“SOMETHING’S COMING,” said Sly Romero, his narrowed eyes searching westward.
“You sure?” asked Jim Hilton. “I don’t see anything, son.”
“Me hear it, Captain Jim.”
“Then I’m sure you’re right.” He half closed his own eyes, head on one side, straining to catch what it was the teenager had heard.
“Yeah,” said Carrie, joining them. “Look, there’s the dust.”
Back before Earthblood, the freeways were always kept swept and clean. Now they’d all seen banks of mud or dirt piled high at the shoulders. Jim spotted the tiny trail of gray, almost invisible against the background of the desert.
“Could be Jeremiah, could be someone else. Better be careful. Steve, see if you can pick him up on the radio.”
“Sure.”
“Wonky-tonky,” shouted Sly excitedly. “Over and in and over and out.”
The dark speck was coming closer, approaching them at a surprisingly sedate speed that to Jim’s practiced eye looked close to fifty-five miles per hour.
“This is Steve Romero calling Jeremiah. Calling Jeremiah. Over.”
There was the usual roaring hiss of static, then came the familiar voice. “Well, here’s a big scale-ten hallelujah for you folks. Now’s the time of dogs burning and locusts whelping in the capitals of the world. Open the seventh seal, Brother Steve, and we’ll get the altered altars into the knave’s naves. Be with you in around two minutes and forty-five seconds. Hallelujah and out, from the one, the only, wilderness prophet.”
Steve pushed his thumb onto the Off button. But just before the set clicked into silence, they all clearly heard another voice.
“Ordinates on map refer—”
“Put it on again,” said Jim. The first beat of his heart thrilled to the thought that this could well be Zelig. The second beat chilled at the acute realization that it could also be the men of darkness. What had Nanci Simms called them? “The Hunters of the Sun,” he whispered to himself.
But this time there was only an endless burst of crackling.
“Who?” said Kyle.
“No idea. But whoever it was, they’ve just hit on the same wavelength that Jeremiah’s been using. Sooner we get moving from here the better.” Jim looked back at the lowering sun. The speck was now less than a mile away.
The six companions stood grouped together, the adults all holding their guns.
“What kind of rescue wagon’s that?” Heather asked as the vehicle drew to a smooth stop about fifty yards down the highway.
Colored fluorescent pink, it was a small glass-sided van with a huge yellow fiberglass ice-cream cone on top, next to a fifteen-foot whip aerial. On the side were painted the words: Tinklabell For The Terrific Taste!
The man who stepped out of the vehicle looked to be around fifty, of average height and build. He had on horn-rimmed spectacles and he was wearing a neat gray-brown three-piece business suit and dark maroon tie. His brown shoes were highly polished.
“This is Jeremiah?” exclaimed Kyle Lynch. “The guy looks like he’s just come by to sell us life insurance.”
“Good afternoon,” said the man in a quiet voice with a faint Florida hint to it. “My name is Joseph J. Sirak, Jr.” Seeing their bewilderment, he laughed. “Apologies, ladies and gentlemen. Of course. The J stands for Jeremiah.”
“Hallelujah,” breathed Jim Hilton.
Chapter Eleven
Joe Sirak—it didn’t seem possible to think of this gentle and respectable-looking man as the foaming prophet, Jeremiah—carefully rolled up his sleeves and placed his jacket on a black plastic hanger with the words Harknett Family Hotel on it.
“Now, let’s see precisely what your problem is here.”
He went to his ice-cream van and rummaged in the back, emerging with a handful of polished tools while everyone watched him in stunned, respectful silence.
Then he went to work on the pickup, accompanied by his whistling and the noise of chinking metal from under the hood.
“Could someone give it a try, please?”
“Sure.” Steve hopped into the driver’s seat and turned the key.
There was a moment of hesitation, then the engine coughed into life. Smoke poured for a few seconds from the exhaust, then swiftly cleared.
“Terrific, Joe,” said Jim. “What was wrong with it?”
Sirak emerged from behind the pickup, wiping his hands on a spotless hank of cotton rag. There was a broad smile on his face. “Guess you could say that it was a little of everything, Jim.” He put on his jacket again and adjusted his tie, which had slipped a quarter inch.