hair, and it came away in her hand.
Sobbing, Herman Katz sank to the floor, drawing in his arms and legs as he assumed a foetal ball, trying to return to the safety of his modier's womb.
Jazzbeaux threw the wig into the toilet, and reached for a towel. She didn't fully understand the set-up at the Katz Motel, but she had been through the fires, and was surviving.
Bruno Bonney had been fond of quoting Nietszche. That which does not kill me makes me stronger. Of course, that was before she
Herman?—Ma Katz?—whoever—had not killed her.
She was stronger.
Now, she wanted breakfast.
VI
In the deserted city, Roger Duroc waited for Nguyen Seth and the resettlers. His prep crew had coptered in a few days ago, but it was psychologically important for the movement that the first arrivals turn up in the old way, like the Mormon pioneers who had first built by the Salt Lake and made the desert bloom.
Duroc's team had got the power on, and he had sent exterminator packs into the streets to begin the task of clearing out the vermin that still clung to the ruins. He had picked up a group of experienced hunter-killers from the Phoenix NoGo, and turned them loose on the remaining sandrats. There were less in Salt Lake than in most ghost cities, because of the lack of water. For the first few years, that would be the big problem for the resettlers too, but a pipeline was being built that would bring a supply down from Canada.
Seth had it all worked out.
With the backing of President North, the Josephite Church was building its sanctuary in the former state of Utah. Now, it was renamed Deseret, and was only technically a part of the United States of America. It would have its own flag, its own judicial system, its own state religion, its own Great and Secret Purpose.
Duroc looked over the reports from the engineers he had sent down into the dry sewers. Their casualties had been acceptable, and the cynogen had put an end to the indigenous subterraneans. Tunnel-fighting. That took him back to the 'Nam, where he had joined up with the Summoner and later fought with the VC against the Ivans.
The lights flickered. The power was still variable, but it was a start. He had made his headquarters in what had been the presidential suite of the Hilton hotel. A portrait of Trickydick Nixon glowered down at him. Someone had shot its eyes out, perhaps a Comanche hoping to condemn the Ex-President's incomplete spirit to an eternity of wandering between the winds.
He had come a long way with the Elder, as had his family from time immemorial. He remembered the day in Paris, all those years ago, when his uncle had introduced him to the tall, quiet man to whom his life would be dedicated. Nguyen Seth hadn't changed since then, Duroc knew. But then again, the Elder was older than he looked. Sometimes, he assumed the Elder had been around since the Creation. Once, tens of thousands of years ago, he might have been remotely human.
Now, so close to the Last Days for which he had been prepared, Seth was what he was, and nothing less.
Sometimes, Duroc missed his uncle. But the succession had had to take place. Duroc had had to come of age and replace the older Duroc in the service of Nguyen Seth.
Blevins Barricune, the ex-Op Duroc had put in charge of the city limits, came through on the intercom.
'We have a sighting, sir.'
Duroc lit up a
'Twenty or thirty ve-hickles, moving slowly.'
'The wagon train?'
'Affirmative.'
Duroc blew a smoke ring. 'Well, get the brass band out. The Elder will need a welcome. You know the hymns they must play.'
'It will be done, sir. By the way, we've found some children in the old tabernacle. Five, between the ages of eight and twelve. They have no speech beyond grunts, but they've been surviving out here.'
'Children?'
'Yes sir.'
'How remarkable. They must have endured many hardships to keep going out here.'
'Yes. They overpowered Vercoe and Wood.'
'Vercoe and Wood? What's their status?'
'Both casualties, sir.'
'The children?'
'Unharmed, mostly. Pouncey was Vercoe's squeeze, and so he cut loose a bit with the cattle prod.'
'That's understandable.'
Duroc picked up his broad-brimmed black hat, and set it upon his head. He examined himself in the mirror. He looked very clerical.
'I'll be down directly. Have a car ready to take me to the city limits. I'll want to see the Elder arrive. The moment must be marked with all due ceremony. The vid team will record it for posterity.'
That was a lie. There would be no posterity.
'And the children?'
'Oh, you know what to do. Hang them.'
'Fine, sir.'
'Let Pouncey do it. The man deserves something for his loss.'
'Very well, sir.'
Humming 'All Things Bright and Beautiful,' Duroc left his suite.
VII
With her wounds dressed and bound and clean clothes on, Jazzbeaux felt approximately like a human being. That was dangerous, she knew. Ever since she had looked through Seth's shades, she had been more than human. Or perhaps less. She felt an odd detachment that she would have to get used to. Her humanity was something useless to her, something that came from the Denver NoGo and which should have died in Spanish Fork with Andrew Jean and the others. She was still carrying it about, like a Mexican mother in a warzone still toting a dead baby at her breast. Membership in the human race was a psychological crutch she knew she could do without, but wasn't quite ready to throw away yet. There would be time.
She had left Herman Katz in the bathroom. He was verging on catatonia. Yesterday, she would have casually killed him. Now, she didn't sec the point. She was saving herself for Elder Seth.
There was no food in the chalet, so she went up to the house. If there was no real Ma Katz to bother her, the place should be empty and Herman ought to have the makings of a breakfast. She wanted a pint of recaff and a toasted cheese sandwich. Perhaps a bowlful of Wally's Whale Food, and a jujube or two to give it a buzz. Perhaps not. Perhaps she didn't need drugs any more, didn't want the buzz. There were enough new things going on in her mind.
She climbed the rickety steps set into the hillside and got up to the porch of the Katz house. The door was open. Inside, the hallway was musty and dark. She saw an old French dresser with faded photographs in gilt frames under a bed of cobweb. An embroidered sampler hung on the wall, A BOY'S BEST FRIEND IS HIS MOTHER. Three identical aprons hung on a crooked coatstand. A buzzard, wings outstretched, posed stiffly over the kitchen door, its glass eyes thickly dusted-over.
The kitchen was what she had expected, dominated by an antique cooker and a fridge the size of a Buick. She
