed Mendoza to open the door for him.

"Don't go too far, Father," Early said. "I may be needin' you pretty soon. You too, Hale. I've got four of Cade's workmen who aren't gonna last the night, and I imagine the fireboys'll be pullin' more bodies out when it gets cool enough to go in."

LaPrado nodded. "You know where to find me," he said, and left the office with Ortega and Mendoza.

"Fella don't have half his marbles," Vance muttered.

Early stood up. His time for lollygagging was spent. "Folks, this has been real educational, but I've got to get back to the clinic." Eight of the kids from the gang fight, including Cody Lockett and Ray Hammond, had been taken to the Inferno Clinic for st.i.tches and bandages, but the seriously injured workers from Cade's junkyard-and only seven of a crew of forty-six had come staggering, burned, and bleeding over the mashed-down fence-were being attended to first. Early's staff of three nurses and six volunteers were treating shock and gla.s.s-cut patients by the glare of the emergency lights. "Dr. Jessie, I sure could use you," he said. "I've got a fella with a piece of metal sc.r.a.pin' his backbone and another who's gonna have to part with a crushed arm pretty soon. Tom, if you can hold a flashlight steady and you don't mind a little blood, I can use you too." It occurred to him that Noah Twilley was going to be just as busy before long, when the firemen brought the rest of the corpses out.

"I can handle it," Tom said. "Colonel, will you let us know when you find her?"

"As soon as. I'm on my way to meet Gunny right now."

They followed Early out into the violet-hued street. A few knots of people remained on the street, gawking, but most of the onlookers had melted back to their homes. Rhodes walked toward Preston Park, Tom and Jessie went to their Civic, and Early climbed nimbly into his dune buggy. As the buggy roared away, it was narrowly missed by a battleship-sized yellow Cadillac that stopped in front of the sheriff's office. Celeste Preston, wearing a scarlet jumpsuit, got out and stood with her hands on her hips, looking at the ma.s.sive pyramid across the river. Her sharp-featured face angled up, her pale blue eyes examining the skygrid. She'd already seen the helicopter sitting in Preston Park; one of the three that had buzzed her house this morning, she thought with a resurgence of righteous anger. But the anger collapsed soon enough. Whatever that big b.a.s.t.a.r.d was over in Cade's autoyard, and that purple mesh covering the sky, they took precedence over her concern for her lost beauty sleep. Mayor Brett and Hale Jennings emerged from Vance's office on their way to Aurora Street, where the Quik-Check Grocery's owner lived. Brett almost ran into Celeste, and his heart gave a violent kick because he was scared to death of her. "Uh... Miz Preston! What can I do for-"

"Howdy, Pastor," she interrupted, then turned her cold glare on the mayor. "Brett, I hope to G.o.d you can tell me what that thing is over there, and why the sky's all lit up and why my power and phones are out!"

"Yes ma'am." Brett swallowed thickly, his face beaded with sweat. "Well... see... the colonel says it's a s.p.a.ceship, and it's got a force field comin' out of it that's stopped the electricity, and-" There was no way to explain all of it, and Celeste watched him like a hawk poised over a mouse.

"Mrs. Preston, I think it'd be best if you asked Sheriff Vance," Jennings advised. "He'll tell you the whole story."

"Oh, I can't wait for this!" she said, and as the two men walked to the pastor's blue Ford she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and almost took the door off its hinges when she stormed inside. She caught Vance with his hand up the office c.o.ke machine's innards, working a can free. "I've got some questions that need answerin'," she said as the door shut behind her. Vance had hardly jumped when she came in; his nervous system had reached its quota of shocks. He kept at the can, which was still deliciously cool under his fingers. One more good twist and he'd have it out. "Sit down," he offered.

"I'll stand."

"Suit yourself." d.a.m.n, why wouldn't it come out? He did this all the time, and usually the cans popped out with no trouble. He jiggled it, but it seemed to be hung on something.

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" Celeste stalked toward him, shoved him none too gently aside, reached her arm up the vent, and grasped the can. She twisted her wrist sharply to the left and pulled the can out.

"Here! Take the d.a.m.ned thing!"

Suddenly he didn't want it so much. Her arm was skinny as a rail, and he figured that's how she'd done it. "Naw," he said, "you can have it."

Normally she only drank diet colas, but the air was so hot and stifling she didn't care to be choosy. She popped the tab and drank several cool swallows. "Thanks," she said. "My throat was kinda dry."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. The water fountain's not workin', either." He nodded toward it, and when he did he caught a strange scent: like cinnamon, or some kind of fragrant spice. He realized a second later that it must be coming from Celeste Preston, maybe the scent of her shampoo or soap. Then the aroma drifted away, and he could smell his own sweaty self again. He wished he'd put on some more of his Brut deodorant, because it was wearing off fast.

"You've got blood on your face," she said.

"Huh? Yeah, reckon I do. Gla.s.s cut me." He shrugged. "Don't matter none." His nose searched for another sniff of cinnamon.

Just like a man! Celeste thought as she finished off the drink. d.a.m.n fools get cut and bleed like stuck pigs, and they pretend they don't even notice it! Wint was the same way, slashed his hand open on barbed wire once and acted like he'd gotten a splinter in his finger, tryin' to be tough. Probably wasn't a dime's worth of difference between Wint and Vance, if you could shave about fifty pounds of fat off him. She jerked herself back to reality. Either the heat was getting to her, or it was the smoke in the air; she'd never felt an iota of compa.s.sion for Ed Vance, and she sure didn't intend to start. She flung the can into a wastebasket and said stridently, "I want to know what the h.e.l.l's goin' on around here, and I want to know now! "

Vance stopped sniffing. It wasn't cinnamon, he decided; it was probably witch hazel. He went to his desk and got the patrol car's keys.

"I'm talkin' to you!" Celeste snapped.

"I've gotta go over to Danny Chaffin's house and pick him up. My night deputies have vamoosed. You want to hear about it, you'll have to go with me." He was already on his way to the door.

"Don't you walk out on me!"

He paused. "I've gotta lock up. You comin', or not?"

Her idea of h.e.l.l was to be in that patrol car with Vance's blubber shaking behind the wheel, but she saw she'd have to endure it. "I'm comin'," she said through gritted teeth, and followed him out.

24 Act of G.o.d

"Lord have mercy!" Dodge Creech peered out a cracked window at the pyramid. He was still wearing his yellow-and-blue-plaid sport coat, his red lick of hair damp with sweat and glued to his sparkling scalp. "Ginger, I'm tellin' you: if that thing had come down two hundred yards more north, we'd be laying in our graves right now. How in h.e.l.l am I gonna explain this to Mr. Bra.s.swell?"

Ginger Creech thought about it. She was sitting in a rocking chair across the pine-paneled living room, wearing her plain blue robe, her feet in Dearfoam slippers and pink curlers in her graying hair. Her brow furrowed. "Act of G.o.d," she decided. "That's what you'll tell him."

"Act of G.o.d," he repeated, trying it out. "No, he won't buy that! Anyway, if it was a meteor or somethin' that fell without a mind to it, then it would be an act of G.o.d. If it's somethin' that's got a mind, you can't call it an act of G.o.d." Harv Bra.s.swell was Creech's supervisor, based in Dallas, and he had a powerfully tight fist when it came to damage claims.

"You sayin' G.o.d doesn't have a mind?" she inquired, her rocking coming to a halt.

"No, 'course not! It's just that an act of G.o.d has to be like a storm, or a drought, or somethin' only G.o.d could cause."

That still sounded lame, and he didn't want to stir Ginger up; she was a PTL, Ernest Angsley, Kenneth Copeland, and Jimmy Swaggart fanatic. "I don't think G.o.d had anythin' to do with this."

The squeaking of her chair continued. The room was illuminated by three oil-burning lanterns that had been hung from the wagon-wheel light fixture at the ceiling. A couple of candles burned atop the television set. Bookshelves were packed with Reader's Digest Condensed Books, stacks of National Geographics, insurance law and motivational salesmanship books, as well as Ginger's collection of religious tomes.

"I'll bet that thing threw every house in town off its foundations," Dodge fretted. "I swear, ninety percent of the windows must be broken. Streets all cracked too. I never believed in s.p.a.ceships before, but by G.o.d if that's not one, I don't know what is!"

"I don't want to think about it," Ginger said, rocking harder. "No such thing as s.p.a.ceships."

"Well, it sure ain't the Big Rock Candy Mountain out there! Lord, what a mess!" He rubbed the cool gla.s.s of iced tea he was holding across his forehead. The refrigerator had quit along with the power, of course, but the freezer unit still held a few trays of cubes. In this heat, though, they weren't going to last very long. "That Colonel Rhodes is havin' a meetin' with the sheriff and Mayor Brett. Didn't ask me, though. Guess I'm not important enough, huh? I can sell everybody in town their insurance and wait on 'em hand and foot, but I'm not important enough. There's thanks for you!"

"The meek shall inherit the earth," Ginger said, and he frowned because he didn't know what she was talking about and he didn't think she knew, either.

"I'm not meek!" he told her. She just kept rocking. He heard the deep, rhythmic tolling of the bell at the Sacrifice of Christ Catholic Church across the river, calling the parishioners. "Sounds like LaPrado's openin' up for business. Guess Reverend Jennings will too. It's gonna take more than church bells to keep folks-"

There was another sound, one that stopped him midsentence. It was a sharp, cracking noise: bricks being wrenched apart. Under my feet, Dodge Creech thought. Sounds like the bas.e.m.e.nt floor's rippin' to- "What's that noise?" Ginger cried out, standing up. The rocking chair creaked on without her. The wooden floor trembled.

Dodge looked at his wife. Her eyes were gla.s.sy and wide, her mouth open in a straining O. Above their heads the wagon-wheel fixture shook, the oil lamps beginning to swing. Dodge said, "I... think we're havin' an earthqu-"

The floor heaved upward, as if something huge had battered it from below. Nails leapt loose, glittering in the lamplight. Ginger staggered backward and fell, shrieking as Dodge toppled to his knees. She saw the floor split open underneath him with a scream of tortured wood, and her husband's body dropped into the seam up to his neck. Dust billowed around him and filled the room, but she could still see his face: chalky pale, eyes holes of shock. He was looking at her as she crawled away from the collapsing floor on her back.

"Somethin's got me," he said, and his voice was a thin, awful whine. "Help me, Ginger. Please..." He lifted his hand out of the hole for her, and what looked like gray snot was drooling from his fingers. Ginger wailed, curlers dangling from her hair.

And then Dodge was gone, down the hole in the living-room floor. The house shook again, the walls moaning as if in pain at giving up their master. Plaster dust welled through cracks in the pinewood like ghost breath-and then there was silence but for the creakings of the rocking chair and the wagon-wheel fixture. One of the lamps had fallen and lay unbroken on the round red throw rug. Ginger Creech whispered, "Dodge?" She was shaking, tears running down her face and her bladder about to pop. Shouted it: "Dodge! "

There was no answer, just the chuckling of water down below, running from a broken pipe. The water soon ran out, and the chuckling ceased.

Ginger pushed herself toward the hole, her muscles sluggish as cold rubber bands. She had to look down it-did not want to, must not, should not-but she had to, because it had taken her husband. She reached the jagged edge and her stomach threatened eruption, so she had to squeeze her eyes shut and ride it out. The sickness pa.s.sed, and she looked over into the hole. Just dark.

She reached out for the oil lamp and turned up the wick. The flame guttered and rose to a knifelike orange point. She thrust the lamp down into the hole, her other hand gripping the splintered edge with white-knuckled fingers.

Yellow dust sifted and stirred in small, cyclonic whorls. She was peering down into the bas.e.m.e.nt eight feet below; and in the bas.e.m.e.nt floor was another hole that looked-yes, she thought, oh Jesus son of G.o.d Holy Christ yes- gnawed through the concrete bricks. Beneath the bas.e.m.e.nt floor lay more darkness.

"Dodge?" she whispered, and it echoed Dodge? Dodge? Dodge? Her fingers spasmed; she lost the oil lamp, and it fell through the hole in the bas.e.m.e.nt floor, kept falling, maybe ten or twenty more feet, finally shattered against red Texas dirt and the flames gouted as the rest of the oil caught. Down in that hole, Ginger could see the glimmering of ooze where something had dragged her husband to h.e.l.l. Her senses left her altogether, and she lay trembling on the warped floor, her body drawn up in a tight fetal position. She decided to recite the Twenty-third Psalm seven times, because seven seemed like a holy number and if she recited loud enough and wished hard enough she would lift her head and see Dodge sitting in his easychair across the room, reading one of his motivational salesmanship books, and the TV set would be tuned to PTL and the thing that could not possibly be a s.p.a.ceship would be gone. She began to recite, but she almost gagged with terror; she'd forgotten the words. A church bell was ringing.

It must be Sunday, she thought. Sunday morning, bright and new. She sat up, listening to the bell. What was that violet glow coming through the window? Where was Dodge, and why was that hole- She had always loved the sound of a church bell, summoning her to worship. It was time to go now, and Dodge could come along later. And if he wore that red suit today, she'd skin him, just skin him alive. She stood up, her eyes empty and tear tracks glistening through the dust on her face. She left the house, walked out of her Dearfoams, and kept going barefoot along Brazos Street.

25 Sarge's Best Friend

"Don't you be scared now, Scooter. I'm not gonna let anythin' bad happen to you, no siree!" Sarge Dennison patted Scooter's head, and the invisible animal curled up against his leg. "Don't you worry. Ol' Sarge'll protect you."

He was sitting on the edge of the bandstand in the middle of Preston Park, and had just witnessed the helicopter take off with the pilot and two men aboard. The aircraft reached a height of sixty feet and zoomed to the east, the chatter of its rotors rapidly fading. Sarge watched it go, until its blinking lights were lost to sight. The bell of the Catholic church across the river was tolling, and a few people stood out on Celeste Street and Cobre Road, looking at the black pyramid and talking, but most had retreated to their homes. He observed the column of violet light, rotating slowly around and around; it reminded him, more than anything, of a barbershop pole. The top of the purple grid was lost in motionless clouds of ebony smoke, and the air smelled burnt. It was a smell he didn't like, because it made dark things in his mind start to move again. Scooter whimpered. "Uh-uh, don't you cry." Sarge's voice was soothing, his fingers gentle as they stroked the air. "I'm not leavin' you."

There was a movement beneath him, and suddenly he was looking down at a little girl's face, washed with violet light, her auburn hair full of dust. She had poked her head out from the small crawls.p.a.ce underneath the bandstand, and now watched him with eyes full of puzzlement.

"Howdy," Sarge said. He recognized the child. "You're Mr. Hammond's daughter. Stevie."

She said nothing.

"You know me, don't you? Sarge Dennison? Your mama brought you to school one afternoon. Remember?"

"No," Daufin said tentatively, ready to draw herself back into the protection of the sh.e.l.l she'd found.

"Well, I surely do. Guess it was last year, though. How old are you now?"

Daufin pondered. "Old," she said.

She's got a funny voice, he thought. Kinda raspy, or whispery, or somethin'. Sounds like she could use a cough drop. "What're you doin' under there?" Again, no answer. "Why don't you come on up and say h.e.l.lo to Scooter? I 'member he liked you."

She hesitated. This creature didn't seem threatening, and there was a pleasant... what was it termed?