She was an apocalypse of yellow and dark joy. Her purse was still over her arm. She began to jump up and down. «Get the boy, get the whore, get them both, get them all, get-»
A single sharp report rang out.
Everything froze, as if we were a classroom full of unruly children and the teacher had just stepped back in and shut the door sharply. Myron LaFleur and Mr. McVey stopped where they were, about ten paces away. Myron looked back uncertainly at the butcher. He didn’t look back or even seem to realize that LaFleur was there. Mr. McVey had a look I had seen on too many other faces in the last two days. He had gone over. His mind had snapped.
Myron backed up, staring at Ollie Weeks with widening, fearful eyes. His backing-up became a run. He turned the corner of the aisle, skidded on a can, fell down, scrambled up again, and was gone.
Ollie stood in the classic target shooter’s position, Amanda’s gun clasped in both hands. Mrs. Carmody still stood at the head of the checkout lane. Both of her liver-spotted hands were clasped over her stomach. Blood poured out between her fingers and splashed her yellow slacks.
Her mouth opened and closed. Once. Twice. She was trying to talk. At last she made it.
«You will all die out there,» she said, and then she pitched slowly forward. Her purse slithered off her arm, struck the floor, and spilled its contents. A paper-wrapped tube rolled across the distance between us and struck one of my shoes. Without thinking, I bent over and picked it up. It was a half-used package of Rolaids. I threw it down again. I didn’t want to touch anything that belonged to her.
The «congregation» was backing away, spreading out, their focus broken. None of them took their eyes from the fallen figure and the dark blood spreading out from beneath her body. «You murdered her!» someone cried out in fear and anger. But no one pointed out that she had been planning something similar for my son.
Ollie was still frozen in his shooter’s position, but now his mouth was trembling. I touched him gently. «Ollie, let’s go. And thank you.»
«I killed her,» he said hoarsely. «Damn if I didn’t kill her.»
«Yes,» I said. «That’s why I thanked you. Now let’s go.»
We began to move again.
With no grocery bags to carry — thanks to Mrs. Carmody — I was able to take Billy. We paused for a moment at the door, and Ollie said in a low, strained, voice, «I wouldn’t have shot her, David. Not if there had been any other way.»
«Yeah.»
«You believe it?»
«Yeah, I do.»
«Then let’s go.»
We went out.
XI. The End.
Ollie moved fast, the pistol in his right hand. Before Billy and I were more than out the door he was at my Scout, an insubstantial Ollie, like a ghost in a television movie. He opened the driver’s door. Then the back door. Then something came out of the mist and cut him nearly in half.
I never got a good look at it, and for that I think I’m grateful. It appeared to be red, the angry color of a cooked lobster. It had claws. It was making a low grunting sound, not much different from the sound we had heard after Norton and his little band of Flat-Earthers went out.
Ollie got off one shot, and then the thing’s claws scissored forward and Ollie’s body seemed to unhinge in a terrible glut of blood. Amanda’s gun fell out of his hand, struck the pavement, and discharged. I caught a nightmare glimpse of huge black lusterless eyes, the size of giant handfuls of sea grapes, and then the thing lurched back into the mist with what remained of Ollie Weeks in its grip. A long, multisegmented scorpion’s body dragged harshly on the paving.
There was an instant of choices. Maybe there always is, no matter how short. Half of me wanted to run back into the market with Billy hugged to my chest. The other half was racing for the Scout, throwing Billy inside, lunging after him. Then Amanda screamed. It was a high, rising sound that seemed to spiral up and up until it was nearly ultrasonic. Billy cringed against me, digging his face against my chest.