Shaun heaves a fainted Regan out of the madding crowd. People are radios, and right now the static’s insane. Carnival turned ugly when the Bad Mask Guys showed up and made things boom; he doesn’t want anyone trampled.
Safe momentarily in an alcove, he scans the streaming riot desperately for Lissa. He can’t see her, but people are radios–Shaun closes his eyes and tunes his body’s antenna to her electric hum.
She’s there, impossibly clear. The crowd should muddy it, unless–
He looks up to see a girl in white twist gracefully, slamming a huge man face-first through a wall.
“Here,” he says. And “chokepoint.” “Hold off” and “ammo,” and “try to wait.” “Hope,” too, and “not much.”
“Children,” he says, “safety.”
The sun’s just starting to split on the steeple over the wreck of White Oak. Kiran lets her eyes wander from small, desperate Hugo and thinks about sunset on Lac Court d’Oreilles. She told Nanda she’d quit smoking there. She never did.
“Can’t ask–” says Gus.
“Sure,” says Kiran.
She hitches up the bag, checks the Colt’s slide action, rattles her pack of Saratogas and peers in. Eight cigarettes left. That ought to be enough for one lifetime.
Thursday, February 5, 2004
The bus station’s dusty and so is the old man sitting in it. He actually has dust on him. Newsom tries not to stare, looking instead for a place to set his bag.
There’s an inexplicable piano on one wall; it, too, is dusty, but the key cover’s open. After ten minutes of wall-watching, Newsom gives in and plonks a key.
It’s out of tune–he knows that immediately. He draws back, but an old crow-voice says “Play somethin’.”
“I don’t know–”
“It does.”
Newsom hesitantly tries a chord, which is when he realizes it is in tune. With itself.
Wednesday, February 4, 2004
“Do not return the gaze of a man missing a hand.” Darlene hustles down the alley. “Keep fresh holly over door and windows, for protection against those uninvited. If you are pursued, cross running water, and if you hear another curse, touch wood–”
“You said you’d teach me,” grumbles Rob, stepping around broken glass. “If I listen to you, I’ll be afraid of my own shadow!”
“Be afraid of your shadow,” says Darlene sharply. “Whenever possible, watch it, and keep streetlights to your back.”
“What? Why?”
“Because,” says fishy breath in his ear, “you’ll know if there’s someone behind you.”
Tuesday, February 3, 2004
Hawser says something Brie can’t understand. “What?” she asks impatiently, tired of carrying the pack. “Help me up!”
She takes the hand he offers, kicks up the side of the ledge, and as her head comes over the rise she sees splintered light. The sun glitters on a thousand yards of plastic, glass and steel.
“That’s–is that?” she gasps. “It is!”
“The Secret Telephone Booth Burial Ground,” says Hawser gravely. “And we found it, Brie.”
“So many still look intact,” she whispers. “Just think. You could fit twenty-five people in each one…”
“And then,” says Hawser, nodding, “to outer space!”