Last Gasp (65 page)

Standish was a hundred miles back the way they’d come; plainly out of the question. Chase said, “It’s my friend I’m concerned about. I was hoping to make Goose Lake tonight to get her some medical attention.”

The trooper shrugged. “I can’t stop you, mister, but it’s at your own risk, you realize that.” He looked at the sun dipping behind the trees, casting long spiky shadows across the road and the concrete guardhouse. “I’d say you’ve got thirty minutes of real daylight left. Alturas is seventeen miles from here. If you move like a bat out of hell and stop for nothing and nobody, you might just make it. Good luck.”

They might just have made it, but for the storm.

It was a weird kind of storm such as Chase had never seen before.

Years ago it would have been described as freak weather, though today the freakish had become commonplace. Chase saw the
ALTURAS
5
MILES
sign flash by in the dusk, his body bathed in nervous sweat as he tried to solve the equation of distance versus waning light. It reminded him of a problem in physics, plotting a light-distribution curve:
If 1 mile is equivalent to a reduction of 3.6 lumens, calculate the distance to be traveled before ...

Then, without any warning, the jeep was enveloped in a cloud of yellow rain, the color of piss. It smelled even worse. The headlights sliced feebly through the solid slanting downpour and a sudden wind flung it into Chase’s eyes with stinging force.

He managed to slow down without swerving off the road, leaning forward to peer through the jerking wipers. The acrid, smarting smell of rotten eggs filled his nostrils. What the hell had they run into—a cloudburst of industrial waste?

A vivid flash of sheet lightning illuminated everything like a sepia print. Road, bushes, and trees were stained a muddy yellow, the scene fading at the edges where the gusting rain reduced visibility. As the lightning flickered out the air sparked and crackled with ionized particles. A million electrical fireflies danced in front of Chase’s dazzled eyes. The smell tasted like old pennies on his tongue and he had to clench his teeth to prevent his stomach spurting up his throat.

Ruth’s cry was lost in the boom of a thunderclap that shook the ground and the jeep. Impossible to survive out in the open. The highly charged air made every breath a searing agony, as if windpipe and lungs were on fire. This stuff would eat into their tissues like acid into copper.

Wiping the foul yellow moisture out of his eyes, Chase brought the jeep to a halt. Ruth handed him his goggles and respirator, having already donned hers. As he put them on, another lightning flash transfixed them in its glare: Goggled and masked, they resembled a pair of divers at the bottom of some primordial ocean, caught helplessly in fierce currents that threatened to sweep them away.

Once more, as darkness descended, the air came alive with fireflies, crackling and spitting. Chase helped Ruth into the passenger seat just as the crash of thunder pressed down on them like a giant hand, making the jeep rock on its springs.

“You all right?” Chase shouted.

Ruth nodded. Her dark hair was plastered to her scalp, the bandage a sodden strip stuck to her forehead. Chase cursed, incensed at his own stupidity. Where had he been living these past five years—in some fucking fairy tale? In the womb of the Tomb, that’s where, safe and snug and protected from all the nastiness outside. Good God, he should have known that this wasn’t going to be a joyride, and yet he’d calmly set out as if on a bloody Sunday picnic!

He slammed the jeep into gear and they moved on through the teeming sulfurous rain.

A mile or so along the road Ruth spotted a building. It was a service station, with no lights showing, and as they drove into the forecourt it became obvious why. The pumps had been vandalized, the cantilevered roof slanted at a dangerous angle, and every single window in the two-story stucco-fronted building had been broken. The concertina doors leading to the repair shop were mangled out of shape, as if rammed by a truckdriver with a score to settle.

Chase was anxious to get the jeep under cover. Everything was already soaked and reeking, but he was afraid that prolonged exposure to the acid rain would leave the tires threadbare and the bodywork looking like Gruyere cheese. Around the back was a concrete ramp leading up to a door. Without hesitation he ran the jeep inside, then switched off the engine and slumped back in his seat, exhausted.

Ruth peeled off her goggles and mask and sucked in air. The smell was still strong, though not quite as pungent as outside. “Would you believe they used to call Californian rain liquid sunshine?” she panted.

“It’s yellow, what more do you want?”

“Yeah, so is horse —”

“I know, I know.” Chase smiled wearily.

They unloaded all the gear and supplies and spread them out to dry. By now it was dark and they worked by the light of a battery lamp, which extended its welcoming circle across the pitted floorboards and along the bare, crumbling plaster walls. A calendar with scenic views advertised Firestone tires: the Grand Canyon basking in a pink sunset, the month March, the year 2011.

While Ruth sorted out something to eat, Chase unpacked the gas stove and got it going. Then he took a flashlight and poked through the derelict building, finding an office-cum-shop stripped bare except for a battered cash register, its empty drawer thrust out like a rude tongue. A worn wooden staircase led up through a trapdoor to three large rooms, two used for storage, the other, apparently, as a bedroom, containing a mildewed mattress and a dresser with a cracked, discolored mirror. In the storerooms metal racks and shelves, thick with dust, reached almost to the ceiling, and the floor was knee-deep in brown wrapping paper and squashed cardboard boxes. Either the owner had cleared out fast, Chase surmised, grabbing what he could, or the garage had been raided and pillaged.

He switched off the flashlight and stood at the shattered window and looked out at the yellow rain spattering the black surface of the highway, lit spasmodically by flickers of lightning moving toward the west.

Something rose up inside, choking him, and he had to stifle a sob. Tomorrow he would see Cheryl and Dan. The memory of those wasted years was far more painful than the bruise in his side. He was fifty years old. Had it really taken half a century for him to learn what mattered, what was important? He had quite deliberately chosen to sacrifice their happiness in pursuit of an ideal. And that word
sacrifice
was loaded with an ambiguity of meaning. Had he, Gavin Chase, made the sacrifice, playing out the role of noble martyr and savior of mankind, or were they the sacrificial victims in his grand scheme? They had been the ones to suffer while he remained pious and impregnable inside his cast-iron conscience. Good for you, Gav. Always in the right, even if you were wrong, to the bitter end.

The rain had slackened, though the storm rumbled on distantly. Outside it was almost too dark to see anything. He and Ruth should be safe for the night here. From the road the building would appear deserted, with the jeep out of sight and the only light in a back room.

Chase stood absolutely still, holding his breath, the hairs on the nape of his neck springing erect. There was somebody, or something, up here with him.

Mouth suddenly dry and heart thumping, he turned slowly and switched on the flashlight. Its beam traveled along the floor, over the crumpled boxes and brown paper, and up to the empty metal shelves. Could he hear breathing or was it the beat of blood in his ears?

The distorted circle of light moved along the shelves, bending and folding itself around the metal uprights. A triangular fragment of beam struck the far wall and he thought he saw movement there, but when he shone the light there was nothing. It had been an exhausting trip and they hadn’t had much sleep the night before—were his nerves shot and his mind playing tricks?

Chase squatted down on one knee and aimed the beam under the lowest shelf. Scraps of paper, dust, some round dark shapes that looked like mouse-droppings, but nothing else. Yet he still felt, sensed, another presence ... something with the stealth and cunning of a jungle beast, observing him from the darkness, waiting for the right moment to leap out with fangs bared and claws unsheathed —

“Gavin!”

A convulsive spasm shook his body like an electric shock and the flashlight fell, making a dull thud and rolling away, its beam diffuse and dim through crumpled brown paper. Good God, what kind of state were his nerves in? His stomach felt like a cold hollow pit and his face and neck were bathed in icy perspiration. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and reached shakily for the flashlight —

“Gavin, where are you?”

—and heard a movement above his head. No doubt that time. His head snapped up and his eyes stretched as wide as they would go, straining to see through the brownish gloom, which was the only illumination provided by the buried light. Something up there near the ceiling. Watching. Waiting. Ready to spring.

In his hasty grab for the flashlight he managed to bury it deeper among the cardboard and paper. His scalp seemed to contract and pull the skin tight on his skull as if in anticipation of the thing hurling itself down upon him from above. He was on his knees, both hands thrusting frantically into the litter and throwing it aside, steeling himself for the crushing impact, and as his hand found and closed around the grooved metal casing, he heard footsteps on the stairs and Ruth’s voice calling his name, uneasy at the lack of response.

“Stay there, don’t come up!”

“What’s wrong? What is it?” She was already in the doorway, one hand gripping the jamb, staring into the room with the myopic reluctance of someone who wants to look and yet not to see.

“Don’t move, Ruth. Stay right there.” Chase got a firm grip and directed the beam upward. It moved across the crude plaster and lath ceiling, changing shape from a circle to an ellipse as the angle became steeper, and then the two of them heard the sound—a slow raking scratching.

At once Chase swung the beam toward it, and caught full in the cone of light were ten elongated and unblinking yellow eyes.

Ruth gasped as if she’d been punched in the stomach.

“Keep still! For God’s sake don’t move,” Chase muttered, his voice thick and low. “The light usually mesmerizes them.”

“Them?” Ruth sounded puzzled and far away. “What are they?”

“A rat pack.”

“What?”
Her whisper was aghast, incredulous.

Her reaction was understandable. The rats were giants. As big as Alsatian dogs, they crouched tightly together, pointed black noses between their paws, watching from the ragged hole where the ceiling had fallen through, or been gnawed away perhaps. Behind their narrow heads with the slitted eyes and flattened leathery ears, their backs rose fat and smooth under a light covering of gray dust.

This pack must have scavenged on anything and everything they could sink their razor-sharp teeth into, living or dead, to have achieved such monstrous size. But feeding alone wouldn’t have done it. Genetic changes over several generations had developed this superior breed, each generation getting bigger and fatter and more voracious as their chief enemy, man, deserted his habitation and had to fight a rearguard action against the natural world he had perverted and destroyed. The rats were among the first to take advantage, but other species would soon follow.

As somebody had once said: Nature bats last.

One of them was pawing the broken edge of the plaster, sending a fine trickle of dust onto the top shelf of the metal racks. They hadn’t altered position since the moment Chase put the light on them. Their yellow lidless eyes simply stared, snouts wrinkling as they scented the air (something moving meant food), mouths salivating as their appetites sharpened.

Chase didn’t have the spit to swallow. If they came together, in a rush, neither he nor Ruth stood the remotest chance. A normal-size rat could leap yards, so these outsize bastards could clear the length of the room and take the pair of them without trouble.

Snap. Crunch. Finished.

So why were they waiting? A thought occurred to him that turned the marrow in his bones to water—these weren’t the only rats in the building. The walls might be full of them. Even now there might be others sneaking from the bedroom next door and the rear stock room, creeping up the stairs, coming through the ceilings, slyly cutting off their retreat. Did rats think that way? Weren’t they just greedy rodents who wanted everything for themselves and didn’t like sharing with their fellows? They were cunning, yes, but he’d never heard of an altruistic rat before.

Chase carefully transferred the flashlight to his left hand, keeping the beam steady. Then with his right he took out the Browning automatic. When they came he might get one, or two, possibly three if he was lucky, but not all five. The odds were heavily in their favor.

But first get Ruth out of the way. Practically mouthing the words, he said, “Step back slowly. Don’t make the slightest noise. When you’re out of sight go downstairs, get the rifle, and wait there.”

From the corner of his eye he saw the pale blur that was Ruth’s face drift out of sight. There was the lightest of footfalls on the stairs. Holding both flashlight and gun at arm’s length, Chase began to edge sideways toward the door, not for an instant letting his attention waver from the crouching rodents. Their evil yellow eyes swiveled in their sockets, following the light. And careful and painstaking as he was, Chase couldn’t prevent his feet making a rustling noise on the rubbish-strewn floorboards. The rats heard. Their eyes detected the movement of the light. They knew that their prey was seeking to elude them. Acting as if on command they bunched for attack, haunches flattening as they prepared to hurl themselves in a sleek black fury of gouging teeth and tearing claws and whipping tails into the beam of light.

Chase was nearly at the door, four or five shuffling steps away, the adrenaline priming his system for the leap through onto the landing and down the stairs—another step, and one more, almost there ...