“Daddy, I'm scared,” Billy said. He was clutching my hand tightly, his small face strained and pale. “Ollie,” I said, “why don't we get out of this loony bin?” “Right on,” he said. “Let's go.” We started down the second aisle in a loose group-Ollie, Amanda, Cornell, Mrs. Turman, Mrs. Reppler, Billy, and I. It was a quarter to five in the morning and the mist was beginning to lighten again. “You and Cornell take the grocery bags,” Ollie said to me. “Okay.” “I'll go first. Your Scout is a four-door, is it?” “Yeah. It is.” “Okay, I'll open the driver's door and the back door on the same side. Mrs. Dumfries, can you carry Billy?” She picked him up in her arms. “Am I too heavy?” Billy asked. “No, hon. “ “Good. “You and Billy get in front,” Ollie went on. “Shove way over. Mrs. Turman in front, in the middle. David, you behind the wheel. The rest of us will-” “Where did you think you were going?”
It was Mrs. Carmody. She stood at the head of the checkout line where Ollie had hidden the bags of groceries. Her pantsuit was a yellow scream in the gloom. Her hair frizzed out wildly m all directions, reminding me momentarily of Elsa Lanchester in The Bride of Frankenstein. Her eyes blazed. Ten or fifteen people stood behind her, blocking the IN and OUT doors. They had the look of people who had been in car accidents, or who had seen a UFO land, or who had seen a tree pull its roots up and walk. Billy cringed against Amanda and buried his face against her neck. “Going out now, Mrs. Carmody,” Ollie said. His voice was curiously gentle. “Stand away, please.”
“You can't go out! That way is death. Don't you know that by now?” “No one has interfered with you,” I said. “All we want is the same privilege.” She bent and found the bags of groceries unerringly. She must have known what we were planning all along. She pulled them out from the shelf where Ollie had placed them. One ripped open, spilling cans across the floor. She threw the other and it smashed open with the sound of breaking glass. Soda ran fizzing every which way and sprayed off the chrome facing of the next checkout lane.
“These are the sort of people who brought it on!” she shouted. “People who will not bend to the will of the Almighty! Sinners in pride, haughty they are, and stiff-necked! It is from their number that the sacrifice must come! From their number the blood of expiation!” A rising rumble of agreement spurred her on. She was in a frenzy now. Spittle flew from her lips as she screamed at the people crowding up behind her: “It's the boy we want! Grab him! Take him! It's the boy we want!” They surged forward, Myron LaFleur in the lead, his eyed blankly joyous. Mr. McVey was directly behind him, his face blank and stolid. Amanda faltered backward, holding Billy more tightly. His arms were wrapped around her neck. She looked. at me, terrified. “David, what do I—” “Get them both!” Mrs. Carmody screamed. “Get his whore, too!” She was an apocalypse of yellow and dark joy. Her purse was still over her arm. She began to jump up and down. “Get the boy, get the whore, get them both, get them all, get—”
A single sharp report rang out.
Everything froze, as if we were a classroom full of unruly children and the teacher had just stepped back in and shut the door sharply. Myron LaFleur and Mr. McVey stopped where they were, about ten paces away. Myron looked back uncertainly at the butcher. He didn't look back or even seem to realize that LaFleur was there. Mr. McVey had a look I had seen on too many other faces in the last two days. He had gone over. His mind had snapped, Myron backed up, staring at Ollie Weeks with widening, fearful eyes. His backing-up became a run. He turned the corner of the aisle, skidded on a can, fell down, scrambled up again, and was gone. Ollie stood in the classic target shooter's position, Amanda's gun clasped in both hands. Mrs. Carmody still stood at the head of the checkout lane. Both of her liver-spotted hands were clasped over her stomach. Blood poured out between her fingers and splashed her yellow slacks. Her mouth opened and closed. Once. Twice. She was trying to talk. At last she made it. “You will all die out there,” she said, and then she pitched slowly forward. Her purse slithered off her arm, struck the floor, and spilled its contents. A paper-wrapped tube rolled across the distance between us and struck one of my shoes. Without thinking, I bent over and picked it up. It was a half-used package of Rolaids. I threw it down again. I didn't want to touch anything that belonged to her.
The “congregation” was backing away, spreading out, their focus broken. None of them took their eyes from the fallen figure and the dark blood spreading out from beneath her body. “You murdered her!” someone cried out in fear and anger. But no one pointed out that she had been planning something similar for my son. Ollie was still frozen in his shooter's position, but now his mouth was trembling. I touched him gently. “Ollie, let's go. And thank you.” “I killed her,” he said hoarsely. “Damn if I didn't kill her.” “Yes,” I said. “That's why I thanked you. Now let's go.” We began to move again. With no grocery bags to carry-thanks to Mrs. Carmody-I was able to take Billy. We paused for a moment at the door, and Ollie said in a low, strained voice, “I wouldn't have shot her, David. Not if there had been any other way.” “Yeah.” “You believe it?” “Yeah, I do.” “Then let's go.” We went out.
XI. The End.
Ollie moved fast, the pistol in his right hand. Before Billy and I were more than out the door he was at my Scout, an insubstantial Ollie, like a ghost in a television movie. He opened the driver's door. Then the back door. Then some thing came out of the mist and cut him nearly in half. I never got a good look at it, and for that I think I'm grateful. It appeared to be red, the angry color of a cooked lobster. It had claws. It was making a low grunting sound, not much different from the sound we had heard after Norton and his little band of Flat-Earthers went out. Ollie got off one shot, and then the thing's claws scissored forward and Ollie's body seemed to unhinge in a terrible glut of blood. Amanda's gun fell out of his hand, struck the pavement, and discharged. I caught a nightmare glimpse of huge black lusterless eyes, the size of giant handfuls of sea grapes, and then the thing lurched back into the mist with what remained of Ollie Weeks in its grip. A long, multisegmented scorpion's body dragged harshly on the paving.
There was an instant of choices. Maybe there always is, no matter how short. Half of me wanted to run back into the market with Billy hugged to my chest. The other half was racing for the Scout, throwing Billy inside, lunging after him. Then Amanda screamed. It was a high, rising sound that seemed to spiral up and up until it was nearly ultrasonic. Billy cringed against me, digging his face against my chest. One of the spiders had Hattie Turman. It was big. It had knocked her down. Her dress had pulled up over her scrawny knees as it crouched over her, its bristly, spiny legs caressing her shoulders. It began to spin its web. Mrs. Carmody was right, I thought. We're going to die out here, we are really going to die out here. “Amanda!” I yelled.
No response. She was totally gone. The spider straddled what remained of Billy's babysitter, who had enjoyed jigsaw puzzles and those damned Double-Crostics that no normal person can do without going nuts. Its threads crisscrossed her body, the white strands already turning red as the acid coating sank into her. Cornell was backing slowly toward the market, his eyes as big as dinner plates behind his specs. Abruptly he turned and ran. He clawed the IN door open and ran inside. The split in my mind closed as Mrs. Reppler stepped briskly forward and slapped Amanda, first forehand, then backhand. Amanda stopped screaming. I went to her, spun her around to face the Scout, and screamed “GO!” into her face. She went. Mrs. Reppler brushed past me. She pushed Amanda into the Scout's back seat; . got in after her, and slammed the door shut. I yanked Billy loose and threw him in. As I climbed in myself, one of those spider threads drifted down and lit on my ankle. It burned the way a fishing line pulled rapidly through your closed fist will burn. And it was strong. I gave my foot a hard yank and it broke. I slipped in behind the wheel.