it.
And the shu-shaaa absorbed those thoughts, that feeling and strange emotion, reflected them back and absorbed them again, an endless loop like the infinity of two facing mirrors.
The laws of nature were flexible. Laws were made to be broken. Tamara was a conduit through which the collective energy of human souls flowed. She summoned the extra foot-pound of pressure that triggered the blasting cap of their combined minds a fraction of a second after Herbert DeWalt fired the shotgun.
And she was, and they all were, Bill Lemly driving a mahogany cross into a monstrous pasty face, because love took many forms, each strange and wonderful and equally awe-inspiring.
The power of love. Something the alien had never known, not the way a human could know it. A power beyond understanding, a power that was beyond control.
It was real here in the landscape of Tamara’s imagination where this cosmic war was being waged. And right now, that was the only place that mattered.
Because love was winning. Love was hope, love was mighty, love was blind, and at the moment, love was a righteous bitch that wanted to survive.
The golden teardrop exploded with a force that rocked the far corners of the conscious universe.
And the microsecond flashed forward as she screamed her mind at the exploding heart-brain, as she drew on the power of a thousand other human minds, as the force of hope ejaculated its hot combustion into shu-shaaa, and it collapsed and disintegrated outward.
Dirt and stones and hunks of thick sludge spewed from the Earth Mouth, and she felt it dying-no, not dying, only changing form, changing back into random atoms and space. She felt the explosion that rocked the foundations of its alien chemistry, felt the poisons blasted to the cold heart-brain of the thing, felt its spores curdle and suffocate, felt its roots spasm and sag, felt its alien consciousness take an uncomprehending waltz into the darkness that was nothing like its vision had promised, a darkness that was only darkness, without any kind of bliss or peace or bottom-darkness and darkness only.
And it was weeping.
Then she was rolling away from the falling trees and a fist-sized rock bounced off her shoulder and Chester had his arm around her and he was mentally cussing a blue streak and Emerland and Robert and Ginger dreaming of a rabbit and Kevin person everybody at the same time too many for one brief insane moment her thoughts were out among every organism in the world, an organism orgasm, every bird and bug and dandelion and crabapple and crawfish and lily and paramecium and virus, and it was blinding madness and mercifully the too-long eye blink passed and she was spitting gravel and twigs from between her teeth as the dirt rained down through the dead leaves of trees.
Then she was Tamara again, soiled and concussed and bleeding in spots, but otherwise, more or less intact.
The explosion woke up Little Mack. He'd fallen asleep under the trailer, too tired to cry any longer. When his eyes snapped open, he'd forgotten what had happened and didn't understand why he wasn't in his bunk bed with Junior snoring above him.
Then he saw his mom, and she had found him, was coming to cuddle him, was crawling across the gravel driveway on her raw hands and knees. But she was too slippery and naked and gross and pukey and her eyes were green but their glow was fading, like a flashlight whose batteries were out of juice, and her skin was getting all shrivelly and Jell-O-looking and was starting to slide off her bones.
She looked like she was in pain, but then her upper lip fell away and she looked like she was smiling again and she looked like she wanted to give Mack a good-bye kiss but then her other lip fell off along with the rest of her face and her skull collapsed like a mud balloon and then Mack was screaming and screaming and screaming and his mother was a heap of steaming slime and then she dried under the sun and flaked and lifted away as the wind cleaned up the mess but Mack was screaming and screaming and he wasn't ever going to stop.
James’s eyelids flickered open as the creature slid limply away from him. It collapsed in the flower bed beneath the window, crushing the daisies and filling the air with a thick sweet smell. James watched as the creature withered wetly and dissolved. Sirens blared across the hills.
He felt as if he'd awakened from an odd dream, one of the dense kind where you were a character in somebody else's movie. Except he somehow knew that it was real. His fingers tingled and he looked at the slick stains on the window ledge. Yes, it had been real.
Because he could still hear Tamara in his head.
'We won,' she said. 'We won.'
Right on, lady. United we stand. Brotherhood of man, sisterhood of woman. A peoplehood of people.
He'd seen the explosion, a bright flash of green on the slope of Bear Claw. He'd suffered that quick slice of telepathy, and something strange had dashed across the bottom of his psyche, leaving footprints. He knew he'd never understand what really happened, but that was fine by him, because he wasn't sure he wanted to.
But he wanted to know if the victory was final.
'We can always hope,” Tamara said in his head.
Hope?
Yes, he hoped. Didn’t someone once say that hope was the only hope?
He had seen, in that one long heartbeat, what life had to offer, and what the options were. Things could always change for the better. His aunt was gone, hopefully to a better place, but the living had a duty to live.
His mind felt clear, absent of color. Maybe he’d been the racist one, had taken an attitude too far, had shut himself away and enslaved himself to the very prejudice he loathed.
He sensed that the nightmare was over, that whatever had caused the horror had gone to its crazy grave, that today was the first day of something, that it was time to pick up the pieces and start all over again. It was time for a change.
Maybe sometimes people could change.
The trees looked vigorous and revived, as they did after a spring rain. James went out into the clean morning sun to see if anyone needed help.
Bill looked down at the stain where the devil had lain dying. The Lord had come to Bill in his moment of need, come on a white horse, no, as a white cloud, no, just pure goodness, shedding Bill of sin and darkness. The Lord had triumphed. Now Satan was back in hell, where he would lick his wounds for the next thousand years or so before he got up the nerve to try again.
But Bill wasn't worried. The Lord would always find a servant to work through, would always recruit somebody to serve as the right arm of God. Might made right, and right made might.
He took off his shirt and wiped the blood away from his neck and then cleaned the slime from the scarred cross. He carried the cross to the back of the dais and hung it gently on its hook.
Then he knelt and gave thanks.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Chester sat on his porch and watched the government trucks and research vans and men in foil suits crawling over his property. He didn't reckon their fancy meters and screens and snoop dishes would turn up much hard scientific evidence. All that was left was a damned hole in the ground. Everything else the alien had touched had flaked off and disappeared. Still, Chester knew the goddamned government liked to make a big show when it got the chance.
They'd tried to evict him and declare his farm a disaster area, but he told them in no uncertain terms that he wasn't leaving, that they'd have to send up a tank and roll over his ass before he would get out of his rocking chair. They could dig in the dirt and scrape the trees and bottle up creek water all they wanted, but Chester wasn't going to set foot outside his property for at least a couple more weeks. He just wanted to rock and stare off into space and forget.
