Far behind Harry a scream rose unlike any of the others, so shrill and hysterical that it pierced the background roar and called attention to itself even in that cacophony. No more than a minute had passed since the Pause had ended, if that long. Harry figured the new screamer was either the black-haired girl coming out of shock and discovering that her shoulder ended in a gory stump — or the person who had suddenly found himself confronted by the grisly detached arm.
Even if that heart-stopping wail didn’t draw attention, the crowd would not party on in ignorance much longer. There was nothing like a punch in the face to dislodge fantasy and snap reality into place. When the change in the mood penetrated to a majority of the ravers, the rush to the exits would be potentially deadly, even though there was no fire.
A sense of duty and a policeman’s conscience encouraged Harry to turn back, find the girl who had lost an arm, and try to administer first aid. But he knew that he would probably not be able to find her in the churning throng, and that he wouldn’t have a chance to help even if he did manage to locate her, not in that growing human maelstrom, which already seemed to have reached the equivalent of hurricane force.
Holding tight to Connie’s hand, Harry pushed out of the dancers and through the now-clamorous onlookers with their bottles of beer and balloons of nitrous oxide, all the way to the back wall of the warehouse, which was deep under the loft. Beyond the reach of the party lights. Darkest place in the building.
He looked left, right. Couldn’t see a door.
That wasn’t surprising, considering a rave was essentially an illegal drug party staged in a deserted warehouse, not a chaperoned prom in a hotel ballroom where there would be well-lit red exit signs. But, Jesus, it would be so pointless and stupid to survive the Pause and the golems, only to be trampled to death by hundreds of doped-up kids frantically trying to squeeze through a doorway all at once.
Harry decided to go right, for no better reason than that he had to go one way or the other. Unconscious kids were lying on the floor, recovering from long hits of laughing gas. Harry tried not to step on anyone, but the light under the loft was so poor that he didn’t see some of those in darker clothes until he’d stumbled over them.
A door. He almost passed by without spotting it.
In the warehouse behind him, the music continued to thump as ever, but a sudden change occurred in the quality of the crowd noise. It became a less celebratory roar, darkened into an uglier rumble shot through with panicky shrieks.
Connie was gripping Harry’s hand so tightly, she was grinding his knuckles together.
In the gloom Harry pushed against the door. Pushed with his shoulders. Wouldn’t budge. No. Must be an outside door. Pull inward. But that didn’t work either.
The crowd broke toward the outer walls. A wave of screaming swelled, and Harry could actually feel the heat and terror of the oncoming mob that was surging even toward the back wall. They were probably too disoriented to remember where the main entrances were.
He fumbled for the door handle, knob, push-bar, whatever, and prayed it wasn’t locked. He found a vertical handle with a thumb latch, pressed down, felt something click.
The first of the escaping crowd rammed into them from behind, Connie cried out, Harry shoved back at them, trying to keep them out of the way so he could pull the door open—please God don’t let it be a restroom or closet well be crushed smothered—kept his thumb down hard on the latch, the door popped, he pulled it inward, shouting at the crowd behind him to wait, wait, for God’s sake, and then the door was torn out of his grasp and slammed all the way open, and he and Connie were carried outside into the cool night air by the desperate tide of people behind them.
More than a dozen ravers were in a parking area, gathered around the back of a white Ford van. The van was draped with two sets of green and red Christmas-tree lights, which operated off its battery and provided the only illumination in the deep night between the back of the building and the scrub-covered canyon wall. One long-haired man was filling balloons from a pressure tank of nitrous oxide that was strapped to a handtruck behind the van, and a totally bald guy was collecting five-dollar bills. All of them, both merchants and customers, looked up in amazement as screaming and shouting people erupted through the back door of the warehouse.
Harry and Connie separated, bypassing everyone behind the van. She went around to the passenger-side door, and Harry went to the driver’s side.
He jerked open the door and started to climb in behind the steering wheel.
The guy with the shaved head grabbed his arm, stopped him and pulled him out. “Hey, man, what do you think you’re doing?”
As he was being dragged backward out of the van, Harry reached under his coat and drew his revolver. Turning, he jammed the muzzle against his adversary’s lips. “You want me to blow your teeth out the back of your head?”
The bald man’s eyes went wide, and he backed up fast, raising both hands to show he was harmless. “No, hey, no man, cool it, take the van, she’s yours, have fun, enjoy.”
Distasteful as Connie’s methods might be, Harry had to admit there was a certain time-saving efficiency when you handled problems her way.
He climbed behind the steering wheel again, pulled the door shut, and holstered his revolver.
Connie was already in the passenger seat.
The keys were in the ignition, and the engine was running to keep the battery charged up for the Christmas lights. Christmas lights, for God’s sake. Festive bunch, these NO dealers.
He released the handbrake, switched on the headlights, threw the van in gear, and tramped hard on the accelerator. For a moment the tires spun and smoked, squealing like angry pigs on the blacktop, and all the ravers scattered. Then the rubber bit in, the van shot toward the back corner of the warehouse, and Harry hammered the horn to keep people out of his way.
“The road out of here’s going to jam tight in two minutes,”
Connie said, bracing herself against the dashboard as they rounded the corner of the warehouse not quite on two wheels.
“Yeah,” he said, “everyone trying to get away before the cops show up.”
“Cops are such party poopers.”
“Such numbnuts.”
“Never any fun.”
“Prudes.”
They rocketed down the wide driveway alongside the warehouse, where there was no exit door and therefore no panicked people to worry about. The van handled well, real power and a good suspension. He supposed it had been modified for quick escapes when the police showed up.
Out in front of the warehouse, the situation was different, and he had to use the brake and the horn, weaving wildly to avoid fleeing partiers. More people had escaped the building more quickly than he had imagined possible.
“Promoters were smart enough to roll up one of the big truck doors to let people out,” Connie said, turning in her seat to look out the side window as they went past the place.
“Surprised it even works,” Harry said. “God knows how long the place has stood empty.”
With the pressure inside so quickly relieved, the death toll — if there was one — would be substantially smaller.