Three A.M. (36 page)

I got back into Samuel Ayers’s bright red pickup and threw it into reverse. Leaning out of the open door, I could just barely see down the steep tunnel by the truck’s reverse lights. I drew in and then slowly let out a deep breath. My foot came off the brake and pressed home on the gas. The vehicle lurched backwards. The cylinder just cleared the tunnel doors, and a split second later I was driving down through damp darkness. I estimated as best I could what thirty feet felt like while driving backwards and then violently smashed my foot onto the brake pedal. The tires squealed as I watched the massive propane tank fly off the truck bed and crash violently into the back wall. I sat perfectly still for a moment, waiting for either an explosion or a rush of icy water or both. When neither came after a full minute, I figured I’d cleared the first hurdle.

I drove back up the steep corridor and steered around several of the clanking turbines, finally stopping the truck just before the raised metal door connecting to the main tunnel’s antechamber. I hobbled down from the truck and over to Verlassen’s body.

“Sorry, Hank,” I muttered, crouching painfully next to him. I hooked my hands under his shoulders, rolling him flat onto his back, and tried to straighten up to drag him toward the truck. Shooting pains racked my right elbow and thigh. My ribs ached under the strain. I let go of him and stumbled backwards, coming to rest against one of the turbines. After getting my breath back, I tried to lift him once more. It was no use. Too many parts of me were too badly damaged for my body to work as a whole. I’d wanted to drive him out of the dam a ways to where someone would find his body. He deserved to be properly buried. I justified leaving him here to myself as best I could—he had spent the better part of his life in and around dams; he may as well be buried in one. It bothered me to entomb Hank next to Watley, but I had little choice.

Again I slumped against the turbine, sliding down to the concrete while digging in my pocket for a cigarette. It was my next to last. I put it in my mouth but then took it out again as something occurred to me. I crawled over to Watley’s rigid corpse and pried the pistol from his hand. I ratcheted back on the action, expelling a shell onto the floor. Picking it up, I sucked in a sharp breath. I bit down as hard as I could on the bullet with my back teeth, twisting the brass casing in my fingers. After a moment, I felt the metal begin to give and then suddenly the bullet popped free of the shell. I spit it out and rubbed my aching jaw.

Not much of the black powder had spilled from the casing. It would probably be enough. It had to be. I ripped the filter off my cigarette and tossed it aside, sliding the unfiltered smoke into the brass case. I rose and limped as quickly as I could back toward the penstock. Excitement helped to dull my pain. Excitement that my plan to detonate the gas tank by jamming a gun barrel into it had been replaced. If it didn’t work, I always had martyrdom.

The cement was damp and slippery beneath my unsteady feet as I made my way down to the propane cylinder. I flicked my lighter now and then to see, keeping each burn brief, as I was nervous that gas might have been leaking. Reaching the bottom of the tunnel, I leaned for a moment against the heavy steel panel the tank was resting by. I could hear water rushing past on the other side of the cold sheet of metal. The walls vibrated and groaned with it—the lifeblood of the city. Now it would spill.

I took a long look at the tank’s main valve by the flickering flame of my lighter, then worked by feel in the dark. The aperture widened in a spiral pattern as a disk around it twisted so that the gas flow could be regulated. I took hold of the adjustable disk and turned it about 180 degrees. Immediately, I could smell propane wafting out at me. I checked the size of the hole I’d made with my index finger, and then slid the back of the shell casing into it. Gingerly, I twisted the valve closed until it held fast around the brass casing.

I leaned back against the damp steel wall to relax and to let the escaped gas dissipate until I could smell nothing but the musty air. I pulled the lighter from my pants pocket and wrapped my fingers around it, holding my fist to my lips. It felt as though I should think of my mother and father or something else from before, or Heller or even just Rebecca, but as I tried to let my mind wander, I thought only of lighting the cigarette and getting to the truck. No matter what happened, the die had already been cast, the machine was running … all was in motion, and I was for the moment nothing but a cog in my own design.

I flicked the lighter. Its pale, dancing light cast strange shadows on the walls. I cupped my left hand around the flame and slowly raised it to the cigarette protruding from the shell. The patterns of my left palm stood out in the shimmering orange flame’s light—grooves cut deeply into dry, weathered flesh. I paused for perhaps two seconds, looking at my hand. In those seconds, I did see many things from my past. Then I held the flame to the cigarette tip. With no breath to draw life into it, the ember took a moment to catch. Then it glowed gently in the dark. I moved the lighter away and paused for a moment to make sure the cigarette was burning. The stale sweet smell of tobacco filled my nostrils, and I nodded to myself and then stumbled up away from the penstock and time bomb and millions of gallons of rushing water.

I got up to the turbine room and threw shut the heavy steel doors that led down to the propane tank, hoping to maximize the blast. Lurching toward the truck, I took one last wistful and hateful look at Hank and Watley, respectively. Then I was at the truck. I had left the door open, the keys in the ignition. The engine came to life, and then I was flying through the little room, past
Huckleberry Finn
and Verlassen’s last supper. Down the long, dim corridor, my eyes darting back and forth from the rearview mirror to the tunnel’s end.

Then I was outside, the setting sun in my eyes. I stopped the truck a few yards from the entryway and rolled down the window to listen. Nothing. I could hear birds calling and gentle breeze and falling water. From within the dam came silence. I sighed in resignation. I climbed from the truck and began limping back inside. I figured I may as well have one more stroll.

The few working lights in the long corridor shone down above me, pale and mocking. Tile crunched beneath my feet. I walked back through the little service chamber, glancing over at the open book on the table. I grabbed the book and carried it into the turbine room to rest it, still open to page 110, on Hank’s chest.

It occurred to me there was no reason to save it at this point, so I drew out my last cigarette and lit it. Looking past Verlassen, I noticed my rifle in a corner where Watley had thrown it. It was better than the pistol. I limped to the rifle and hefted it, feeling the old familiar grips for the last time.

The cigarette was sweet and rich. Blue gray smoke curled up from my nostrils into the still air. My leg throbbed and my elbow ached, but it was easy to take. I would have killed for a taste of scotch. But there was nothing to do but get on with it.

I checked the bolt and the action on the rifle, and everything seemed to be working smoothly. One last deep drag of the cigarette and I threw it aside. I walked slowly, minimizing my limp, to the penstock doors. Pulling them open, I could hear the murmur of water below. I could just see the large white cylinder in the gloom.

I planted my feet and switched the rifle to fully automatic.

Secured the stock against my shoulder.

The metal was cool against my cheek.

A faint smell of oil.

My left arm trembled for a second and then was steady.

I exhaled.

My right index finger wrapped around the trigger lightly.

Then I stopped breathing and drew the trigger all the way home.

Reports sang out and from below came a bright surge of roaring fire and I was drifting away from it and then all was black.

*   *   *

By now, Rebecca would have seen the note I left on the kitchen table. It was shorter than I’d wanted, but words had failed me. Surely tears streamed down from her soft blue eyes, leaving damp trails along her lovely face. Those eyes that had once been gray … reading my final scrawling:

I’m sorry, Rebecca. I’m gone. I care about you too much to worry about your feelings; I care only that you stay alive. If I cannot do the same, please forgive me. Please know that I love you. Know that you’re the probably only thing I ever loved.

It was not enough, but perhaps she would understand. I was so far away. All my life, I had been so far away from everything. From everyone. Principally myself. I saw it now. I had known it always, but only now would I have been ready to look someone else in the eyes, and see into rather than seeing past. See into another rather than seeing my own reflection.

Water gently lapped at my face. It was frigid but welcome. I smiled weakly at the water. I could not see. Then my arms knew the water and my legs and my fingers. It was all around me, gently flowing and gurgling. I was on my back in the water. Not floating, but I could feel nothing but its cold embrace. I tried to bring my hands to my face. After what seemed like an eternity, they got there and I explored my face, hardly comprehending what it meant to have one. All the parts seemed like they were there. All the parts of my hands were there.

Slowly I began to feel the pain. It crept in out of the icy water and wrapped around me. All around me. I was not dead. The idea seemed absurd to me. Foolish. But as I lay there slowly reintroducing myself to life, I quickly became convinced of it. I was alive. My thoughts coalesced. The water … the absolute darkness … There was no power. I smiled faintly to myself. It hurt to smile, but I could not stop.

I lay there in the darkened turbine room, aching and groaning, for perhaps ten minutes, maybe more. Finally I pulled myself up to my knees. The water was slowly rising. I could barely move my legs, so I half swam, half crawled around the room until I found a wall. I picked a direction and drift-crawled along it until finally I found the large space that led to the outer tunnel.

It took me more than twenty minutes to work my way toward the pale silver aura at the corridor’s end. Water was flowing out of the tunnel and down across the land. There was no sound of the four crashing waterfalls from the far side of the dam. The red truck sat patiently in what looked like hazy twilight or morning. I crawled to the pickup and slumped against one tire, finally looking down at myself. My hands were blistered and burned. My pants were shredded, as was the skin beneath. My chest was riddled with lacerations caused by bits of metal and concrete. My palms came away from my face stained with blood. I was growing weaker. Tired. I wanted to just rest there, beside the dead giant.

But there was something I needed to see. I set my jaw and heaved myself up and into the truck. The engine rumbled to life and I set off. Sure enough, the sun was rising, not setting.

17

The city’s skyline was perfect. It was exactly as I remembered it. Backlit by dawn, the tall buildings cut sharp, crisp patterns into the sky. The thin, towering fog stacks glinted in the sunlight like a crown atop the city. All the buildings were dark; not a single light shone in any window. I was passing through the shattered suburbs.

It was a strain to keep my eyes focused, and my head dipped forward frequently. The steering wheel was slick with blood.

I could hardly feel my fingers or toes.

I thought I saw people peering out from the shadows along the road.

I was fading.

I kept my foot pressed firmly down on the accelerator even as I crossed the river into town. There was a massive concrete bunker at either end of the bridge and a series of gates, but they were all raised and unmanned. A thick metal door, easily fifteen feet in height and double that across, was swung wide open at the far side. It was the last barrier before the city. Or first for those within. I slowed as I entered town and rolled down a wide open boulevard. Getting my bearings, I turned onto a side street. I desperately wanted to get to the cathedral … to see its wondrous facade one more time.

I turned down what I figured was River Street and had to abandon the truck. Orb columns ran down the center of the road. They looked absurd now in the light of a clear day. I laughed breathlessly to myself as I climbed out of the cab, wincing immediately afterwards.

I was home. As much as I had ever felt at home anywhere.

My legs gave out after less than a block. I crawled for maybe a hundred yards and then pulled myself along with just my elbows for a few feet more. The pavement behind me was streaked with blood. I figured I was in the last few moments of my life, so what the hell—stop crawling.

Rolling onto my back, I looked up at the sky … the blue sky. There were a few clouds and the sun was bright, warming. I lay there staring upward for a long time. The buildings around me were all dilapidated above their first few floors—cracked paint, boarded-up windows, old signs, and bare flagpoles that no one had seen in years.

It was warm and bright in the sun, and there wasn’t a soul around. Everyone was terrified and hiding. So I had the street and the sky to myself and I lay there, bleeding and broken and probably moribund, and I was happy as hell. I had never felt such joy, in fact. Ever. I was … satisfied.

TOR BOOKS BY STEVEN JOHN

Three A.M.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR