The Falling Away (17 page)

Lewistown.

The giant windmill behind the barn.

A few dozen miles past Lewistown was the town of Judith Gap, not far from the HIVE compound and its huge array of wind turbines. The modern equivalent of the windmill.

Bingo
, Joni said inside his mind.
I've been thinking that myself, but didn't want to interrupt you from my little shut-up corner here
.

You really think I'd fit in with some wacko cult
?

Hey, you got all the goods. You talk to your imaginary sister inside your head. You do your stupid subtractions and kill box to block things out of your mind. Any cult would be proud to have you. 'Course, you could also take your chances with the psycho chick bounty hunter who tried to run you off the road
.

“Hey, you still with me?” Webb asked.

He turned and looked at his friend, sighed. Did they really have another choice?

“Feel like joining a cult?” he asked Webb.

27

“You okay?”

Quinn looked at the snowplow driver, who had opened the door of the car and was crouching beside her. His dark beard was flecked with gray, and he wore one of those ridiculous fur-lined caps that made her think of Siberian peasants.

Of course, central Montana's winter-swept plains probably weren't all that different from Siberia this time of year.

“You're bleeding,” Snowplow Driver said.

She touched her forehead, looking at the fresh blood now trickling from the self-inflicted cut just above her hairline. Evidently, it had reopened when she slid off the road. It had been awhile since she'd cut herself, and she'd really felt nothing inflicting this latest cut. But she'd needed to do it for the whole wounded-motorist-stranded-in-a-snowstorm routine.

That part, at least, had worked fine.

She stared at the wet blot on the fingers of her gloves, as if this were the first time she'd seen blood. The first time she'd seen her own blood.

“Must have hit my head,” she said, trying to smile.

“Let me help,” Snowplow Driver said as she swung her legs out of the car. She leaned on him and they both stood, their feet sinking into the snow of the roadside ditch.

“You better come with me,” he said. “Get that looked at by a doctor.” He pulled on her arm like an eager puppy.

“Okay,” she said. As if she had any other choice. “Just let me grab my things.” She pulled her case from the backseat, and Mr. Snowplow tried to be all gallant, carry it for her.

“I got it,” she said. A member of the Falling Away could never be separated from her case; that was one of the primary things she'd learned during training. When she died, she'd do it with her case in her hands.

“Whatcha got in there?” he said. He offered his hand and helped her out of the deep snow of the ditch, into the slightly less deep snow of the unplowed road surface.

“Tools for work, mostly. Some clothes.” No need to tell him her main tool was a gun.

“What kind of work do you do?”

She stamped her boots, smiled. “I'm a cleaner.”

“A cleaner? And you carry your own . . . tools?”

“It's a dirty world.”

The driver knitted his eyebrows for a second, then shrugged. He crossed the road, leading her to the giant orange truck with a huge V-shaped blade attached to the front. He helped boost her into the passenger seat and crossed back to the opposite side, closing his own door behind him and settling in.

“Better buckle up,” he said. “Don't want to hit your head again.”

She smiled, pushed a strand of hair that had fallen from her greasy ponytail behind her ear, found the seat belt, and buckled it.

He shifted the huge vehicle into gear and began moving forward. After a few seconds, he reached for the two-way radio on his dash.

“What are you doing?” she asked, keeping her voice flat.

“Gotta call this in,” he said. “You'll need to get your vehicle towed, and . . . well, you'll need an ambulance. I'll see if they can meet us up at Eddie's Corner, so—”

“I don't think you'll want to do that,” she said.

He narrowed his eyes, looked back at the unplowed highway ahead of them. “Why not?”

“They . . . well, you know I'd never try to pass a snowplow usually.”

She waited for him to look at her and nod, acknowledge her follow-the-rules gesture.

“But you did.”

“Like I said, usually I wouldn't. But this wasn't usual. The two guys in that pickup shot a state trooper a few miles back.”

He did a comic double take, and for a moment she thought he might actually swerve off the road. “What?”

“I was headed to Great Falls, where my next job is, and . . . I guess I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I saw them shoot him, right in the middle of the highway. So when they took off, I tried to catch them, and . . . well, that's when they slipped around your plow.”

“So I should definitely call them in.”

“Yeah, yeah, you should,” she said. “But I stopped to check on the trooper after they shot him. I told him I'd try to call on his radio, but he said I shouldn't. Said the two guys had a police scanner in their pickup, so they'd hear anything we said. So I got his cell phone out of the car, and he called his dispatch on that instead.”

She almost wanted to shake her head; this story was piling up thicker than the snow outside. But the snowplow driver would believe it, she knew; people wanted to believe lies. Human nature. It's what happened when you were part of the Fall, rather than part of the Falling Away.

“Was the trooper okay?”

“What?” She licked her lips. Oh yeah. The trooper. “I think he'll be fine—troopers wear bulletproof vests, you know.” She didn't know this, was actually pretty sure that wasn't the case. But she guessed this doe-eyed snowplow driver didn't know any better.

“Maybe we should go back and check on him.”

She panicked. “No, no. I mean . . . I know they were sending an ambulance for him. We'll probably pass it on the way. Keep plowing to help them get there faster.”

She saw his eyes flicker for a moment, overcome with thoughts of being a further hero. “Nah,” he said. “They'd send the ambulance from Lewistown—behind us. Closer.”

“And you already plowed that section. Good thing.”

He smiled grimly, a bit of pride dancing in his eyes.

“Anyway, if they're scanning police frequencies, I bet they can pick up your two-way too.”

“Yeah,” he said, buying into the lie.

“I think we should just head to Eddie's Corner, meet the officers there. When we called his dispatch on the phone, they said they were gonna set up a roadblock there.”

“The trooper had a cell phone?”

“Most people do.”

“Sure, sure. But he picked up a signal out here?”

Oops. “Well, it was closer to Lewistown, you know. Probably got a signal from the towers there.” Her pile of lies was in serious danger of collapsing under their own weight, but she only needed to keep it going a few more miles.

“It all happened pretty fast,” she said. “But we're just a few miles from Eddie's Corner. We can wait that long, can't we?”

He rubbed at the cap on his head, causing the earflaps to move up and down like duck wings. “I suppose you're right,” he said. Then he turned and smiled at her. “Good thing you were there.” His tone of voice made it obvious he wished he'd been the one to be there, tantalizingly close to his fifteen minutes of fame.

“Yeah,” she answered, wiping at the blood on her face with the back of her hand. “World needs more Good Samaritans like you and me.”

28

The gate at the HIVE compound seemed abandoned, but as Dylan and Webb eased to a stop, they saw a man in a stocking cap come out of the small guard shack and approach their old truck, a mittened hand raised in greeting.

“Evening,” the man said when they'd stumbled their way to him. “Rough night to be without four-wheel drive.”

Dylan glanced at Webb, who had gone into stony silence at least twenty minutes ago. Maybe from pain in the shoulder, maybe from the cold. In retrospect, the cold may have been a blessing, numbing him against some of the pain.

“Rough night to be without heat either,” Dylan said. The old yellow Ford's heater screamed, but didn't put out much in the way of warm air. Luckily, they'd driven less than an hour in it.

“So what brings you out?”

Dylan took a deep breath. “We're here to join.” In the distance, they saw a snowmobile move across the horizon in the haze, its headlight looking more like a flashlight in the purple twilight.

The man smiled, his white teeth oddly gleaming. “Well then. We better get you inside.”

Dylan watched him go back inside the shack and exchange some words with the other guard. The partner looked out the semifrosted window, waved, picked up a two-way radio, and spoke into it as Guard #1 came back outside.

“We'll give you a ride inside,” he said with a pleasant smile. “And we'll take care of your, ah, truck here.”

“It's not really my truck.”

The guard's smile never faltered, as if he'd expected this answer. “That's why we're going to take care of it.”

Dylan and Webb slid out of the truck and stood, stamping their feet against the cold as the headlights of a vehicle approached from the main compound.

“So that's it?” Dylan asked. “We just walk in, no questions asked?”

The guard smiled again. “You wouldn't be the first. That's the way I did it, and I wasn't the first either.”

A Jeep came to a stop in front of them, and the guard opened its back door and motioned them in. Webb slid in the nearest side, and Dylan walked around the other side to get in behind the driver. Instantly, the warmth of the heater began thawing his bones. New Jeeps beat old Fords any day.

Without a word, the Jeep's driver executed a turn and drove back to the main grouping of buildings, stopping in front of a long, thin structure that looked something like a motel.

The guard turned and looked at them from the front seat. “We'll put you up in a guest room tonight—you'll probably want a hot shower and a warm bed.” He opened his door, then opened Webb's door behind him. Webb offered Dylan a weary look and slid out.

After a few moments, Dylan opened his door, grabbed his small fanny pack with the drugs and money stashed inside, and followed Webb and the guard to a door on the first level of the motel. Or dorm. Or whatever.

Inside, the room was barren, but clean and warm. No art or decorations adorning the walls, but the twin beds on opposite sides of the room looked inviting. A desk, with a small illuminated tabletop lamp, sat in the right corner of the room, next to a pocket door.

The guard pointed at the door. “Through there and down the hall to the left, you'll find a bathroom and showers. We're getting you some fresh clothes.”

Webb went to the nearest bed and collapsed onto it.

Dylan exchanged a look with the guard and nodded. “Thanks,” he said.

“That's what I'm here for,” he said. He retreated through the entry door to the blowing wind outside again, closing it behind him. Dylan went to the door, meaning to lock it, and discovered there were no locks of any kind. Well, that shouldn't be any surprise; this was a commune, after all. Everyone shared everything, from what he knew of the place.

Dylan went to the desk, sat down in the office chair, picked up the book.
HOPE IS VIA EARTH
, the hardback cover said in all caps.

He thumbed through the book, filled with writings from Li, the Great Sower. Color photos broke up the text, images of people plowing fields, constructing giant wind turbines, loading boxes onto trucks. All of them smiling beatifically. He skimmed through the pages, getting the general gist of the story. Earth was green and healthy and vibrant before the “pestilence of mankind” began to poison it. Only by recycling and generating clean power and focusing on returning earth to its natural, preindustrial state could mankind make up for its past sins.

A knock on the door interrupted him, and he jumped. On the bed, Webb was already in a deep sleep; evidently, the knock wasn't enough to wake him. Probably for the best.

Dylan put his hand in his pocket, slipped his finger inside the trigger guard on the revolver. He approached the door cautiously, wanting to ask who it was but feeling like it would be oddly out of place here.

After debating a few moments, he opened the door. Standing in front of him was a chiseled figure with a bald head, brown skin, and deep, peering eyes. The cold weather didn't seem to be a problem, as the person wore no kind of coat or hat.

“I brought clothes,” he said, holding out freshly laundered jeans and flannel shirts.

“Sure. Uh, I mean, thanks. Come on in.” Dylan backed away, letting the stranger into the room. As if he could keep anyone out anyway.

When Dylan closed the door and turned back to the room, the figure had already placed the pile of clothes on Dylan's bed, then seated himself next to the clothing.

“My name is—” the figure began.

“Li,” Dylan finished. “The Great Sower.” He'd seen photos in the book on the desk. Before that, even, he'd seen photos of Li in local newspapers and television broadcasts; the HIVE community garnered a fair amount of regional media interest.

Li smiled. “And you are Dylan Runs Ahead.”

“I didn't expect you to be the Welcome Wagon.”

“Why not?”

Dylan shrugged. “I don't know—Great Sower, you know. You should be great sowing, or whatever.”

“And you don't think this counts as sowing.”

Dylan nodded at Webb, who still hadn't moved since crashing on the bed. “Me and Webb, we're kind of bad seeds.”

He crossed the room back to the desk and sat down in the chair, not wanting to sit by Li on the bed. Too near. Too personal. Too close to those eyes.