sardines and hard biscuits the Preacher had provided me. I took the opportunity to examine the Preacher’s map as I chewed.
I spent a bit of time running my fingers along the map lines and calculating distances. I marked a tiny blue box where my cabin was with a pen. The natural route from there to town didn’t cross any of the colored lines the Preacher had added, nor did our usual route out to SR 446. But on the way from my cabin to the Preacher’s there was indeed a thready blue pencil line in the vicinity. Had I crossed it on the way there this morning? My mix of following the logging road and weaving through the woods might or might not have caused me to cross that vague line scratched on an old map. It wasn’t like a street map. It only showed major roadways.
Perhaps that is where I had picked up the lost ones, the Krenzer girls. I shuddered. How close had I come, perhaps a dozen times, to walking into that line and-
There was another line, blue pencil or felt tip, I think this time, placed between me and town. It took an extra half-mile, but I gave it a wide berth. One thing the map did is give me an extra sense of confidence as I arrived in town. It felt good to think you might have in your hands a way to prevent your random demise. It might all be a comforting illusion, like a newspaper horoscope, but it felt good, regardless.
A heavy red line, definitely felt tip this time, cut a pie-wedge out of Redmoor, leaving the northern third of town including the downtown business district almost inaccessible. I nodded to myself, no wonder we had abandoned the town. Thinking it over, I realized that that third of town had been the first to go-mad. The police and fire stations were in that area. There were no police or firefighters left alive in our town now. They had died out like the wooly mammoths. I shook my head and wondered if elsewhere in the world people were mapping out madness and death just like this. The cities must be living hells.
When I arrived in Redmoor, it was a ghost town. There were no lights, no sounds, and no traffic. Even the stoplights had stopped blinking weeks ago, their emergency batteries having long since run out of juice. Redmoor had never been a big town. We had an optimistic population estimate of three thousand one hundred and sixteen printed on the sign. Someone had crossed out all the digits except for the final sixteen. I wondered how long it would be before we had to cross out the one as well. In the hot months the summer people who kept cabins up here and only spent their vacation time each year along the lake always inflated the population. We had two motels, a single gas station combined with a Stop-n-Go convenience store, three churches-all Protestant flavors, of course, and an elementary school. Once you reached age twelve, you had to ride the school bus down to Newton to get your education. All that was ancient history now.
I chose to visit the closest target first, the Captain’s place. Captain James Ryerson was, as far as I knew, the only surviving inhabitant of Redmoor proper who had never fled this entire summer or fall. He had simply refused and had holed up in his place at the southern edge of town. His house backed up right against the woods. His parents had left it to him, and he’d never moved away. A veteran of the Gulf Wars, he had come back after a few decades in the service to the town in which he was born. The town was much the same as it had been in his youth, but he had changed. He had become one of those funny, survivalist-type vets, one of the ones who never really got over their war. He had all the telltale signs: He wore fatigues often, always at least a tattered service cap. His cinderblock house was full of guns and supplies, too. People always said he had a fully automatic weapon in there. Quite illegal of course, but the local police knew him, had grown up with him, so they didn’t bother him about it.
He had been in the Special Forces, everyone knew that, but no one was sure which service it had been. If you asked him about it, he wouldn’t tell you. I had once confronted him and ticked off all the ones I knew of, Delta, the Seals, the Green Berets, etc.
“They called me a Captain,” he said, with a grim smile, and that was all anyone could get out of him.
One bright, sunny day last summer the meter guy had grown claws. Wearing orange coveralls and a flesh- covered head in the vague shape of a pumpkin, he had killed my dad and a lot of other people. The meter guy had finished up his route on the Captain’s front lawn. The dozen or so slugs into his misshapen skull had proven, once and for all, that the Captain really did own the only fully automatic rifle in Redmoor. And I will always like him for it using it that day.
I sheathed my saber and took off my hat so it would be easy to recognize my face as I approached his place. One simply
While I waited, I looked through the iron bars and past the tall cinderblock walls into the yard. There were big humps in the earth that could only be buried bodies. There were a lot of them. If I thought about it, and I tried not to, I could detect a strange unpleasant odor coming from his emergency cemetery. Such things seemed commonplace now. Perhaps they would be a curbside fashion statement someday, these front yard gravesites.
I waited ten seconds, and then jerked the cord again.
“Gannon?” asked a harsh whisper off to my left.
Startled, I turned my face up and squinted at the top of the wall. The Captain was up there, sitting on the top of his bricks. He had a rifle aimed at my head.
“There you are,” I said with all the cheer I could muster. “Fixing up the top of your wall, are you?” I chuckled falsely. It was a stupid thing to say and I felt stupid saying it, but it was the first thing that came to mind. I had always gotten along with the Captain better than most. The key, I found, was to accept everything he did as completely normal, and everything that he said as completely reasonable. That way, nothing you said ever set him off and you could deal with him. It was like feeding a strange pit-bull.
“Always approach a man from the left,” he said. “The left is a blind spot for most targets.”
“Ah,” I said, nodding. He studied me further and I kept my smile pasted in place. He had been strange before recent events, and now I wondered how far a-field his mind might have wandered after a month or two of burying deformed, murderous neighbors in his front yard.
“Good to see you, Gannon,” he said, lowering his weapon finally. He dropped down inside his wall and came around to let me in.
“You still move with as much stealth as ever, Captain.”
He clanged the gates shut behind us and turned to inspect me. He was about fifty, but still in excellent shape. He was shorter than I, but stockier. His hair was reddish-gray and as unkempt as his beard, which was red shot through with silver. His eyes were the kind of yellowy-brown that looks like a dusky orange.
“Show me your hands,” he demanded.
Surprised, but not too surprised, I showed him my hands.
“Now your feet.”
“What?”
“Shoes, socks-off,” he demanded.
I opened my mouth for an automatic protest, but shrugged instead. I wondered again about how things had been for him down here in Redmoor. “Just like at the airport, eh?” I joked.
He didn’t answer and now was inspecting my ears. After a long moment he seemed satisfied. He smiled finally, and looked at me like the friend I thought I was.
A more normal person would have invited me in for a can of cola, but not the Captain.
“The Preacher sent you?” he said.
“Yes, he gave me a new kind of map.”
“I’ve got a copy, a great piece of intelligence if confirmed.”
“Um, yes. I guess I’m supposed to confirm it and find ways around these lines. He also talked about there being at least three kinds of changelings.”
“Right, that’s why I checked your extremities.”
“Huh?” I asked, recognizing a new piece of data.
“I’ve gotten a few of the lurking kind, the ones that can talk,” he said, indicating the humps of earth surrounding us. “They have deformities sometimes, a foot or an ear…”
I nodded and thought I was glad I didn’t have a clubfoot or anything. I couldn’t help but wonder if he had ever made a mistake in identifying one of them. Another thought chained off in my mind: was a true madman any
