Justin gently interrupted; Bowler was babbling, unbalanced, maybe hysterical. This kind of talk wasn’t helping anyone.
“Bowler, stop,” he said. “You must not be thinking right. There are no monsters.”
The younger man glared up at him hotly and scowled. “No? How do y’all know, huh? You ain’t seen ‘em! I mean, you can say what you want, Doc, but that don’t change a damn thing. I know what I saw.”
“Hey, never know!” put in Teresa. “I hearda all kinda stories ‘bout muties. Ain’t you?”
“OK, OK,” Justin said indulgently. “Just take it easy, alright? Both of you. Start from the beginning. Bowler, you obviously went back to the store, after we agreed to avoid it. What happened?”
“They grabbed me, that’s what!” said Bowler, shuddering again. “I was in there, just gettin’ some stuff, and then… then there was this thing, an’ it grabbed me an’ it knocked me out. When I woke up, I was down there. I tell ya, Doc, they got a whole damn world down there. Must be miles an’ miles of tunnels. Freaks me out just thinkin’ about it. But hold on! I ain’t told ya’ll the kicker! See, check it out: they got the Old Man!”
Justin sat up like he’d been poked in the back with a knitting needle. “What did you say?” he demanded. “What about the Old Man?”
“They got him, man!” wailed Bowler. “Them monsters. They got him.”
“Are you sure?” asked Erin. “I mean, how do you know?”
“Heard ‘em talkin’ about it,” said Bowler. “Before I got loose. Oh, they got him alright.”
Justin resisted the urge to take the young man by the shoulders and shake him till his teeth rattled, but managed to keep his cool. His voice, though, had a very sharp edge.
“What, exactly,” he said, “did you hear?”
Bowler frowned in concentration. “I can’t remember every word, man,” he said sulkily. “But I know for a fact that one of ‘em said the name Lampert, that Lampert was in a cell. Guess like the one I was in, you know? This little room with no windows, like a cave.”
Reeling, followed comically by the Kid, Justin stood up and paced agitatedly back and forth. Lampert alive? And somewhere relatively nearby? It was more than he could have hoped for, monsters or no monsters! A sudden spate of hope bubbled in his heart. First Teresa, now this?
“What about Barb?” asked Erin. “Nurse Cass. Did you see her? Hear anything about her? Or the man who killed Cornell, the little guy. What about him?”
Justin hadn’t thought of this and whirled on Bowler. “Yes,” he asked. “Any sign of them?”
Bowler shrugged. Some of the panicked urgency had gone out of him and he seemed suddenly tired and listless. “Not that I heard,” he said. “But then, I didn’t stick around, neither.”
“At’s a question, too,” said Teresa, eyeing Bowler suspiciously. “How you get loose? Them monsters jus’ letcha go?”
“I broke out,” said Bowler. “This cell they had me in wasn’t much, just a like, latch thing onna door, an’ I managed to get it open. An’ then I ran away!”
“Uh huh,” said Teresa dubiously. “You say so.”
But Justin wasn’t paying attention. A sort of febrile excitement had come over him and the prospect that the Mission might not be doomed made him almost giddy. Grinning, he turned to the little group and threw out his arms.
“We are not done yet!” he said exuberantly. “Don’t you see? We can still do this thing!”
No one seemed too thrilled. Erin Swails made a wry, eye-rolling face; Teresa smiled but looked a bit confused; Bowler shook his head miserably and groaned, and the Kid emitted a series of baffled hoots. Justin didn’t care—there was still a chance! And even if it meant crawling down into some sort of tunnels and dealing with God knew what kind of thing Bowler had mistaken for monsters, he still didn’t care. He had back two things he’d thought lost forever; the love of his life and the chance to save what was left of humanity. Life was, if not good, at least not as bad as it had been. And in the world of After, that was all anyone could ask for. Now, to question Bowler more closely, formulate a plan. Suddenly there was lots to do.
Chapter Forty-Three
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Lumler and Nails were just pulling up at the address, a smaller bungalow-type thing in a quiet part of town, when suddenly a motorcycle, a big, modern job carrying two helmet-clad riders, came roaring from the attached garage and sped off into the night.
“Shit!” Lumler spat. “After ‘em, Nails! Go!”
And they were off, the heavy, souped-up ‘62 Transauto GT leaping over the cracked pavement as Nails eagerly cranked the wheel and Lumler braced himself on the interior chassis. In another minute, they were gaining on the fleeing bike.
It had been Santiago’s house, of course; Lumler had been there several times. And the more he’d thought about it, the more it had made sense. Santiago had always talked about Reform and how crazy the Governor was. He was what they used to call a Liberal, one of those kind of people that were always worried about the poor and the sick and whatever. Yes, it added up. The only thing now was, did he care? Did it even matter anymore? After all, the way the War was going, who knew who long New America would last? Already there were some who said it was all but over.
Suddenly the car veered crazily as Nails negotiated an Army roadblock. Helmet-framed, angry faces floated past and Lumler swore as they almost hit a brick wall. Then Nails got the car under control, mashed the accelerator again, and the roadblock was behind them.
The bike was vastly more maneuverable and speedy than their car, and often they lost sight of it on a sharp turn (especially because its driver had been clever enough to disconnect the rear lights), but on the straightaways the car’s toughness and acceleration steadily closed the gap.
Careening off of a side street, they turned right onto the city’s main thoroughfare, Massachusetts Street, a straight shot from north to south, and swiftly gained on the bike. Within another minute, they were twenty yards behind their quarry and Lumler was wondering what to do next (as in, run them down? Shoot at them? Forget the whole thing and go home?) when the bike’s passenger suddenly turned, raised his arm, and threw something at the car.
They were moving too fast to tell what it was, but whatever it was smashed into the windshield with enough force to spider-web the glass into a million little cells. Suddenly unable to see where he was going, Nails hit the brakes, but they were moving so quickly that this sent the car into a skid that had them traveling almost sideways down the street.
Lumler swore viciously and held on as Nails struggled with the wheel. When the car was back under at least some semblance of control, he lurched forward and, striking with heavy, bear-like blows of his leather-gloved fists, bashed out the windshield. Most of the tiny bits of safety glass flew into their laps, and suddenly the cool night air was roaring through the car’s interior, but at least now they could see where they were going. Desperately, Lumler peered into the wind, down Massachusetts, but there was no sign of the bike.