“Yeah, well, plans have changed. We gotta go the other way.” He pointed to the southern horizon, where a thick black pillar of smoke was rising. “Ever had a desire to see a crashed plane?”
“I have,” Rusty said. “In the service. Two guys. You could have spread what was left on bread. That was plenty for me, pilgrim. Ginny says they’re all dead out there, so why—”
“Maybe so, maybe no,” Twitch said, “but now Perkins is down, and he might not be.”
“
“The very same. I’m thinking the prognosis ain’t good if the pacemaker blew right out of his chest—which is what Peter Randolph is claiming—but he
“Twitch. Buddy. A pacemaker can’t blow like that. It’s perfectly unpossible.”
“Then maybe he
“You’re not smoking in the ambulance,” Rusty said.
Twitch looked at him sadly.
“Unless you share, that is.”
Twitch sighed and handed him the pack.
“Ah, Marlboros,” Rusty said. “My very favorite OPs.”
“You slay me,” Twitch said.
5
They blew through the stoplight where Route 117 T’d into 119 at the center of town, siren blaring, both of them smoking like fiends (with the windows open, which was SOP), listening to the chatter from the radio. Rusty understood little of it, but he was clear on one thing: he was going to be working long past four o’clock.
“Man, I don’t know what happened,” Twitch said, “but there’s this: we’re gonna see a genuine aircraft crash site. Post-crash, true, but beggars cannot be choosers.”
“Twitch, you’re one sick canine.”
There was a lot of traffic, mostly headed south. A few of these folks might have legitimate errands, but Rusty thought most were human flies being drawn to the smell of blood. Twitch passed a line of four with no problem; the northbound lane of 119 was oddly empty.
“Look!” Twitch said, pointing. “News chopper! We’re gonna be on the six o’clock news, Big Rusty! Heroic paramedics fight to—”
But that was where Dougie Twitchell’s flight of fancy ended. Ahead of them—at the accident site, Rusty presumed—the helicopter did a buttonhook. For a moment he could read the number 13 on its side and see the CBS eye. Then it exploded, raining down fire from the cloudless early afternoon sky.
Twitch cried out:
6
“I gotta go back,” Gendron said. He took off his Sea Dogs cap and wiped his bloody, grimy, pallid face with it. His nose had swollen until it looked like a giant’s thumb. His eyes peered out of dark circles. “I’m sorry, but my schnozz is hurting like hell, and… well, I ain’t as young as I used to be. Also…” He raised his arms and dropped them. They were facing each other, and Barbie would have taken the guy in his arms and given him a pat on the back, if it were possible.
“Shock to the system, isn’t it?” he asked Gendron.
Gendron gave a bark of laughter. “That copter was the final touch.” And they both looked toward the fresh column of smoke.
Barbie and Gendron had gone on from the accident site on 117 after making sure that the witnesses were getting help for Elsa Andrews, the sole survivor. At least she didn’t seem badly hurt, although she was clearly heartbroken over the loss of her friend.
“Go on back, then. Slow. Take your time. Rest when you need to.”
“Pushing on?”
“Yes.”
“Still think you’re gonna find the end of it?”
Barbie was silent for a moment. At first he’d been sure, but now—
“I hope so,” he said.
“Well, good luck.” Gendron tipped his cap to Barbie before putting it back on. “I hope to shake your hand before the day’s out.”
“Me, too,” Barbie said. He paused. He had been thinking. “Can you do something for me, if you can get to your cell phone?”
“Sure.”
“Call the Army base at Fort Benning. Ask for the liaison officer and tell them you need to get in touch with Colonel James O. Cox. Tell them it’s urgent, that you’re calling for Captain Dale Barbara. Can you remember that?”
“Dale Barbara. That’s you. James Cox, that’s him. Got it.”
“If you reach him… I’m not sure you will, but
Gendron nodded. “If I can, I will. Good luck, soldier.”
Barbie could have done without ever having been called that again, but he touched a finger to his forehead. Then he went on, looking for what he no longer thought he would find.
7
He found a woods road that roughly paralleled the barrier. It was overgrown and disused, but much better than pushing through the puckerbrush. Every now and then he diverted to the west, feeling for the wall between Chester’s Mill and the outside world. It was always there.
When Barbie came to where 119 crossed into The Mill’s sister town of Tarker’s Mills, he stopped. The driver of the overturned delivery truck had been taken away by some good Samaritan on the other side of the barrier, but the truck itself lay blocking the road like a big dead animal. The back doors had sprung open on impact. The tar was littered with Devil Dogs, Ho Hos, Ring Dings, Twinkies, and peanut butter crackers. A young man in a George Strait tee-shirt sat on a stump, eating one of the latter. He had a cell phone in hand. He looked up at Barbie. “Yo. Did you come from…” He pointed vaguely behind Barbie. He looked tired and scared and disillusioned.
“From the other side of town,” Barbie said. “Right.”
“Invisible wall the whole way? Border closed?”
“Yes.”
The young man nodded and hit a button on his cell. “Dusty? You there yet?” He listened some more, then said: “Okay.” He ended the call. “My friend Dusty and I started east of here. Split up. He went south. We’ve been staying in touch by phone. When we can get through, that is. He’s where the copter crashed now. Says it’s getting crowded there.”
Barbie bet it was. “No break in this thing anywhere on your side?”
The young man shook his head. He didn’t say more, and didn’t need to. They could have missed breaks, Barbie knew that was possible—holes the size of windows or doors—but he doubted it.
