Hell of a thing to have to experience, hell of a thing to have to see,
to be reminded you're a human being and all it meant to be one.
o
His dad struck the match. The snow burned. A line of fire streaked
back through the open door of the caretaker's house.
The black sea heaved and rolled.
Little green boat. Putter and scatter. Putter and scatter.
The explosion shattered the windows and even blew off some of the big
squares of plyboard that had covered them. Flames crackled up the
stone walls.
The sea was black and thick as mud, churning and rolling and full of
hate, wanting to pull him down, call WINTER MOONING him out of the
boat, out of the boat and into the darkness below, and a part of him
almost wanted to go, but he stayed in the little green boat, holding
tight to the railing, holding on for dear life, scattering the Calming
Dust with his free hand, weighing down the cold sea, holding on tight
and doing what had to be done, just what had to be done.
Later, with sheriff's deputies taking statements from Heather and
Harlan in patrol cars, with other deputies and firemen sifting for
proof in the ruins of the main house, Jack stood with Toby in the
stables, where the electric heaters still worked. For a while they
just stared through the half-open door at the falling snow and took
turns petting Falstaff when he rubbed against their legs.
Eventually Jack said, 'Is it over?'
'Maybe.'
'You don't know for sure?'
'Right near the end,' the boy said, 'when it was burning up, it made
some of itself into little boring worms, bad things, and they tunneled
into the cellar walls, trying to get away from the fire. But maybe
they were all burned up, anyway.'
'We can look for them. Or the right people can, the military people
and the scientists who'll be here before long. We can try to find
every last one of them.'
'Because it can grow again,' the boy said.
The snow was not falling as hard as it had been all through the night
and morning. The wind was dying down as well.
'Are you going to be all right?' Jack asked.
'Yeah.'
'You sure?'
'Never the same,' Toby said solemnly. 'Never the same . . . but all
right.'
That is, Jack thought, the way of life. The horror changes us, because
we can never forget. Cursed with memory. It starts when we're old
enough to know what death is and realize that sooner or later we'll
lose everyone we love. We're never the same. But somehow we're all
right. We go on.
o
Eleven days before Christmas, they topped the Hollywood Hills and drove
down into Los Angeles. The day was sunny, the air unusually clear, and
the palm trees majestic.
