Devoted(20)
Shacket alone escaped, violating protocols by not staying with the ship. To hell with the protocols. He has done the right thing, the right thing for himself. Having fled Utah in a panic, he has had time to recover his composure, to reconsider what the consequences of the Springville meltdown might be.
He feels free for the first time in his life. Free. He senses some awesome power growing in him, and a thrilling new confidence. In fact, leaving Utah, crossing Nevada, and now motoring west by northwest through the mountains of California, he feels as if he is leaving mere humanity behind. What if horizontal gene transfer via archaea is in the process of editing mortality out of his genome? What if the catastrophe at Springville was not a catastrophe at all, but a great if accidental success, with him as the only beneficiary? He feels a most satisfying contempt for everyone whom he once wanted to please. He’s becoming, developing into someone superior, and he is excited by the prospect of proving it, of doing any damn thing he wants with any damn one he wants, to anyone he wants, starting with Megan Bookman, the ice-queen bitch who needs to be humbled. He will rule her.
Or maybe he doesn’t have to wait for Megan. In his becoming, perhaps he has already achieved the power to do what he wants, take what he wants. Ahead, on this lonely state highway, a car is stopped on the wide right-hand shoulder. A man is changing the rear tire on the starboard side. A young woman stands watching him. She’s wearing shorts and a halter top. She is a hottie. All of Shacket’s life, there have been women he wants and can’t have, women who respond to his overtures with disinterest or even scorn. This looks like one of those women. She looks like all of them.
He slows and pulls off the pavement and stops his Dodge Demon behind the car. It’s a black Shelby Super Snake, the quintessential high-performance car, possibly $125,000 off the showroom floor.
He gets out, smiling, being the Good Samaritan. “You need some help with that?”
“Just a flat,” says the man who is squatting by the rear tire well, using a lug wrench. “I’ve almost got it changed.”
“Is this beauty a Shelby?”
“Super Snake, last year’s model,” the asshole proudly confirms.
No traffic is in sight in either direction.
“That’s true power, sir. That’s an epic vehicle. But you can’t open her up proper on this back road.”
“Not if you don’t want to end up in the trees,” the Super Snake guy agrees. “But it’s fun the way it handles the curves.”
“You like handling the curves, do you?” Shacket asks.
The asshole hears the sneer in Shacket’s voice and at once gets to his feet, the lug wrench in hand.
Indicating the woman, Shacket says, “That bitch of yours sure isn’t last year’s model.”
“Something wrong with you?” the Super Snake guy asks.
He’s tall, as solid as a linebacker, with the arms of a powerlifter. He’s never backed down from anyone. He’s the kind who’s used to intimidating the hell out of other men with just a frown.
“No, sir, nothing wrong with me,” Shacket says.
Under the low sky, the day is still. No sound of oncoming traffic. He would hear engine noise perhaps half a minute or more before any vehicle came into sight.
He smiles. “Nothing wrong with me that a fine piece of ass like her wouldn’t cure.”
“Get in the car, Justine,” the guy tells the bitch. He starts toward Shacket, his face as hard as a sledgehammer, confident in his size, holding the lug wrench as though he’ll crack a skull with it.
The woman doesn’t move, as if paralyzed by fear. Or maybe she’s excited, thinks nothing bad can happen here, gets off watching her man beat the crap out of people.
Like an omen of perilous events, three ravens pass high above, issuing no flight calls, their wings slicing the air with sharp silence. Everything means something important now.
From under his sport coat, Shacket draws the Heckler & Koch Compact .38, which is loaded with hollow-point rounds, and he strides toward the linebacker, putting four bullets in him.
Justine breaks her paralysis and screams. She’s the Jamie Lee Curtis of her time, scream queen of the Sierra Nevada. She turns and runs, scissoring her long, smooth legs.
Her strong man collapses, as dead as anyone ever gets, and he rolls down the embankment, limp as rags, all the muscle gone out of him, into the tall grass below.
This is what it’s all about, being in command, being empowered, without fear, untouchable. Shacket is a changed man, a changing man, fast becoming, becoming someone new, something else.
The woman is running down the middle of the highway, heading west, evidently hoping a car or truck will appear.
Instead of sneakers or anything practical, the bitch is wearing sandals with a medium heel. She stumbles once, and then again. One sandal flies loose. She hobbles forward.
Laughing at her frantic, feckless escape attempt, Shacket goes after her.
A black feather floats in front of Shacket, a raven’s shedding from on high. He snatches it out of the air, pockets it, a symbol of death bestowed on him as a sign of his new power, to assure him that he may decide who will live and who will die and with what degree of suffering the condemned will perish. Everything seems like an omen now, means something important.
He holsters the pistol, races after the woman, seizes her by her long hair. He yanks her off her feet. Justine tumbles to the pavement. Shacket punches her once, leaving her dazed and limp.