Light (Gone 6)

A massive flaming torch of a truck floated at a stately pace down the highway, like some awful parade float. Next up in the parade, ladies and gentlemen, the float from hell.

Edilio raised binoculars and twisted the focus knob. What he saw made him catch his breath. A person floated before her, a person wrapped in chains.

He knew who it was. He couldn’t see the face, but he knew.

Mary, Mother of God, if ever you were going to intercede, now would be a very good time.

The air was already hard to breathe for the smoke, and now terror crushed the air from his lungs. He could hardly control his body. The gaiaphage was on the march and they would all die. All of them. Just like Roger, they would all die, no chance, no salvation, they would die die die die . . .

“Okay,” Edilio said, tough, unflinching, because that’s what the others all wanted from him. “Let’s go do it.”

He led the way, automatic rifle hanging from his shoulder, finger on the trigger guard, ready, scared. He trotted down the steps: Don’t miss, don’t trip, Edilio; they’re watching you, they’re scared, they’re so scared because they know it’s over, they know death is here for them and there’s no defense against it.

Don’t trip. Careful.

Out the front door, out onto the patio that overlooked the plaza. There were kids there, the few who hadn’t yet run to the barrier, and yes, still some up in the windows with gun barrels visible.

You’ll run when you see, he thought; you’ll run and scream and so will I.

“Listen up,” he shouted in a voice so calm it could not possibly be his. “Remember to make every shot count. Aim. Fire. Aim again. Fire. Keep that up until you run out of ammunition.”

“Edilio!” someone cried out, but it wasn’t a question: it was a slogan, it was a rallying cry.

“Edilio! Edilio!”

They shouted from their dark windows.

Like he was seeing her in a dream, he made eye contact with Dekka, who nodded and said, “Edilio!”

Quinn appeared, carrying a gun. He was grim. A spark floated past his face, illuminating his eyes.

“There’s a boat coming in,” Quinn said.

Edilio nodded like he understood, but he understood nothing except that he had no power to resist what was coming.

Drake dragged her down Second Avenue, not seeming to have any plan or direction, really, just to drag her.

Astrid was in and out of consciousness, eyes misted red, hands scratching weakly at the powerful whip arm around her throat. A false night had fallen, a night that stank of smoke.

She must have passed out, because when she opened her eyes she was in a house. Vague, disjointed memories of footsteps on a porch, of a door kicked in, of herself hurled against a dining-room table.

Over her head a brass-and-crystal chandelier—much abused over the months—swung back and forth. Someone who had occupied the house at some point had hung Barbie dolls and action figures from the chandelier with bits of colored yarn. There was a smell of sewage to join the reek of smoke.

He threw Astrid onto the table, faceup. She gathered her strength and screamed, “Help! Help me! Help me!”

Drake came into view from behind her head, stepped around so she could see him and he could look into her eyes. There was something odd and disjointed about him. The body didn’t match the head. He was taller than he’d been, stronger, more muscled. His head was pale; his neck was tan.

A lizard’s tail whipped madly, protruding from his brow, right between his eyes.

The windows glowed orange and red. The fire was coming.

Endgame.

“Help me! Help me!” Astrid screamed.

Drake nodded in satisfaction. “That’s good. That’s very good. I’ve waited a long time to hear you—”

She rolled away from him, trying to get off the table, but his whip arm had her and dragged her back. She kicked and punched and none of it mattered. He enjoyed it.