China Lake by Meg Gardiner Read Free Book Online Page B

Queasily I inched ahead. Stretching my arm, I clasped his fingers. ‘‘If you can hear me, squeeze my hand.’’ Nothing. I said, ‘‘Help’s coming,’’ and, knowing I could do nothing more, pushed myself out from under the truck.
    The driver was glassy-eyed on the ground, staring at that dangling arm. The air stank of burned rubber. I climbed into the cab and switched off the engine, grabbed reflective red hazard triangles from behind the driver’s seat, and hopped out, jogging up the street to set them out. The Remnant milled near the church. Not one of them had stepped forward to help. A pasty finger pointed at me, and I heard, ‘‘Her fault.’’ Louder: ‘‘She brought this on.’’
    They were standing on the sidewalk, crowding up to the curb but not stepping off, as if it were the edge of a cliff. They were saying the accident was a sign . . . a punishment or a warning. My foot hit something slick—a broken pumpkin. That was what had spilled from the truck, and that was what was holding them back. Their shoulders were hunching away from the orange gourds as though they were severed heads.
    Then Peter Wyoming’s voice rang out. ‘‘It’s a taunt. We’re being mocked. Well, I got an answer to that!’’
    He stepped off the curb and jammed a cowboy boot down on a pumpkin, squashing it. A second later the choir soloist hoisted her red robe and did the same. Then the twirlers, who ran into the street and laid into a pumpkin with their batons like hunters clubbing a harp seal. Then everyone.
    Oh, no. I jogged back to the truck. The driver was kneeling by the wheels, saying, ‘‘Hang on, buddy, help’s coming, hang on,’’ a rosary of slender hope, chanted in fear and guilt. From behind me came scuffling, grunts, the wet crack of produce splitting open. A pumpkin flew and smashed against the wooden slats of the truck. I tugged on the driver’s arm, urging him up. He stood, saw the Remnant smashing his cargo, mouthed, What . . . ? Someone pointed at the truck and called, ‘‘Look— more!’’ A dozen people charged the vehicle, climbing into the bed and flinging pumpkins overboard.
    ‘‘Get in the cab.’’ I pushed him toward the door. He stared at the front axle, and I said, ‘‘I’ll stay with him.’’
    He gripped the door handle, felt the truck rocking, and stopped. Peter Wyoming was standing in the middle of the road, arms akimbo, face alight, looking at the anarchy as if it were beauty revealed.
    He tilted his head back and bellowed, ‘‘Getting biblical!’’
    The driver said, ‘‘No, we’ll both stay.’’
    ‘‘Thank you.’’
    From the distance, at last, came a siren. The blue and red lights of a fire engine strobed the night, flashing off buildings, asphalt, faces. Headlights backlit the Remnant into flat black silhouettes. I waved my arms, but the engine halted, motor growling, the crew doubtless confused by the scene.
    For an awful moment I thought the Remnant was going to mob the fire truck. But Peter Wyoming spread his arms, in the classic gesture of the Good Shepherd welcoming his flock, and said, ‘‘Come on, people.’’ They followed him back to the sidewalk, hopping down from the produce truck and clearing the road unhurriedly, slapping high-fives and pumping fists in the air.
    The fire engine drove forward and the crew jumped out, wary and full of questions. The truck driver directed them toward the trapped man, and then we backed off as they set to work. The Remnant again massed on the curb, singing, ‘‘Takin’ back the streets for a thousand years . . .’’
    Except for one figure, dressed in white, who stood staring at me. Tabitha. The lights of the fire truck spun across her. Red, blue, red, a shocking spin of color. I walked toward her.
    ‘‘What’s going on here?’’ I said. ‘‘What in the name of God is this all about?’’
    The strobing lights painted her face into a kaleidoscope of fear and ferocity. ‘‘You haven’t been