Luckily, they hadn’t moved the gas masks. They were still in a green Army duffel bag hanging in the walk-in utility closet.
She slung the duffel bag over her shoulder and charged back up the stairs into the sunlight. On the lawn, walking to the Suburban, she finally relaxed enough to turn off the chainsaw. It made her feel better, though; the gas masks went into the backseat and the chainsaw went on the front passenger seat so she could keep it close.
As she pulled out of the parking lot, she couldn’t understand why no one had come out of the church itself or the connected offices to check on the noise. The parade should have been finished a while ago. Where was everybody?
Purcell was waiting with folded arms while his three sons stood in the back of the pickup. They were parked in the Korner Kafe lot. No shotguns were visible. She pulled in next to Purcell’s pickup, got out, and opened the back door. She tossed the duffel bag into the back of the pickup.
Charlie unzipped it and pulled out one of the gas masks. “We going to some kinda weird sex party?” he asked, spinning the mask on his index finger.
“Aw yeah,” Axel said. “Count me in, baby.”
Edgar gave a little uncontrollable dance, like a toddler that had to take a leak.
“Gotta admit,” Purcell said, staring at Sandy. “You got me a little curious here, with guns and gas masks.”
“You bring your guns?” Sandy asked.
Purcell smiled. “Guess that all depends on what you mean. If you’re talking about those coupla guns I registered just to make the political fuckers happy, then… not so much. Those are family heirlooms. They belong above the fireplace, so we can pass the stories down from generation to generation. When these boys have families of their own, they will explain to their children why these guns are important to us.” He gave her a grin. “If you’re talking about simple firepower, well then…”
He pulled a shotgun off the front seat. The stock and forestock were built of black plastic and from a distance, it looked like a standard military semiautomatic .12 gauge. Purcell had a look that echoed the same joy that boys across the world experience when blowing shit up. “This,” he said with a grand air, “is an AA-12, a fully automatic shotgun.”
He brandished a circular magazine; it reminded her of one of the clips that Al Capone and his gang had used for their .45 caliber Thompson submachine guns. “Twenty rounds. You’ll go through this in less time it takes to blink. Guaranteed to turn anything in front of you into a bad dream.”
Despite herself, Sandy was impressed. She’d been hoping for a few sawed-off .12 gauges that held seven or eight goose rounds, not this machine gun that sprayed shotgun shells like a fire hose. She didn’t know what to say. “I’m not sure that’s legal,” she finally managed.
Everybody laughed like she’d made a hell of a joke.
Purcell said, “Of course it isn’t. Are you kidding me? Of course it isn’t legal. We have three.”
“Good,” Sandy heard herself say.
He threw the AA-12 into the back of the truck; Charlie caught it. Edgar and Axel proudly held up each of their own. “And just in case,” Purcell said, “we brought a couple of SPAS-15s. They don’t make ’em anymore, but I couldn’t resist.” Purcell brought out another shotgun that resembled a machine gun. “This one isn’t fully automatic, but it’ll fuck shit up, no question.” He racked the pump back and smiled at her. “Whether you use it as a pump shotgun or as a semiauto, either way you’re a happy camper.”
“You can drive,” Sandy said. She reached into the Suburban and pulled out the chainsaw. At this, the Fitzgimmons could hardly contain their glee. Purcell raised his hands as if he was surrendering. “Damn, Chief. I’d hate to get on your bad side.”
Sandy hopped into the passenger seat, leaving the sons to ride in the back.
Purcell went around the front of his pickup and climbed in behind the wheel. He put his hand on the keys but didn’t start the engine. “I appreciate you bringing the boys home on Saturday night and letting me deal with ’em first. That’s the only damn reason I’m here. That said, you get us into some kind of trouble in town, get our dicks in a wringer, you ain’t gonna like my bad side.”
“Okay. I’ll explain. On the way.”
CHAPTER 23
Purcell drove slow and listened. He only had one question. “Them fellas that came looking for Morton’s lawyer. You think that’s all that’ll show up? Sounds to me this is not an organization that leaves loose ends.”
“I have no idea,” Sandy said. She considered it for a moment. “I tried calling the FBI and the CDC from the Johnsons’. Couldn’t make any long-distance calls. Same thing from the Korner.” She thought about the man with the flamethrower back at the Einhorns’. He’d torched his own vehicle without a second thought, so he either had another one stashed nearby or he was fully expecting to be picked up. She could have kicked herself for not checking to see if he had a cell phone.
“Something to chew on,” Purcell said. “Tell you the truth, I thought it all sounded a little far-fetched when you started talking. Now I ain’t so sure.” He indicated with a tilt of his head the quiet streets. They turned right at the only stoplight onto Main Street. It was utterly empty. When they got to the start of the parade route, they found the street lined with vacant lawn chairs, half-empty food wrappers, napkins fluttering in the breeze.
Sandy put her hand on the dash. “Hold up. Might be a good time to be cautious.” She got out and had Charlie hand gas masks to his brothers. She took two and gave one to Purcell. They pulled them on, adjusted the straps until they fit so tight it was almost painful, and took a few experimental breaths. The filters made everything dry and stale, but they could breathe.
Purcell drove around the sawhorses. They passed flatbed trucks with overturned folding chairs on the back, a 4H float, convertible sports cars, and a pickup emblazoned with giant Rotary Club banners and a mountain of candy in the back. The Shriners’ go-karts were spread out all over the street as if the men had all gotten bored at the same time and left the karts wherever they felt like it.
They got closer to the park and saw the reason for the traffic jam; the giant combine angled against a line of antique vehicles, the trailer behind it sideways, the load of ears of corns spilled across the entire street.
“I don’t know if you want to drive over that or not,” Sandy said. Her voice sounded distant and hollow behind the mask.
Purcell threw the gearshift into neutral. “Suits me.” He killed the engine, and for the first time, they all could hear how truly quiet the town had become. Sandy and Purcell got out. Purcell went to the front of the pickup and dragged the toe of his boot through the gray dust that coated the pavement.
“Y’all gonna let us in on what the hell’s happening?” Charlie asked from the pickup bed.
“Chief here says Allagro went and built themselves a corn seed with built-in pest control, some kind of super fungus,” Purcell said. “Doesn’t look like it worked out like they wanted. Now keep your mouth shut and eyes open.”
“Okay. But what are we looking for? Nothin’s here.”
“Awfully sure of yourself, ain’t you?”
Charlie rolled his eyes but kept his mouth shut.
“Supposedly this fungus’ll infect you one of two ways,” Purcell continued. “Breathing the spores, which is why we’re wearing the masks, or… something else. Make sure you’re loaded. Mind you, I want those safeties on, boys.” He pulled one of the SPAS-15s out of the cab, checked the clip, and slammed it back into the shotgun. He turned to Sandy. “Well, you got us in town, armed to the teeth, and ready to rock and roll. What’s the plan?”