paced frantically, feeling that if he paced into a wall he would begin walking straight up it . . . like that Thing . . .
Patrick laughed nervously back outside the door. Then his laughter sounded like it was going farther away.
Michael whispered, “Bub . . .”
Michael screamed: “BUB? HOLLY?”
No reply from the halls of the Capitol.
The cold column of panic in his chest uncoiled and spread to his limbs and tongue and eyes. His jaws wrenched open and over them a sound tore forth. Michael slid to the ground and jammed clawed hands into his face, and yes, and yes, he bellowed.
He ran to the window overlooking the rear of the Capitol, the Hummer, the Kanawha River.
Jopek was running toward the Hummer. Michael had not seen Patrick and Holly get into the vehicle, but he thought, Oh God no, they’re leaving me.
And that was when something that once had been unthinkable occurred: A seam opened in part of the last of the Capitol defenses, and suddenly Bellows were pouring through, coming for the Hummer, twenty feet away from the Hummer, fifteen . . .
Jopek jumped into the car and slammed the door. In his mind’s eye, Michael saw the Hummer, smashing through the few series of gates and fences that created the exit path for the Hummer, heading out, bye-bye, Mike, thanks for the memories.
A thought occurred to him: Pray. Michael, pray.
Michael placed his hand on the cold, moon-bright window.
What if Bobbie had been right about there being Something that could help you? What if . . . what if he had misunderstood why the deer made him feel safe and good? What if it wasn’t some deep yes-yes aspect of himself that controlled things, but some other Power?
What if he did pray?
Please, he thought. Please . . . God. Please—Universe, whatever—if you’re there, you’ll help me! Please help, please let me not be infected, please save me, please make Jopek stop!—
—and Captain Jopek, at that very instant, got out of his Hummer.
The captain threw open the roof hatch and climbed out onto the vehicle’s roof: the gunslinger, stark and great against the stars.
“Oh-my-God,” breathed Michael. A dizzying hope raced through him.
Only for a moment.
Captain Horace Jopek of the United States 101st slammed a clip into the SAW atop the Hummer and tugged back the machine-gun’s slide. The snout barked, hurling deadly fireflies into the gas tanker staged between the Hummer and Michael’s window. Flame, gory-bright, pyred up and out of the tanker. Bellows tossed and Bellows flew.
Please God.
The window roared in. Solid heat found Michael.
He lifted, watching his own feet rise over his eyes, like a kid zooming on a swing.
Please no. It was the last thought he remembered. And if anyone did answer his plea, he didn’t know it. Michael soared, and when his head struck the corner of a senator’s desk, the world went funny, upside down, back-asswards, game over good buddy, try again with your eyes open, newb: everything tumbling up and up into his own starless void; everything falling lost and gone, like the worldscape of a game board that has been overturned by a very mad man.
Her bracelet, the one with the fake acorns, tapped on Michael’s ear as she placed the damp washcloth on the back of his neck.
“Any better? Do you want more saltines, baby?”
Michael tried to answer, but felt too weak. Oh, pizza line. Why oh why oh why had he gotten in the pizza line? Bad call, newb. That stuff was famous for making stomachs stand straight, salute, and go kamikaze. Seventh grade sucked enough without puking lava, thanks for asking.
Mom had called in sick to work to take care of him, and she had her hair in a ponytail and was wearing an N*SYNC T-shirt and jeans. She smelled good, too: like soap and hot water, not like too much makeup. And her boyfriend wasn’t here.
“No more saltines, baby?” Michael shook his head. “That’s good. Because I ate ’em all. That was a joke. Do you think you’ll laugh later?” She snorted: he felt her breath, cool and good, on his neck.
“Upboy . . . ,” someone called. “Get up. . . .”
Michael’s heart fell a little. He tried to open his eyes . . . and he found he couldn’t. Sweet mother of crap, I am siiiiick.