“Schmuck! Think you can fuck me around? Nobody talks to me like that, nobody!” His breath was sour in Don’s face; his eyes were wide now.
“Sixty thousand tonnes, Mr. Allison.” He kept his voice level. It was Mercer he was speaking to.
Allison slapped Don across the face, knocking his glasses off. Don winced, more at the stab of light than the slap, and fought against the urge to strike back. Half-blind and unarmed, he would win nothing in a fight. But Mercer would have to read him correctly, as he must already have read Allison.
“Sixty thousand—”
Allison shoved him backward, and he toppled over with his chair. Before he could move, Allison kicked him in the belly, then in the head.
“Asshole,” Allison said. Then he looked at Mercer: “Haul him out of here and shoot his fucking brains out.”
“Hey, hold on. Let’s just put him back in his boat, all right? We kill him, we don’t know what we’re getting into, you know? We got enough trouble.”
Allison tucked in his shirt with trembling hands. “Nobody treats me like that, Odell. Nobody. Now, get this cocksucker downstairs and see that he’s shot. Do you understand me?” he added shrilly.
“Yeah, yeah, awright.” Shrugging, Mercer went to the door and bellowed for guards. Three soldiers hustled up from the lobby. Mercer helped them carry Don downstairs.
“Park this dude in the basement for a while,” Mercer muttered to his men as they lurched downstairs. “In the broom closet, with the door locked.”
As they crossed the lobby, a soldier ran in past the sentry.
“I got an urgent personal message for Mr. Allison, Colonel. Is he here?”
“Upstairs,” Mercer answered. “Room two-oh-seven.” He saw that Don was securely locked away, then went slowly back up the stairs. He got to the lobby just in time to see Allison running through the door, across the lawn to where his red Mercedes 450 SL was parked. By the time Mercer got outside, the car was gone. He went back inside and found the messenger.
“Awright, what was that all about?”
“Uh, Mrs. Allison is dead, sir. Looks like she took an overdose of somethin’. That Mexican housekeeper found her.”
“Oh shit, and that crazy fucker’s gone off by himself. Okay, gimme a detail of six men out front, right now!” Mercer roared at the cardplayers across the lobby. “And get that goddamn truck out here, the deuce and a half!”
Allison drove fast, windows rolled up against the stink of Monterey. A glass bottle exploded across the hood; he scarcely noticed, except to pat his chest for his shoulder holster. It wasn’t there — he’d forgotten to put it on when they’d left the ranch. No wonder, with everything happening at once. The earthquake, Ted, Sarah, the doctor, then these turkeys in the bay, and now Shauna —
It was a lie, that was for sure. She was sick as hell all right, and she might have overdosed, but she wasn’t dead. He’d pull her out of it. God damn all these fucking people with their demands, dragging him away from his family.
He felt frightened and angry and exposed. Everything was falling apart, everyone was fading away. He was acting foolishly and impulsively, running around alone and unarmed like this. Get into a normal pattern, start thinking rationally again. By God, when they brought Ted back the bastard was going to suffer before he died. Sarah… please let her be all right, please Bert, find her safe and get her home.
Allison hurried on over the hill to Carmel. He saw little bands of refugees, trudging north towards whatever shelter they could find in Monterey or Fort Ord. They looked like tramps: dirty, skinny, some of them bleeding, carrying or dragging a few ratty possessions. What the hell had made him think these people were worth doing anything for? Why hadn’t he stayed in Escondido Valley, instead of trying to save this inhabited ruin? He swung hard left onto Carmel Valley Road, remembering the lurch the car had made when the wave ran across the highway on that stormy afternoon long ago.
Long ago: Shauna’s silver Jag coming the other way, with Shauna living the last few seconds of an ordinary life. She would have been luckier if the waves had caught her in Carmel, if she had suffered only a moment’s surprise instead of this. And if he’d left Sarah with Astrid, and if the Loefflers had stayed in L.A. with Bert and poor dead Dave Marston. Then he and Shauna could have stayed on at the ranch with Hipolito and Lupe, minding their own business. Letting the survivalists rip off the Brotherhood, letting everything go to hell at its own chosen speed, not trying to save things and people not worth saving.
No. He could sorrow over some things and be angry over others, but he regretted nothing. He’d done his best, and without him things would have been worse.
The long-dead fields were streaked with the black slime of decayed vegetation. How long had it been since he’d seen a cow or horse grazing, even in those stupid goggles? Stumps and scattered slash were all that remained of the oaks and eucalyptus, fruit trees and pines and cypresses that had adorned the valley.
The entrance to Escondido Valley was still wooded, by Allison’s order, though most of the trees were dead or dying. Allison slowed and turned. Something banged the right front tire, and the car swerved and stalled. From the tilt of the fender, he realized he had blown the tire. Swearing, he put on his Stetson and got out.
The tire was ripped to bits. He got the jack and tool kit from the trunk and went to squat beside the wheel. As he did, he saw a small hole in the fender: a bullet hole.
Allison’s hands began to shake. He reached for the tire iron, his eyes still on the hole. The only sounds were wind in the leafless branches on the hillside, and water splashing down the creek bed on the other side of the road.
They must be up on the south side of the entrance to the valley: a lot of trees up there, dead brush, plenty of cover and a good view of anyone coming up from the west. He was lucky they hadn’t hit him. If he could get around the car, roll over the shoulder of the road, and get down into the creek bed, he could cross the creek and find cover in the woods on the opposite hillside. Then work his way up to the first checkpoint and safety.
He flipped off the hubcap and stood up, walked to the rear of the car with the tire iron still in his hand, a weary motorist doing a chore. With the trunk lid concealing him, he threw himself over the edge of the road.
Stones rattled around him; he went over and over, both hands clenched on the tire iron. The world spun around him and he splashed into a shallow pool. Up, stride, splash, umph.
He was lying on his back in the pool, wondering if he’d already gotten up or had just imagined it. The tire iron was gone. Never mind. Up, get across the creek. Up. Up.
He realized that he couldn’t get up. His hands moved; he could lift his head. His back felt cold and wet, but not his legs. His legs felt nothing. When he looked down at them, he saw red clouds and tendrils in the water.
“I can’t be shot,” he said.
Two men loomed above him, dark outlines against the bright haze of the summer sky.
“Mr. Allison,” said the taller of the two. “I’m Frank Burk. Remember me?”
Allison was sure he’d heard the name before, but couldn’t place it. “Help me up. I think I’m hurt.” The men seemed to be receding; perhaps they couldn’t even hear him. “Give me a hand. Please.”
“Allison, don’t you know who I am? Frank Burk.”
“Yeah… yeah. I think we’ve met. Maybe in Monterey? I’ve got a ranch up near there. Please, help me up.”
“Oh fuck,” said Burk.
Allison heard another bang, very close. Something hurt in his chest.
Help me up, he tried to say. I have to bring Sarah home.