Dreamcatcher(147)

Doesn't matter. You gave them a chance. And now -

There was more shooting, but it wasn't until a bullet whined off the metal just above their heads that Henry realized it was aimed at them. There was a brisk clank as another slug ricocheted off one of the Sno-Cat's treads and Henry ducked . . . as if that would do any good.

Still smiling, Owen pointed a gloved hand off to his right. Henry peered in that direction as two more slugs ricocheted off the 'Cat's squat pillbox body. Henry cringed both times; Owen seemed not even to notice.

Henry saw a cluster of trailer-boxes, some with brand names like Sysco and Scott Paper on them. In front of the trailers was a colony of motor homes, and in front of the biggest, a Winnebago that looked to Henry like a mansion on wheels, were six or seven men, all firing at the Sno-Cat. Although the range was long, the wind high, and the snow still heavy, too many were hitting. Other men, some only partially dressed (one bruiser came sprinting through the snow displaying a bare chest that would have looked at home on a comic-book superhero) were Joining the group. At its center stood a tall man with gray hair. Beside him was a stockier guy. As Henry watched, the skinny man raised his rifle and fired, seemingly without bothering to aim. There was a spanng sound and Henry sensed something pass right in front of his nose, a small wicked droning thing.

Owen actually laughed. 'The skinny one with the gray hair is Kurtz. He's in charge, and can that f**ker shoot.'

More bullets spanged off the 'Cat's treads, its body. Henry sensed another of those buzzing, hustling presences in the cab, and suddenly the radio was silent. The distance between them and the shooters clustered around the Winnebago was getting longer, but it didn't seem to matter. As far as Henry was concerned, all those f**kers could shoot. It was only a matter of time before one of them took a hit . . . and yet Owen looked happy. It occurred to Henry that he had hooked up with someone even more suicidal than himself.

'The guy beside Kurtz is Freddy Johnson. Those Mouseketeers are all Kurtz's boys, the ones who were supposed to  -  whoops, look out!'

Another spang, another whining steel bee  -  between them, this time  -  and suddenly the knob on the transmission stick was gone. Owen burst out laughing. 'Kurtz!' he shouted. 'Bet you a nickel! Two years from mandatory retirement age and he still shoots like Annie Oakley!' He hammered a fist on the steering yoke. 'But that's enough. Fun is fun and done is done. Turn out their lights, beautiful.'

'Huh?'

Still grinning, Owen jerked a thumb at the box with the blinking amber bulbs. The curved streaks of byrus under his eyes now looked like warpaint to Henry. 'Push the buttons, bub. Push the buttons and yank down the shades.'

12

Suddenly  -  it was always sudden, always magical  -  the world fell away and Kurtz was in the zone. The scream of the blizzard wind, the pelt of the snow, the howl of the siren, the beat of the buzzer  -  all gone. Kurtz lost his awareness of Freddy Johnson next to him and the other Imperial Valleys gathering around. He fixed on the departing Sno-Cat and nothing else. He could see Owen Underhill in the left seat, right through the steel shell of the cab he could see him, as if he, Abe Kurtz, were all at once equipped with Superman's X-ray vision. The distance was incredibly long, but it didn't matter. The next round he fired was going right into the back of Owen Underhill's treacherous, line-crossing head. He raised the rifle, sighted down -

Two explosions ripped the night, one of them close enough to hammer Kurtz and his men with the shockwave. A trailer-box with the words INTEL INSIDE printed on it rose into the air, turned over, and came down on Spago's, the cook-tent. 'Holy Christ!' one of the men shouted.

Not all of the lights went out  -  a half hour wasn't long and Owen had had time to equip only two of the gennies with thermite charges (all the time muttering 'Banbury Cross, Banbury Cross, ride a c**k horse to Banbury Cross' under his breath), but suddenly the fleeing Sno-Cat was swallowed in moving fire-flecked shadows, and Kurtz dropped his rifle into the snow without discharging it.

'Fuck a duck,' he said tonelessly. 'Cease firing. Cease firing, you humps. Quit it, praise Jesus. Inside. Every one of you but Freddy. join hands and pray for God the Father Almighty to get our asses out of the sling they're in. Come here, Freddy. Step lively.'

The others, nearly a dozen, trooped up the steps to the Win?nebago, looking uneasily at the burning generators, the blazing cook-tent (already the commissary-tent next door was catching; the infirmary and the morgue would be next). Half the pole lights in the compound were out.

Kurtz put his arm around Freddy Johnson's shoulders and walked him twenty paces into the blowing snow, which the wind was now lifting and carrying in veils that looked like mystic steam. Directly ahead of the two men, Gosselin's  -  what was left of it ?was burning merry hell. The barn had already caught. Its shattered doors gaped.

'Freddy, do you love Jesus? Tell me the truth.'

Freddy had been through this before. It was a mantra. The boss was clearing his head.

'I love Him, boss.'

'Do you swear that's true?' Kurtz looking keenly. Looking through him, more than likely. Planning ahead, if such creatures of instinct could be said to plan. 'As you face the eternal pit of hell for a lie?'

'I swear it's true.'

'You love Him a lot, do you?'