They were halfway across the bridge when the driver slowed.
"What's the problem?" Zazzaro asked.
"Those trucks. There wasn't supposed to be any oncoming traffic till we got across."
Through the windshield they could see two eighteen-wheelers in the oncoming lane. One continued pass them, but the other slowed and turned a sharp left coming to a stop, blocking both the lanes on the far side of the crest.
"What the hell?" The driver checked his rearview mirror. "Aw shit!"
Behind them the other truck screeched into a jack-knife, cutting off the trail of cars about five back.
They were trapped.
Before they knew it, the rear doors of both trucks opened up and out poured dozens of people with automatic weapons firing.
A screech of tires and the motorcycles skidded sideways. Two drivers were thrown to the side, the other ended up with his leg pinned under the machine. As he rolled in agony to pull free, somebody shot him dead. A chatter of guns and the others were killed.
Laura's scream filled Roger's head.
Zazzaro and Brown instantly had their weapons drawn, and behind them the men produced Uzis. But they were far outgunned.
From behind came a volley of automatic weapons as men from the rear truck unloaded their magazines at the escort vehicles and at the first press cars. Windshields shattered and people screamed as the bullets sprayed the convoy.
"They're killing everybody," Brett cried.
Ahead Roger could see a wall of people with guns marching slowly in formation toward the Hummer. They were all wearing white jumpsuits. And red shoes. All holding weapons.
And in the lead wearing a flowing white robe and clutching something to his chest was Lamar Fisk.
Brown was on his radio phone calling for support. But they didn't have a chance to get here in time.
Zazzaro opened the door with his Uzi raised.
"Don't!" Roger shouted. "They'll wipe us all out." From the dashboard he snatched the mouthpiece to the outside loudspeaker flicked it on.
"Fisk, this is Roger Glover. Stop shooting," he shouted. "Hold your people back. I've got what you want. I'll bring it, just stop shooting."
Laura grabbed him. "Roger, they'll kill you."
Through the windshield they could see Fisk raise his hand. The mob stopped. So did the gunfire.
Roger pushed open the door and gripped the two carriers.
"No, Roger," Laura screamed.
"Dad, don't go!" Brett begged.
"It'll be a bloodbath otherwise," he said.
Zazzaro pressed in front of him. "I can't let you do that."
"Then you're going to have to shoot me," he said and pushed his way out.
Laura and Brett were still screaming for him to stop as he moved away from the vehicle.
Brown jumped out after him. He had explicit orders to get the serum into federal protection, no matter what.
Roger knew that now, but it was no time for anybody to play cop. "There's an army of them with more firepower than you've got in fifty miles," Roger said. "Go tend your wounded."
Brown heard the cries of the men behind them. He saw the wall of white uniforms and the weapons. It wasn't worth the sacrifice. "Just give them the shit and haul ass."
"Dad," Brett cried. "Daaaad."
Roger looked back. I love you, beautiful boy.
A quick glance at Laura. Her face was twisted in horrid realization.
Then he turned and walked toward Lamar Fisk and his army in white.
From behind him, the dozens from the first truck closed around Roger, leaving in cars the dead and wounded, and those who had been spared. The Witnesses had no more interest in them. Nor in the distant sounds of sirens. Nor the media people cowering with their microphones and cameras running.
Nobody tried to stop Roger as he approached Fisk. But all their weapons were trained on him-automatic weapons stolen from military arsenals.
As he approached, he noticed the looks on their faces. A wild intensity. Perhaps rapture, perhaps drugs. Men and women, young and old, mostly white, but with some blacks and Asians. Some women holding babies.
"It's all here," Roger said. "Please let the others go. There's been enough killing."
Fisk raised his bible as Roger had seen him so many times on the news. The look of bloodless piety in his face. "'And one by one the Angel of the Lord opened the vials and poured forth the plagues upon the earth…'"
Roger stopped a few feet before the man. He raised the twin cases. "It's all yours."
But Fisk disregarded his plea. "This is the one true elixir," he shouted, holding up the bible. "This is the only way to eternal life. Not your snake oil."
The creep was going to preach to him first, Roger thought.
In unison the Witnesses cried "Alleluia."
Roger said nothing. The man was not to be reasoned with. He was beyond reason. He was beyond the moment. Beyond this bridge. Beyond the here and now. His eyes were huge glazed orbs. He looked insane with mission.
Roger's eye fell on Fisk's other hand, half-hidden in the folds of his robe.
"Lay them down," Fisk said.
Roger set the two boxes between them.
"Open them."
Roger unlocked the boxes and opened them.
He then stepped back as Fisk inspected the contents. When he was satisfied, he nodded at a woman who overturned the contents making a large pile of glass ampules.
"Vials of abomination," he said.
All around him guns poked angrily in the air. For a moment, Roger saw the Okamolu warriors. "Fisk, please let the others go. You have what you want."
Roger braced himself to be shot dead. That was also what they wanted. Death to the Antichrist. He just wished it didn't have to happen in front of his wife and son.
Fisk shook his bible at him. "'And I heard the voice of a great multitude, and as the voice of many waters, and as the voice of mighty thunder saying "Alleluia, for the Lord God omnipotent reigneth."'" And he stomped his foot onto the vials, the contents splattering.
That was the cue. Instantly others began to smash the vials under their shoes.
As Roger stood there, they crushed each of the ampules until all that lay on the tartop were shards of glass and wetness.
When they were through, they dropped their weapons and embraced each other across the shoulders, forming a circled wall around Roger and Fisk.
It was insane: They had just killed a bunch of people, and now their faces were glowing with beatific light as if at any moment Jesus Himself would materialize.
Spontaneously they broke into a chant of "Alleluia" and kicked and stomped the smashed glass.
It was then Roger noticed the red backpacks they were wearing. Fisk, too.
"Alleluia."
"ALLELUIA."
The chant got louder, and the Witnesses began to jerk as if the syllables were being pumped out of them by unseen forces.
"AL-LE-LU-IA."
"AL-LE-LU-IA."
"AL-LE-LU-IA."
Over the chanting, Fisk's voice rose: "'And I saw the beast and the kings of the earth, and their armies gathered together to make war against Him that sat on the horse and against His army…'"
"ALLELUIA."
"ALLELUIA."
While Fisk bellowed on, his people looked to the sky with beaming faces and jabbering mouths, all locked in unison, impervious to the police gathered on the banks of the lake and the media people behind them and the sound of sirens approaching from both sides.
"'And the waters shall run red with blood…'"
"ALLELUIA."
"ALLELUIA."
Fisk's face was huge with intensity, the tendons of his neck swelling, his long red hair flowing like tongues of flame as he recited the doom and gloom and pumped with the rhythm of the chant.
In the movement Roger noticed something small and black in his hand.