have looked to the Aztecs. Something was in the room that could not be there, that had come from nowhere—not out of the wall, but out of the sound in the wall. He could not say exactly what it looked like—a shell so black that it absorbed light, or a machine propelled on enormous legs, or a gigantic spider, even. The sort of thing that comes out of the closet when you are four, and eventually recedes on the expiring tide of childhood.
He heard a voice, “Agnus dei,” Lamb of God, sounding so pure that it was as if sounded from the highest, the farthest of all voices—a voice beyond telling. Wade ascending.
“Qui tollis peccata mundi,” the president whispered, “who takes away the sins of the world.”
The roar of the gun was like a blast of Satan’s breath, so ferocious that it made Al cry out, so enormous that it seemed to gather the whole bunker in its strength and crush it to rubble.
Al had him in his arms before his body, which had slapped into the wall, had even begun to slide to the floor. He stank of raw blood, his left eye was shuddering like the wing of a wounded fly, then green and bloody vomit pumped out of him with a furious, questing seizure that parodied sexual passion.
Secret Service poured into the room. One of them lifted his machine gun, braced it at Tom, who stood quite calmly, the very least of smiles on his face. He did not even glance at the young man with the gun, or any of the young men frozen in the doorway.
“I have a mission for you, Al,” he said. “Put him down, you’ll need to leave at once.”
Al laid the president—Jimmy—on the thinly carpeted floor. He went to attention. “Yes, sir,” he said. He saluted his superior officer, now the leader of the free world.
SIX
DECEMBER 3
WANTED
MARTIN DROVE HARD, IGNORING THE thudding of his tires and the screech of harvest stubble scraping the sides of his truck. In the east, dawn burned orange, so he didn’t have much time before the lights of followers would become invisible and he’d lose his chance to catch up, maybe forever.
Last night, he’d driven out to his house to be in their path, but hadn’t been able to find his family. Wanderers had gone past, but there had been so many of them, far more than he’d realized, and his family had escaped him.
He consulted his compass. He was no navigator, but was trying to drive as straight in a north-northwesterly direction as he could. Wanderers went in straight lines, so people said.
At first, he’d tried to reason with Lindy. He had picked up Winnie and carried her to the car—and been bitten for his trouble. He had not been able to find Trevor at all, which had only added to his sorrow.
All around him, there had been screaming people, begging their loved ones not to go, trying to wake them up.
They’d gone off down Third Street and between two boarded-up stores. Behind those stores was Oak Street, then behind it Linnert Lane, then the plains, and ten miles out, the Smokes, and beyond them the high plains, then Canada. And somewhere, he felt sure, whatever fate was in store for them.
Martin had trotted over to his jeep and got in—and then Bobby was there. “Hey, guy, we need to do this another way.”
Martin had looked at him, and it was like looking across a great, black river to a man whose life was unfolding on a better shore. He fought the tears down, but when his friend reached in and put a hand on his shoulder, he broke down. Bobby stayed with him until there were screams, then shots, off in the direction of Oak Street. A follower was killing a wanderer, probably based on an agreement. It was a common thing, these days, not considered murder. “Gotta go,” Bobby said. “You stay right here, you’re comin’ home with us.”
Martin had waited for a couple of minutes, but then he had turned on his car and moved off toward Linnert Lane. He had seen, out in the fallow fields, a slowly moving cluster of lights, disappearing into the night. There were voices, too, cries and pleas echoing in the silence, and then a voice, high and full of something Martin guessed must be faith, “Yea, though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death…” then lost to an errant wind and long thunder out of the west.
Martin had not returned to Third Street Methodist. He had not been able to face going home with the Chalmers family.
Instead, he had driven out into the night, going up 1540 into the Smokes. He knew every inch of the hills where he lived. As a boy, he’d hunted the Smokes with his dad, taking whitetail deer and turkey. He’d hunted across the very land where he’d built his house. Nowadays, he didn’t hunt, largely because Trevor wasn’t interested. He preferred the intricacies of fishing, and just Saturday before last they’d driven over to the Kaw River and fished for cats with cut shad and done well…except, of course, Lindy and Winnie had thought them insane to use shad as bait in order to eat catfish, but they were women and—oh, hell, he’d had to pull over, he was just plain overcome.
By the time he’d gotten home, he’d known that he was in serious shock. He needed medical attention. But Willerson was the only doctor in town and hadn’t he gone out with the wanderers? Martin had taken a couple of the Xanax he used to mainline during bill-paying time.
He’d wandered his own home like a ghost, pacing from room to room, hugging Winnie’s beloved stuffed elephant she had named Bearish and burying his face in Trevor’s pillow. He had ended up in his own bed clutching one of Lindy’s nightgowns to his face, and had stayed there until the sun was well up.
There had come a buzz from the front door. It was Rosie with food, the sort of casserole you brought to the bereaved.
“Harrow’s formed a committee,” she had said. “Followers. You’re welcome to join. They’re going to be taking food and water. Some plan on going all the way.”
“Do we still know where they are?”
“Helen’s out there with a walkie-talkie. They’re about twelve miles out, moving at three miles an hour. North-northwest, just like all the rest. They’re about a mile from Holcomb’s wanderers, and it looks like the two groups’re gonna meet up about noon. That’ll put it up to about two thousand people.”
“Two thousand!”
“Hon, there’s just eighteen intact families in Harrow. None in Holcomb. In fact, Bobby drove over there and he’s telling us the place is entirely empty.”
Then she added, “We also lost some kids. Children of folks who got hit. The little ones stayed around, but a lot of the older kids—fifteen to twenty or so—we can’t find them. They aren’t wandering and they aren’t here anymore.”
Another unknown was a cold, frightening thought.
Rosie had helped him pile the jeep with every bit of everything edible and drinkable in the house—a six-pack of Dr Pepper, two bunches of celery, beer, milk, half-and-half, orange and cranapple juice, Winnie’s soy milk, all the cereal, the Lean Cuisines, everything he could find, even unbaked refrigerator cookies, and seeing the Pillsbury Doughboy on a half-used tube of cookies had brought more tears, angry tears.
He had driven out just after noon, going down 205 to the Holcomb crossroads and then out into the fields. He’d crisscrossed the countryside for hours, finding not a sign of anybody. Increasingly afraid and frustrated, he’d driven harder and harder, bounding through fields, screaming around bends, and in all that time not come upon a single human being, wanderer, follower, or free.
Now he was here, sitting on a bare quarter of a tank of gas with the sun going down. He realized that he was at Dennis Farm, one of the places that had been hit before the strike on Harrow. Well, he knew the Dennises, and he decided that he could go ahead and borrow some of their tractor gas. He drove the jeep over to the pump and tried to turn it on. No good. He went around the side of the barn and fired up the generator, then returned and filled his tank. He looked across at the dark house, and after he’d cut off the pump and the generator, got in the jeep to continue his quest.
He thought he heard something, though, and went over to the house. He approached it warily, not sure what to expect. The Dennises had raised about ten kids, but they were all gone, doctors and lawyers and corporate executives and other things that were not farmers.
He heard it again, a sort of mechanical chuckling sound. Was it coming from inside? He couldn’t be sure.
