Thief Of Souls

In those last few moments, Michael and Tory clung to one another as concrete bolides the size of Cadillacs dropped past them, whistling against an updraft that surged up the face of the dam. The mouth of the tunnel fell away.

“Watch out!” Michael pulled Tory back as the door­way crumbled. Then, from behind, a blast of pulverized concrete dust shot past, like steam through a pipe. It shot into the updraft, and was carried away like smoke. Updraft? thought Tory. There were only seconds left now. That’s Michael’s updraft! Tory realized. That wind is his will fighting the dam! But how powerful was it? How powerful could he make it in the seconds they had left? Not strong enough to stop the mountainous concrete chunks, but maybe—

She grabbed him, making him look at her. “What’s the wind, Michael?” she demanded. Mi­chael shook his head, not understanding.

“What does it feel like? In your gut—in your head. How does it feel inside?”

“Fear,” shouted Michael. “Terror . . . .”

“Then be frightened, Michael! Be more frightened than you’ve ever been in your life. And be it now!”

Michael turned to see the dust flowing into the updraft, and finally it clicked.

He grabbed Tory, clutching her with white knuckles, then he screamed a blood-curdling shriek of absolute fear—and instantly the whistling of the updraft raised in pitch as its strength increased.

The floor gave way beneath them as Michael held Tory, screaming his terror into her ear, and she screamed back into his. Neither of them had the gift of flight—but if Michael’s updraft could make them fly as well as that boat on Pacific Coast Highway, perhaps that would be enough. They clung to that thought as they leapt from the dying dam into the wind.

***

A mile downstream, Dillon and four hundred of his followers watched it happen. Chunk after chunk of con­ crete exploded away, until the entire upper face slid like a sand castle, into the powerhouse below. The powerhouse exploded. An instant later, the lower shell of the dam tumbled, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust shooting heavenward. Another explosion from the bur­ied powerhouse, and then silence.

Behind Dillon, the chosen ones grew silent.

Through the dust, they saw what appeared to be a dark, V-shaped wall of still water—but the air was not clear enough to be sure just yet.

But Dillon was sure.

His power had grown beyond all limits, because holding back the waters of Lake Mead took so little effort, it felt like a mere reflex.

A power like that did not belong here.

Behind him, the four hundred squinted to see through the dust cloud, none of them knowing that they were already dead. Dillon had separated his followers precisely. These were the ones who had been visited by Okoya. These were the soulless. The shells of life, with nothing living inside.

They did not belong here, either.

The Shiprock Slayer had begun the task of removing the soulless—Dillon realized that now. And he also re­ alized that he was the only one who could complete it. Now he focused all his effort on the wall of water. He knew what he had to do, but it wasn’t easy to fight the order his very presence brought. He hurled his thoughts ahead of him, turning them chaotic and disjointed. He battered the water-wall with his mind, struggling to give entropy a foothold once more, so that this lake would fall out of his control, and spill free.

At last he felt his barrier fall, like the tearing of a membrane. Suddenly, the ground rumbled once more, and through the dust cloud burst a white, churning wave five hundred feet high, surging down the canyon toward them.

As the water approached, Dillon had to remind him­self that he was not killing the people around him. Okoya had already done that. But for the thousands that would die downstream, Dillon had to accept responsi­bility.

For so long Dillon had struggled to find redemp­tion—fixing all those who were broken so that he might forgive himself for the destruction he had once caused. But it had never been for them. He had done it for himself; to finally feel worthy. It was a selfish need, masquerading as selflessness.

No more.

For there was only one way to save the world now, and it meant that Dillon Cole had to die in disgrace and never be redeemed.

Let me be despised by the world, he silently prayed. Let my name be spoken with nothing but hatred. Let this act be so horrible, that it shatters the pattern of destruction I’ve helped to create, and sets the world hack on its proper track. A world where not a single soul worships me.

The wedge of churning foam pounded forward, a quarter mile and closing. Behind Dillon, the dead-alive followers waited for Dillon to stop it.

But instead, Dillon raised up his hands to receive it.

***

Lourdes did not see it, but she knew something had gone wrong. She knew because of the strange pillar of dust shooting toward the sky like a mushroom cloud. She knew because of the roar of rushing water, and she knew because of Okoya’s scream of fury from some­where within the circle of buses, a hundred yards from where she and Winston lay doubled-over in the sand.

Apparently Okoya had not gotten what he wanted, which meant Dillon had chosen to destroy himself, rather than the world. He had chosen not to be Okoya’s ruling-puppet.

Lourdes sat up. The revulsion she felt as she had stumbled away from camp had resolved into a pain in her gut, and a sense of unreconciled need—a craving for what only Okoya could supply.

Winston sat in the dust, his hand over his eyes, weeping. All his supposed wisdom, and he couldn’t see this coming. Oh, he had grown, all right. He had grown arrogant and self-absorbed—they all had.

“How could this have happened?” cried Winston. “How could we have done this to ourselves?”

Lourdes tried to find some sympathy. She tried to find a feeling to comfort both of them, but all she found inside was the angry pit of her stomach; and so she left Winston, not caring about his tears. Fighting her hun­ger, she strode back toward the circle of buses.

The place was deserted. All had gone to follow Dil­lon. Everyone, that is, except Okoya. Okoya was stretched out against the face of a bus—his arms and legs tied in four different directions with heavy nylon tent cords. He’d pulled and tugged at his bonds, but the job had been well done—he was not getting free. It almost amused Lourdes to see this master of minds rendered impotent by mere nylon ropes.

Lourdes approached, keeping her stride steady, counting each step as she drew closer until she stopped, only a few feet away.

“Always a pleasure to see you, Lourdes,” Okoya said. “Release me, and—'

“And what?” Lourdes took a step closer. “You’ll crown me Queen for a Day?”

Okoya pulled against his bonds one more time. “Ev­erything that was Dillon’s will now be yours.”

“I don’t need you for that,” said Lourdes. “I know what I’m capable of. If I want the world on a silver platter, I’ll put it there myself.”

“Then why are you here?”

“This is why.” Lourdes squeezed her hands into tight fists, and pushed forth a single nerve impulse. Instantly Okoya began to gasp for air as his heart seized in his chest.

“How does it feel to have our powers turned against you?”

“If you kill this body,” gasped Okoya, “it will free me to jump into another. There are hundreds of people on that road; I could be any one of them, and you’ll never know when I’m coming.”

Lourdes squeezed her fists tighter, but knew Okoya was telling the truth. She released the hold on his heart, and the color returned to Okoya’s face as he pulled in deep, wheezing breaths.

“You don’t know how to kill me,” Okoya sneered, “and it’s a waste of your time to try.”

Maybe so, but as long as he was in that body, he could feel every measure of its pain. Lourdes brought her fist back, and smashed it heavily across his jaw, and then again, and then again, making sure every pun­ishing blow had the full force of her anger. But no matter how many times she struck him, it made her feel no better. In the