Beyond the flashback, p.13
Beyond the Flashback, page 13
He stroked her hair with a hand which had become massive and a curved talon snagged in the locks. So tell me, you who in this realm are Sheila of Anchor Rock. Given that your Creator has merely invented pain ... and called it the Second Realm ... do you see now why we resist Him? And why we would end His experiment once and for all?
But Sheila saw nothing save a universe even less sane then she’d presumed—not her family reunited nor her former enemy vanquished nor her son miraculously spared. And when sleep came at last it was fitful and incomplete ... and long with dreams in which she wandered alone.
Williams half-slept—his back propped against Ank and the wind in his hair—dreaming, remembering.
They had been running, was all he knew for certain: running with hundreds of others as the storm fell upon the fairgrounds and the dinosaurs scattered the crowd—entire swaths of which simply blurred and vanished completely, as though they’d never existed, as though they’d never been more than figments of his imagination. And then they’d been swallowed by a group none of whom had disappeared, and carried along by its current to the slow-moving train, upon whose flatcars throngs of parents had begun placing their children, and Williams had let go of her—of Tran’s—hand, and begun assisting them. And he hadn’t been but a few minutes—three, at a maximum—when Tran had called out ... for someone, meaning well, of course, had picked her up and sat her upon one of the railcars.
And then the locomotive had begun picking up speed, its horn blowing, its diesel engines pounding, and he’d no choice but to run along next to it, reaching out to her desperately, grasping her hand once before having to let go, unable to find a place among the throngs—which now included adults—until the train began to pull ahead and he was forced to double his speed in an awkward and dangerous fashion, at which point he tripped over an obstruction and fell hard upon the pavement, striking his head so that blackness overcame him and he was lost to her—to the world—even to himself.
He stirred even as Ank stirred—as the train rattled and clacked and swayed, passing over a crooked section of track—and the dinosaur regarded him closely, almost clinically.
“My God, Ank,” Williams began—as bewildered as he had been before. “What’s happening to us?”
He watched as Ank looked on, scanning the landscape, it seemed, trying to gauge their location.
“She’s alive, Ank. Did you feel it? Alive, now, somewhere north of here. Canada, maybe. Jesus, she’s been waiting for me all—”
Williams smiled as the train jostled them, his head hanging to one side, his cheeks suddenly rosy. And then he came out of it and once again hung over the side, calling to the engineer, “Conductor, it’s been a pleasure riding with you! But here is where we must depart!”
At which the engineer merely gave him a thumbs up—and, as evidenced by the shrieking of the wheels, began applying the brakes.
X
Bella Ray very nearly threw up her hands as the crowd devolved into chaos, wondering what more she could possibly say that might organize them and steel them for the inevitable—what more she could possibly do to prepare them for what was coming ... and soon. Indeed, it could come at any moment.
“Order, order!” cried her big assistant—Gorjira, someone had dubbed him, and it had stuck—shoving back those closest to the stage, adjusting the strap of the rifle at his back so that it would stop sliding off his shoulder.
“What good is order if we’re all going to die anyway?” someone hollered—a young woman with cobalt hair and a plethora of tattoos, whom the newcomers called ‘The Acolyte of Blue’—something they’d yet to explain to Bella or to anyone else.
“Maybe you should broadcast the Lord’s Prayer again,” shouted someone else, referring to her decision to engage the listeners of Radio Free Montana in a group prayer just hours before the meeting—and a large percentage of the people laughed.
Bella looked to the newcomers’ leaders in what appeared to be total exasperation—as if to say: Help me, please?
At last one of them took to the stage—the man named Red—followed by his girlfriend, Charlotte, and finally the others: Roger, Savanna, and the convenience store clerk (whose name Bella still couldn’t remember). And yet the bedlam only intensified ... at least until Red raised his arms and began shouting, “Enough! That’s enough! Everyone just settle down!”
He waited until the ruckus began to peter out.
At last he said, “This bickering will get us nowhere. Believe me, I know. I’ve seen this movie before. I know everyone is scared ... that’s understandable. But, dammit—we’ve come this far without turning on each other’s throats, why now?”
Bella looked out over the crowd, at the faces of the survivors both young and old. Why now, indeed, she thought. When the Enemy draws near and his influence spreads ...
“Maybe you’ll mansplain it for us,” cried the Acolyte of Blue—and Red just stared at her, thinking of the Shambhala and realizing that some poisons, once they’d polluted the groundwater, just never went away.
“Maybe it’s because none of us ever recall holding an election,” shouted Someone Else, which was met with a round of raucous applause. “Or giving our permission to broadcast our whereabouts to the entire world.”
“That’s where it all started,” yelled still another, and pointed at Bella accusatorily. “If not for her they’d have never even known we existed ...”
“We should burn her goddamn radio station!” shouted the Acolyte.
“Yes, and topple its tower,” added Someone Else.
“Topple its tower!” someone shouted instantly, and began repeating the sentiment: “Topple its tower ...!”
And then approximately half the crowd had begun chanting, and Red looked at Charlotte who looked squarely back at him—and began to shake her head. We’re in over our heads, she seemed to be saying. This is no longer the Shambhala.
That’s when a series of shots rang out and everyone looked to the back of the mob, where Williams stood next to Ank—having commandeered a pistol from someone in the crowd—and began lowering his gun hand slowly. Gasps quickly followed as more and more people took notice of the bomb on Ank’s back and the mob gave them a wide birth.
“Are you done now?” said Williams at last. He handed the gun back to its owner. “Because if you’ll kindly screw your courage back up, we’ve got a way to end this. To end the Enemy. For good.”
She moved through the forest like a ghost, uncertain of her destination—other than that it was in Barley—but convinced, too, that she would know it when she saw it. Nor did she travel alone, for the voice of Szambelan now followed her everywhere: cajoling her to hurry—for the tip of the spear was about to strike—assuring her that she had made the right choice, reminding her that Erik was depending on her.
Not that she needed it, for the image of his frozen body had lodged in her brain like a bullet; it was at least possible that she’d never be free of it, not if she lived a thousand years. And so she glided through the trees and the shafts of sunlit smoke like a wraith, driven by her fear and animus, haunted by doubt—and yet knowing there was no going back; not for her.
Not for anyone.
The plane had no more than lifted off the runway with Peter and Sammy and the bomb onboard when the first missiles struck, rocking the air with concussions and causing everyone to hit the dirt—and Ank could only pray that he’d made the right decision.
Williams literally read his mind; they could do that now. “The altimeter was the right decision, Ank. Now they won’t have to land and physically place the bomb and we won’t have to fool with that remote detonator. All they have to do is fly over the target and roll the sucker out.”
Williams stood as even more explosions rocked the airfield and everyone scattered—rushing to aid the perimeter battalions, he presumed. “Will you know if it fails?”
Ank clambered to his feet and looked to where the remote detonator lay atop the radio on the command table—prepping and loading the bomb had been a frantic affair; the truth was he’d forgotten all about it.
“And you can still detonate manually?”
“Why not?"
There was the sound of automatic rifle fire.
Williams glanced toward the perimeter and did a doubletake. “Ank,” he said—then grinned at his friend. “That’s not going to be necessary.”
And when Ank looked up he understood why: for Luna was running at them across the airfield, her pink dress trailing out behind her and her white hair flying.
They streamed out from the tree line in a veritable blitzkrieg, the guns of the tanks rotating and firing, the foot soldiers alternately taking cover behind vehicles and squeezing off bursts, the raptors and triceratops and stegosaurs charging—as Red and Charlotte and Roger and Savanna continued shooting and the children ran ammo and Bella lit the gasoline trenches, as Gojira and the clerk prepared shoulder-mounted rocket launchers. As hundreds of others joined the battle belatedly and began to kill and to be killed.
And then they were there; they were at the gates, and the triceratops and stegosaurs had waded into the burning trenches and begun serving as bridges—sacrificing themselves so that the raptors and the foot soldiers could cross—even as a column of bulldozers fanned out along the perimeter and prepared to break the lines for good: dropping their blades—which rattled and clinked against the hail of gunfire—revving their engines, spewing black smoke.
“Bayonets!” cried Red as the raptors fell upon them, thrusting his own so that it skewered one of the dinosaurs like a shish kabob even before he used its own weight and momentum to swing it over and behind himself.
And then, just as it seemed they would be overwhelmed completely, a strange thing started to happen: for the heads of the beasts began to jolt one by one; sometimes remaining intact—even while ejecting long streams of blood—but more often exploding outright ... and when Red and Charlotte and the others looked to see what was going on, they saw (with a rush of relief; for his fame as a sharpshooter had spread far and wide in his absence) that Williams had joined the fray at last, and had taken a position.
He’d found the M-16 and the 9mm pistol amidst the pile of surplus weapons near the armored personnel carriers, along with their attendant ammunition, and for that he was grateful. But that didn’t change the fact that the Army-issue rifle was wildly inaccurate, at least compared to his own, and Williams found that he was missing as often as he hit even as he adjusted to its sights and the heft of it in his hands and the foot soldiers broke the lines—rapidly continuing on as though they had no interest in holding territory whatsoever and causing Williams to realize, suddenly and with perfect clarity, what their true intent had been all along.
For they’d targeted Ank and Luna just as surely as they’d crashed the defenses, and it was at precisely that instant, the instant he’d had this realization, that matters became a thousand times worse: for the Bandana Man had arrived upon his mottled red and black steed.
And before he’d even been able to react the dark paladin had dismounted and sent the allosaur forward, at which instant it bound directly for him and Williams held his trigger down—but was thwarted by the beast’s winding movements and dizzying speed, so that he could only dive for cover as it trampled the sandbagged perimeter and continued on toward Ank and Luna.
And then he was facing off with the Bandana Man even as the battle changed direction—divining, in the same way he had divined almost everything since that faithful day at the East Mirabeau Drive-in Theater, that it was somehow his purpose to do so ... That it was somehow his fate.
Almost like clockwork, the altimeter had failed—just as Ank feared it would—raising an alarm as the detonator’s screen flashed and causing him to scuttle closer ... even as the Enemy closed and Luna looked on—smelling suddenly of fire and smoke.
Now is the time, he thought, to see how much the vergence has spread. To see if it can be done— how far one can project. To see if anyone can hear me besides Williams.
And then he began projecting to Peter and the plane—saying, in essence:
“What? What is it?” asked Sammy—even as Peter continued to gaze forward, clearly in a trance.
“I—I don’t know ... It’s like ... there was a voice. Inside my head.”
Sammy looked out the window again as the plane’s engine droned all around them—at the miles-long caravan of trucks and dinosaurs and military equipment, the totality of what they would face if their mission failed. “We’re close enough. I’m going to open the door ...”
“No ... no, I wouldn’t do that,” Peter said, almost whispering. “Not yet. I—I’m going to take us down.”
“Take us down? Have you gone mad? We’re almost over the target!”
But the plane had already begun descending—rapidly, gut-wrenchingly—even as Sammy protested and the bomb rocked. And then they were skittering to a stop on the surface of the Interstate, Peter unbuckling his seat belt, saying to Sammy, as the pavement vibrated and the caravan rumbled closer, “Remember how Williams used to talk to his dinosaur and I’d laugh? Used to talk about faith?”
Sammy just looked at him, his long, dark hair hanging in his face. At last he moved to speak but hesitated.
“I’m asking you to have some right now,” said Peter.
And then he got out and Sammy did likewise; and they met at the side door as Peter slid it open—the bomb gleaming within like so much black obsidian.
And then the allosaurus was there, it was upon him, and the two dinosaurs were rolling like leviathan football players across the shoulder of the airstrip—their tails whipping furiously, their teeth gnashing—as Luna continued to target the soldiers and the missiles continued to rain down; as the white disk of the sun glowered at them through the smoke.
They paused at last, having approached each other slowly and surely across the terrain, discarding their rifles, unfastening their holsters.
Ank was in trouble, Williams knew; and yet he knew also that killing the Bandana Man was the surest way of saving him, of saving everyone ... that the mirror paladin and his red-black beast shared a bond not unlike Ank and himself, and that if he were to die the beast would surely follow—by having his concentration shattered at a pivotal moment in the battle, if nothing else. And so he stood with his hand poised near his pistol and stared the man down, knowing this was the way it was supposed to be, that each of them were but avatars of beings and forces beyond their control, and that it was too late to change tact, anyway. That it would be decided in a gunfight, a duel, a quickdraw. And that he was ready—as ready as he’d ever be.
“Draw,” he said at last, simply, finally, even as the wind blew and the sounds of battle echoed across the plains.
“Draw,” said Szambelan, mocking him, and then smiled coolly, serenely. “Surely you know that your bomb will not be detonated, regardless of this outcome, yes? That your army will be laid to waste, your loved ones slaughtered ...”
Williams didn’t say anything, only continued to stare at him.
“Yes, yes, you do,” said Szambelan, smiling, scrunching up his neck. “And if you didn’t before you are sensing it now; as your companion fights for his life and your elemental deploys her power—only far too late. Yes, even as the altimeter proceeds to fail ...”
Williams blinked twice and Szambelan raised his chin, as if seizing on the opportunity to distract him. “It has failed, you know. Nor will it be detonated manually ... I’ve taken steps to ensure that.” His dark eyes dropped to Williams’ holster, lingering there. “I see you’ve adopted a new sidearm. Something, shall we say, more modern?” He looked him in the eyes again. “I must say, I am surprised by you. To go into a gunfight without your best friend ... It seems ... counter-intuitive.”
When Williams still did not respond he added, “For it is a man’s best friend—his weapon. Something he will live by and die by when all else abandons him. It is not woman. It is not wealth.” He paused suddenly and looked away, as though he were looking inward—looking into the abyss. “Your companion animal, the ankylosaur ... he is not faring well.”
And then he was drawing, his hand virtually a blur as it snatched up his pistol and aimed at Williams’ heart, and he’d just begun to squeeze the trigger when a black hole the size of a dime opened in his forehead and a stream of blood squirted out the back of his head—once, twice, spattering upon the ground, three times.
And then he fell, his legs buckling like paper, his body convulsing.
“A dinosaur is a man’s best friend,” said Williams at last, and tossed the pistol onto the corpse.
And then he turned and ran for the airstrip, hoping he had made a difference. Hoping Ank was still alive.
As it played out, the battle for Barley, not to mention the battle between Ank and the red-black allosaur, had, indeed turned on whether Szambelan lived or died—for it quickly became evident that it had lost much of its focus immediately after his passing. Enough so that, with the help of Luna—who had stopped the foot soldiers in their tracks and literally melted the Abrams tanks—as well as the guns of Red and the other leaders of the wagon train, Ank stood victorious at last ... at least until he realized the remote detonator had been destroyed—utterly smashed to pieces, and by none other than Sheila, who had attempted to flee but been piled upon and apprehended in very short order.
