Apocalypticon (43 page)

“Don’t think so,” he grinned. He whirled Patrick around easily and shoved him over toward Bloom. Patrick stumbled and fell to his knees on the cold, hard blacktop. The machete flew from his hands and went clattering across the asphalt. He looked up just in time to see Ben leveling the wrench at Calico, keeping a distance as he crept his way toward his fallen friend.

“Pat, you okay?”

“I’m daisies,” Patrick said.

Bloom kicked the machete across the parking lot, into the darkness. Then he picked up a bottle from the ground and took a thoughtful sip. “I was dead for almost four whole minutes before Calico gave me the breath of life. Think about that. Four whole minutes. The human body is a wonder.” He tipped the bottle toward Patrick. “Care for a drink?”

Patrick examined the bottle.
Whiskey? Rum?
“I’m not thirsty just now,” he said.

Bloom shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He set the bottle on the ground. “Calico, call the others.” Calico dug into his pocket and produced a little whistle. He blew into it, one loud, sharp, shrill note that rang off into the distance. He waited expectantly. Five seconds later, they heard another whistle, the same sharp note, from beyond the trees.

“Them boys is gonna be happy as pigs in shit when they come back’n find yer two sorry asses dead on the ground.” Calico pocketed the whistle and drew out a dagger. He hauled back and threw a hard kick at Patrick’s ribs. Patrick rolled to avoid it, but not quickly enough. The toe of Calico’s boot caught him in the stomach. The air blasted out of his lungs like helium from a popped balloon. When he opened his eyes, he saw Ben charging, wrench raised high. He swung it down at Calico’s head, but the man whirled deftly to the left, threw a hard punch into Ben’s stomach, and tossed him aside into the gravel. Patrick watched miserably. Ben would just keep coming until they put him down for good.
Goddammit
.

Bloom looked on disinterestedly as Calico tightened his grip on his dagger and squatted down next to Patrick. “You owe us a train, boy. Guess I’ll take the payment out in pounds of flesh.” He flicked the knife forward, digging the point into Patrick’s shoulder. Pat grunted in pain and reached out with his other hand, grabbed the whiskey bottle by the neck, turned, and swung it up at Calico’s face, exploding it against his temple. Calico screamed and clutched at his eye, brown liquor and blood pouring down his face. Patrick pushed himself to his feet and awkwardly dodged a blind swing of Calico’s dagger. He grabbed one of the torches at the edge of the asphalt and yanked it out of the grass. Calico charged him, blade brandished. Patrick lowered the torch and shoved the flame into Calico’s face. The whiskey roared to life, blazing hot yellow and blue flames across his face. He screamed and screamed, dropping his knife and swinging his fists blindly in the air. He fell to his knees, scrabbling at the fire until his hands blistered and his skin peeled and popped. He spewed vicious obscenities into the night, his legs kicking wildly, his entire body writhing in pain. Soon the whiskey burned off and the flames subsided. Calico sobbed and clutched at his face. It was black and melted, and already scarring over through the bubbles.

“Jesus, Pat,” Ben breathed, steadying himself to his feet. “What did you do?”

Bloom approached the fallen Red Cap quietly. He knelt by Calico’s side and took stock of the damage. He sighed heavily. “That is disappointing.” He drew his the sabre from his hip and slid it across Calico’s throat. The screams stopped instantly. A strip of steaming blood spurted open across his neck. A river of red soaked his coat, and with one final flap of his legs, Calico was dead. Patrick watched in open-mouthed horror, stunned by his own actions as much as by Bloom’s. Bloom slid the sabre back into its sheath. He rose to his feet just as Ben charged again.

“Ben, don’t!” Patrick yelled. But he was already swinging the wrench. Bloom ducked the blow easily. Ben spun, off balance. Bloom grabbed him by the throat and, with his free hand, landed a hard jab to the nose. The bones crunched under the force, and Ben went down a second time.

“Leave him alone!” Patrick yelled. “I threw you off the train; this is about you and me!”

“It is,” Bloom admitted, shaking out his hand. “I admit, when Calico was so hell bent on tracking you down, I was more than happy to let him off the leash.” He removed his cap and ran a hand over his shaved head. “I don’t begrudge you what you did. You chose a side, and you followed through. I respect that. I would have done the same. But you understand, Mr. Deen, that there are consequences for every action. Even after the world has been destroyed, there must still be balance. Order. Do you understand that?”

Patrick nodded. “Sure. I understand. I mean, where I’m from, we call it petty vengeance, but whatever. Tomato, to-mah-to,” he said evenly, despite the hammering in his chest. His blood was really pumping now, and his shoulder throbbed with pain.

Bloom gave a wan little smile. “Well. Vengeance isn’t so petty.” He moved like water. His hand flew to his sword, and he drew it in one smooth motion. He glided forward like a man on ice. Patrick tried to dodge, but Bloom was too fast. He buried the blade deep into Patrick’s belly.

Patrick looked down, stunned, at the pool of black blood spreading through his shirt.

So close
, he thought as darkness began to settle over his eyes.
We are so goddamned close
.

He heard Ben yelling thinly, as if he were hearing him through a storm. He felt Bloom’s blade slide back out of his gut. He closed his eyes and sank to the ground. He moved his hand to the wound and felt a warm spill running through his fingers. He opened his eyes one last time and saw Bloom’s face returned to its normal placidity. “And so order is restored,” he said simply.

You could have just gravel burned my face
, Patrick thought.

22.

The world rang with silence as Ben watched Bloom shove the sword into Patrick’s stomach. “
Noooooooo
!” he screamed. His mind scrambled, and he was choking. He couldn’t breathe. He saw Patrick’s eyes gloss over as he fell to the ground.

I’m in shock
, Ben thought dully as he pulled himself to his feet. His skin tingled with numbness, and suddenly the scramble faded, and he could think clearly. Logically. He walked calmly over to the machete in the shadows and picked it up. Bloom flicked Patick’s blood from his sword. Ben stepped up behind him as the man bent down and whispered, “And so order is restored.” And, very calmly, Ben raised the machete and hacked the blade down on Bloom’s neck.

When Ben came to his senses, he was cradling Patrick’s limp body near the torches. How much time had passed? He turned and saw Bloom’s body splayed out on the ground to the left. His head was somewhere nearby.

Ben turned back to Patrick, hot tears stinging his down his cheeks. Pat was still breathing, but shallowly. “Goddammit, Pat,” Ben said, his voice thick with mucus. “I told you we should just leave.”

Patrick coughed a weak laugh. “Fighting was a good idea. At the time.”

“Shut up,” Ben choked.

“Hey.” Patrick grabbed Ben’s sleeve with a blood-soaked hand. “You gotta get out of here.”

Ben shook his head. “Bloom’s dead.”

But Patrick persisted. “More coming. The whistle. Go. Now.”

Ben grimaced. He felt more tears choking their way up his throat. “I’m not leaving you like this, goddammit,” he said through gritted teeth. He could feel his face flushing hotly. “I am
not
leaving you like this.”

“Didn’t come all this way so
both
of us could die,” Patrick rasped. He smiled thinly through the pain. “They catch you here, they’ll kill you.”

“I’m not leaving,” Ben insisted.

“Think I’m beyond repair,” he said, choking out another little laugh. “Ben. Go. Back to Fort Doom. Be with friends. Learn how to talk to that girl. Rebuild a world, remake a life, or whatever dumb stuff normal people do after the apocalypse.”

Ben wiped a string of mucus from his nose. “It’s not dumb,” he said.

Patrick tried to shrug. “It’s pretty schlocky.”

Ben heard men shouting from off in the distance, back the way they’d come. “Shit,” he swore. “They’re coming.”

Patrick nodded. “Go.”

“No.” Ben wiped his nose with his sleeve, then slid his hands under Patrick’s shoulders. “You’re coming with me.” He heaved backward, dragging Patrick across the asphalt. Patrick cried out in agony.

“Stop!” he gasped, shrinking into himself. “God, please, stop.”

Ben released his hold and fell to his knees, hot tears dripping from his cheeks. Patrick whimpered and grasped at his gut wound. “Go,” he said again. “Please, Ben. Go.”

Ben’s chest heaved with labored breath. He shook his head and clapped his hand awkwardly over Patrick’s shoulder. “I’m sorry we didn’t make it,” he whispered.

Patrick patted his hand reassuringly. “We did,” he said. “We did make it.” Then he closed his eyes, and Patrick was gone.

Ben screwed up his face and scrubbed his eyes with his sleeve. He wanted to scream, to pick up the torches and smash them to bits and burn goddamn Disney World to the ground, but that would bring the other men all the faster. His chest heaved with silent sobs as he pulled himself to his feet. He grabbed Patrick’s bag and dug through it, frantically pushing aside weapons and cans of food. Near the bottom, he found the little cup of butterscotch pudding. With the world swimming through a sheen of tears, he set the Snack Pack next to Patrick’s pale form. “This stays with you,” he murmured. Then he cleared his throat, shouldered Patrick’s bag, grabbed his own, whispered a shaky goodbye, and turned and ran away from the lot.

By his best guess, he was heading west.

23.

Patrick opened one eye and watched Ben tear across the parking lot. He smiled wanly.
I’d like to thank the Academy
. He struggled slowly to his feet. He’d lost quite a bit of blood, and he was woozy, though he wasn’t quite as bad off as he’d let on. From what he could tell, Bloom had miraculously missed all major organs. Hell, if he could stop the bleeding, he could probably even survive the injury. Under other circumstances, of course. Circumstances that involved emergency rooms, peroxide, stitches, and gallons and gallons of morphine.

He would’ve loved to have gone with Ben. He’d been looking forward to starting over,
really
starting over, with the gang in Alabama. They were good people. Ben would do well there.

As for Patrick, well, he’d given a bit of a white lie when he told Ben that they’d made it.
Close, but no cigar
, as his grandpa used to say. He still had a little farther to go. He reached down, wincing with pain, and grabbed the little pudding cup.
Thanks for this one, Benny Boy,
he thought.

He moved forward toward the turnstiles of the Magic Kingdom. The voices were getting louder behind him, so he picked up the pace. He hopped painfully over one of the metal gates and struggled up the mall. He had no idea where to find the castle, but he figured he was bound to stumble across it, even in the dark. It was the hallmark of the friggin’ place, right? They probably weren’t hiding it.

A wide path opened up before him, bisecting two rows of shops, now in various stages of decay and dismay. It looked like a main pathway, so he dragged himself along it, one hand pressed firmly to the hole in his belly. As he stumbled up the road, the mist around him began to glow a soft yellow, and he knew the sun was rising.
That’ll help things a bit
, he thought. Light filtered down through the Monkey Fog, and suddenly, there it was, looming straight ahead-—the dark outline of Cinderella’s Castle.

From the sound of things, the Red Caps in the parking lot had just found the two dead bodies. There was a lot of shouting, and someone was giving orders. Patrick looked down at the path behind him. He was leaving a pretty unmistakable trail of blood. A blind detective could follow that. He quickened his pace and hurried toward the castle.

The stairs proved to be more difficult than he expected. His lightheadedness increased with every flight, and several times he had to stop on a landing and wait for the stairwell to stop spinning. The steps were utility stairs, made of cold iron and shut up in a dark section of the castle. Undoubtedly, there had been some “magical” elevator that whisked guests up and down in the time before. But the castle wasn’t as tall as it looked from the outside, and before long he stumbled his way to the top floor. He burst through and found himself in a small hallway. There was another door straight ahead. He pushed through it and practically fell into Cinderella’s bedroom.

“Oo-wee,” he said, letting out a low whistle. The room was extravagant, even in ruin. The walls and ceiling were dark wood with what looked to have once been gold paint. There were beautiful stained glass windows set into the walls, some of them even intact. Majestic doorways separated the rooms of the suite. Patrick stalked through them, admiring the detail of each piece of furniture as the world grew brighter outside and cast more light on the castle.

At the far end, he found a window that had been broken out completely. He poked his head out and looked down. He was standing at the front of the castle, looking down the long, main Magic Kingdom walkway. Through the fog, he could see shadows of Red Caps sprinting up the path. He had ten, maybe fifteen minutes before they made their way up the stairs.

Perfect
.

He kicked out the little points of glass that remained in the window edge and climbed onto the sill. He was deathly afraid of heights-—for some reason, high places always seized him with the illogical thought of,
Oh my God, what if I jump?
--but he forced himself to straddle the sill, one leg in, one leg out. Cinderella’s room on his left, Disney World spread before him on his right. It was a good place to be.

He looked down and admired the Snack Pack in his hand. That stupid little pudding cup that he’d carried and kept safe for 1,500 miles. His heart swelled in his chest, threatening to burst. “And me without a spoon,” he said.

He peeled back the foil lid and dipped two fingers into the butterscotch goo. After so many months of vegetables and beans, the sweetness of the pudding took him by surprise, exploding in his mouth in a wonderful, sickly symphony of sugar. In four scoops, the Snack Pack was empty. He held up the little plastic container and kissed it. “We made it, pudding cup.”

He set it down on the ledge and reached into his back pocket, ignoring the pain in his gut that flamed to life when he shifted his weight. He pulled out the letter and unfolded it, gingerly and for the last time. Tears stung his eyes as he moved his fingers over the familiar scrawl. The letters were sharp and uneven, the careful scribble of a child.

My summer vacation,
it said across the top.
Isabella Deen, age 6
.
Patrick wiped a tear from his cheek and blinked hard as he read the words he knew so well.

This summer I will go to Disney World. I am iksited. Daddy says I can be a princess like Cinderella. Mommy likes Mulan becus she is a good rore model, but I like Cinderella. Mommy says magic things happen at Disney World. It is our first vacayshun. Daddy never went to Disney World and I never went too. Daddy says our first time will be together and that makes it speshul. I am so happy to be going to Disney World.

Patrick folded the letter and held it to his lips. He breathed in the musty smell of the worn paper, remembering the scent of baby powder and Annie’s lavender lotion.

He looked down and saw the last of the Red Caps disappearing into the castle. He thought he could hear the rattle of their footfalls on the metal staircase. He clutched the letter tightly in his hand and turned to face the rising sun. A gust of wind blustered up from the east and pushed the yellow fog swirling away. The wan yellow disc appeared on the horizon, bathing the park in its glow. Cinderella’s Castle sparkled in the light.

“We made it, Izzy,” he sighed with a smile. “I am so happy to be at Disney World with you.” Then he closed his eyes and waited for the end of the world.