slumped over Rulon’s shoulder, his eyes glassed, his mouth slack and speechless. He was not screaming. He was not crying. He’d been dragged over the final ledge inside himself. He was gone, with nothing and no one to pull him back out this time. He’d Freaked. Welcome to the endtimes, Michael. Welcome to The End.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
No. No. Please please please, no.
Michael rushed from the tunnel, his hand a burning pulse, out across the never-ending lobby and into the street, where he saw the Hummer. He had one shining moment, before he spotted the deflated jack-o’-lantern balloon on its roof and realized that it was Jopek’s Hummer, not Rulon’s.
Michael’d had to wait in the tunnel in the bank, to cower, making sure the Rapture’s silence wasn’t a trick. He’d dashed out the moment he heard the motorcycles and Hummers revving.
But the Rapture—and Patrick—were gone. The only moving thing out here in the street was the snow falling from the black sky.
Run, run, as fast as you can, a voice growled in his head. You can’t catch him, he’s the God-fearin’ man.
Michael dashed farther out in the street, straddling the yellow double line.
Skyscrapers choked out the rising moon, and snow muted the little remaining light. The air carried the thin stink of motor exhaust.
He whirled, throwing his gaze to the west, past the colossal tail of the jetliner. Patches of purple in the darkness: cars, lampposts, buildings. The world totally motionless except for the storm, as if the world had transformed into some nightmarish snow-globe in which Michael was suffocatingly sealed.
He screamed out, “Bub!”
No reply. And he did not see any taillights.
You can’t catch him, he’s the game-endin’ man!
Isn’t this just fun, baby?
No taillights in either direction. He nearly screamed; he closed his eyes; he tried to hear the telltale buzz of engines.
But heard only his heart, exploding in his ears.
An image loaded unbidden to his mind: Rulon’s knife arcing up over his head, Rulon’s knife screaming down, and his brother screaming back. . . .
Holly emerged from the plane.
She marched to the Hummer, not looking at Michael. He stood there, knowing why she was mad but powerless to say anything. Holly popped a compartment above the passenger seat. A moment later she came to him with two flashlights, planting one, unlit, against his chest, still not sparing him a glance.
She strode to the center of the street, her light beam racing back and forth. The light caught the falling snow in a bubble around her, like a storm of meteors, and Michael was again struck with utter loneliness: she looked like a girl firing a distress signal while the world ended at her feet. Michael started telling her the Rapture had left already—then he realized what she was doing. He turned on his flashlight, copying her search for vehicle tracks.
All he saw were footprints: so many.
“Here. This way,” Holly said brusquely after a moment. “Let’s go.”
“W-wait—”
She jabbed her light beam at wide tire imprints in the snow that receded into the west. “The tracks go this way, Michael. That’s the way out of Charleston, to the mountains where their town is.” She had the tone of a teacher explaining something simple to the least favorite student in the class.
“Some already filled in, though,” Michael replied. “What if that’s the way they came from? I mean, the new tracks could’ve been covered by the snow, or the wind, or . . .”
Holly shook her head in frustration and shot her light into his face, blinding him. Michael flinched, raising a hand to block the light as she stamped toward him.
“Okay—fine! Absolutely!” Holly said, her voice quivering. “Where do you think we should go, captain? It must be convincing, since I know you wouldn’t say anything that wasn’t true. So please: hi, I’m Holly, please inform the damsel what you’re thinking.”
Michael began to defend himself, but there was no time. And there was no defending himself. Yes, she saw him plainly now.
“Fine,” he said softly. “We’ll go to Coalmount. That’s probably smart.”
“Oh, excellent. I’m oh-so-glad you trust me.” Holly moved toward the Hummer again.
“Holly, I’m—”
Who are you?
“—I’m sorry. Look, you don’t have to go. This is my fault.”
She spun on him, then. Her glasses flashed fiercely; Holly hurled her flashlight at the ground. The bulb exploded in a burst of bright that illuminated the tears tracing down her cheeks. She thrust a finger at him. “Stop. Right now. Stop talking like you think I don’t care.”