The land was a massive enamel house. A land that was filled only with the dead and the dying. A high wind whipped clouds across the sky, which seemed to be a dark purple, like braised flesh. Wherever the lens probed, there was death. Young and old, frail and hale, all felled by the same single swipe of the nuclear scythe. The nuking had been cunning and selective, hitting only creatures that breathed, sparing all the buildings.
“Tom Adey and his young kidBeulah and her gran little Melanie and her folks Pop Maczyzk new married couple moved into the Wainwright place last week.”
Dead and dying.
On porches and in the road. One body hung out of a burned car, the head, arms and upper torso untouched by the flames; the lower torso and the legs were charred and blackened; the mouth was open in a soundless scream of ultimate agony.
Dogs crawled along the sidewalk, snapping at their own hind paws, eyes rolling, tongues hanging from their jaws. A wheelchair was caught by the vid camera, tipped on one side, wheels slowly rotating in the wind, its occupant vanished.
The camera swung wildly through 180 degrees, pointing at the ground, its shots very jerky and fast.
“He’s heading back here,” said Ryan. “Had enough. Poor fucker can’t take any more of what happened to his neighborhood.”
The picture went blank, and J.B. moved toward the television, thinking it was over. But it wasn’t.
Not quite.
A face swam into approximate focus. The face of a mortally ill, dying man, still recognizable as Don Haggard, but drawn and yellow and thin. Dark seams furrowed his face from his hose to the corners of his mouth, and the eyes were veiled with a dreadful fatigue. He wore a plaid shirt that was moist with vomit and what looked like drying blood.
The voice was hoarse and labored. The tape ran on with long pauses as the man seemed to fight to remember how to speak.
“Donald Haggard here of West Lowellton. Don’t know the date no more. Been six days since Peg passed away. Poor old dear been sleeping more and finally slipped from me while I slept. I got the sickness like everyone. Been shitting so much I can’t keep me clean no more. Lost all my dignity. Puked blood today. Can’t be soon ‘fore I join my darling. Guess our boys are long dead. Hope they died quicker and easier than folks round here. Conceived in fucking liberty We can’t hallow or consecrate this ground.” He was overtaken by a coughing fit, his body shaking. “Last full measure of devotion It shall not perish from the earth. No, no, no.”
“Turn it off, J.B.,” said Ryan.
Don Haggard’s voice was weakening. “Heard knocking a whiles back, but I couldn’t wouldn’t have not going out again.” The man staggered to his feet, swaying to and fro, pointing a finger at the camera. “Do you feel fucking lucky, punk?” he said, to the bewilderment of two people a century later.
That was the last he said.
Then there was the noise of someone being violently sicka choking, tearing sound that went on and on until J.B. pushed the Fast Forward button again. Don Haggard never reappeared, though the tape ran right on through to its end and automatically rewound itself.
“Going to take it?” asked the Armorer.
“No. Like robbing a grave. Not right. Leave it here.”
They switched off everything, gently pulling the door shut and climbing out into the cool of the late evening. Ryan lowered the exit hatch, swinging the wheel-lock on it, making sure that no casual predator would disturb the last resting place of Don and Peggy Haggard of West Lowellton, Louisiana.
They returned to the Adelphi Cinema without incident and rejoined Jak Lauren in good time for the last fire-fight.
Chapter Twenty-Two
RYAN WAS IMPRESSED WITH the regimented hold that the fourteen-year-old boy had over his small army. Jak had ordered silence, and that was what he got. Each man and woman understood his or her role in the assault; they oiled and greased their weapons, and carefully wrapped rags around them to prevent noise. A few of the men checked the captured swampwag to make sure the steering was smooth.