Scorpion Shards

moved a pack of explosives from one end of the building to the other.

***

On the seventh floor, Lourdes, Michael and Tory waited in silence. They could hear the sounds of morning in full swing. Car horns, diesel engines. The occasional shouts of the demolition workers as they diligently pre­pared for the morning’s spectacle.

Then they heard footsteps racing up the stairs and knew by their lightness that it had to be Winston. He had changed his mind. In the end they would be together. As it was meant to be.

Winston burst through the stairwell.

“We’ve got to get out of here!” he shouted.

“Winston . . .” said Michael. “We’ve made up our minds. . . .”

“We’re not leaving Lourdes. . . .” said Tory.

“No! You don’t understand!” he grabbed Tory by her plagued arms and looked into her eyes, “Tory, you were right! You’ve been right all along—The Others are here!”

Realization slowly dawned in Tory’s eyes.

“What?”

But the only answer was a blast louder than thunder that shook the world and sent pulverized concrete dust flying into their faces.

Seven floors below, the foundations of the old Dakins warehouse blew apart, and the building began its freefall journey to the earth.

***

The Chinese Tongs that had built the impossible maze of tunnels beneath Boise were long dead, and the opium dens those tunnels once connected were gone and forgot­ten. Now, more than a hundred years later, Dillon and Deanna traveled those lost passages. Dillon should have found the pattern of the twisting, intersecting tunnels easy to figure out, but as he raced wildly to reach Deanna, he found himself lost. He had never been lost before, but what had happened in that old warehouse had thrown him for such a loop, he wasn’t thinking straight.

They were here.

The Others.

Somehow they had found him, and he was convinced that they were here to kill him.

At last, down the long dim underground corridor, Dil­lon saw Deanna, just as the blast went off somewhere above their heads. The explosion was so loud, it sent pain shooting through his ears, and the rumble that followed rattled his teeth. He fell into a puddle of stagnant muck, while behind him concrete dust shot through the tunnel like steam through a pipe.

Then, through the dust blasting into his face, Dillon saw and heard hideous things. Sinewy gray tentacles reaching for him through the dust cloud—blue flaming hands around his neck, sharp claws digging into his chest, fangs, and eyes—so many angry eyes!

It must be my imagination, he thought in a panic. It can’t be real, yet even so, he felt a tentacle wrap itself around his ankle and dig in. Dillon clawed at the ground to get away, he gripped a stone in the wall, but something stung his hand.

Choking from the concrete dust filling his lungs, Dillon could swear he felt hot breath on his face and heard a sound in his mind louder than the collapsing building.

Knocking.

Many hands knocking on a door—a furious horde de­manding to be let in. Anything! thought Dillon. Anything to stop that horrible knocking in his brain. He opened his mind as easily as opening a door, and the creatures were gone, leaving only the blinding dust in his eyes.

As the dust around him began to settle, Deanna ap­peared in front of him.

“Dillon! What’s happening?” she asked desperately.

Dillon coughed out another lungful of dust. And forced himself not to think about the monster-hallucination. In­stead he let himself feel the wrecking-hunger feed on the collapse of the Dakins building. But that was only a first course.

“Listen,” said Dillon. “Listen, it’s wonderful!” The re­lief filling him soon grew into joy, and then ecstacy.

The first building had come down far above them, but the roaring had not stopped. From the right came another rumble, just as loud as the first, and then another, further away, and then another until they couldn’t tell where one ended and the next began.

Deanna sank to the ground, shivering as if it were the end of the world. “It’s like a war out there,” said Deanna.

Dillon beamed a smile far too wide. “Oh, it’s much better than that!”

His dim flashlight went out, but that was all right. Dil­lon didn’t want Deanna looking at him right now, be­ cause something was beginning to happen to him. He was beginning to change; he could feel it all over.

Dillon closed his eyes, imagining the beast he had learned to ride so well . . . only now when he tried to picture it, he saw a whole team of beasts instead: a wave of dark horses teamed together by a single yoke carrying him along at a breakneck pace.

There in the dark, his flat stomach began to slowly swell, and his many freckles began to bulge into a swarm of angry zits.

***

In the dim light of this awful morning, the foreman of the demolition crew could do nothing but watch as his well-orchestrated detonation became a nightmare of unparal­leled proportions.

It should not have happened. The way the explosives had been set, the building should have come straight down . . . but it didn’t. Instead, the entire building keeled over backward and landed on Jefferson Place—an office building across the street that had been evacuated as a precaution. The old office building shifted violently on its foundation, and keeled over to the left. . . .

. . . Where stood the Hoff Building—a city landmark.

No one had thought it necessary to evacuate that one.

The Hoff Building took the blow, and for a moment it looked as if it was only going to lose its eastern face. But then it, too, began a slow topple to the left, its domed tower crashing into the Old Boise Post Office.

Dominoes, thought the foreman. They’re going down like dominoes. It was impossible; it would take a pattern of in­credible coincidences for each building to hit the one be­side it with just the right force to bring it down as well . . . but the evidence was here before their eyes.

Debris struck the Capitol building, which seemed to be all right . . . until the pillars holding up its heavy dome buckled and the dome crashed down and disappeared into the building, hitting bottom with such force that all the windows shattered.

And it was over.

Seven buildings had been demolished.

Beside the foreman, his explosives expert just stood there, rocking back and forth, and happily whistling “Twist and Shout.” Another crew member was scream­ing at the top of his lungs.

They’re insane! thought the foreman. They’ve completely lost their minds. And finally, the combination of everything around him was exactly enough to make the foreman snap as well. As he felt his own mind slipping down a well of eternal madness, he realized that the destruction he had just witnessed was somehow not over yet. In fact, it was just beginning. In a moment he started laughing hys­ terically. And he never stopped.

***

Michael Lipranski now understood death. It was blind, cold and dusty. It was filled with a loud ringing in one’s ears that didn’t go away. Death was oppressive and choking.

These were the thoughts Michael was left with after having died. There were, of course, many questions to come, but the one question that was foremost in his mind was this: Why, if he was dead, did he still feel like cough­ing?

Michael let out a roaring hacking cough and cleared concrete dust from his lungs. He opened his eyes. They stung, but he forced them open anyway. Around him were three other ghosts . . . or at least they looked like