Ghost Road Blues. Джонатан Мэйберри
“Good morning, Mr. Mayor,” he said, hating the face he saw, and then he set about washing and brushing and constructing the face he needed everyone else in town to see.
(3)
Crow pulled out of the long Guthrie driveway and turned northeast along Interstate Extension A-32, heading to Old Mill Road and the Haunted Hayride that was nestled back in between the Pinelands College campus and the sprawling southern reach of the great Pine Deep State Forest. He had stopped whistling to himself and was now singing along badly to a Nick Cave CD. As his battered old Chevy, Missy, rolled up between corn farms and berry farms, Crow sang his way through the Bad Seeds’ raucous and obscene version of “Stagger Lee,” a song he could never play in anything like polite company. To Crow, there was nothing particularly strange about starting a lovely late September morning off with a ballad about mass murder and pederasty.
He sang badly and loud and the miles rolled away as the car took the hills and jags and twists of A-32 with practiced ease.
A busload of migrant day workers passed, heading for the Guthrie farm, and Crow tooted to Toby, the driver and crew boss. A few of the workers waved at him and he waved back. Most of them were Haitians and there were half a dozen among them that Henry Guthrie was considering taking on full-time.
Behind the bus were two cars—both with people Crow knew—and beyond them the first of the day’s school buses. It was just hitting 7:00 a.m. and already the town was up and about. Nobody sleeps late in farm country.
Crow’s cell phone beeped—the tune was “I Got My Mojo Working”—and he flipped it open. “Hello, Miss Beechum’s Country Dayschool,” he said.
“Hey there,” Val said. “I just had a very, very nice flashback.”
He turned down the CD player. “Yeah, baby…me too. You are the most delicious woman in the world, you know that?”
“Mmm,” she purred. “You may be a goofball, Mr. Crow, but the things you do to me. Wow.”
“Gotta say that it’s pretty darned mutual. Three times between eleven-thirty last night and six this morning. My oh my. It’s like being eighteen again.”
“I wanted you to know that I’ll be thinking of this morning for the rest of the day. Bye-bye,” she said, and disconnected.
As he drove, Crow’s grin was brighter than the sun that now shone above the distant waving fields of corn.
(4)
In his dreams he was always Iron Mike Sweeney, the Enemy of Evil. In dreams he wasn’t fourteen—he was fully grown and packed with muscle head to toe. No one could possibly stand up to him, and no one dared attack him. He was the agent of Order pitted eternally against the nefarious forces of Chaos. He was the quiet stranger who came to troubled towns and brought rough justice with his lightning fists, flashing feet, and cleverly disguised array of ultra-high-tech weaponry. He was the immortal Soldier of Light who carried the torch of reason and understanding through the growing and malevolent shadows of night. Demons fled before him; vampires would wither into noxious clouds of dust as he turned his Solar Gaze on them. The androids of the Dark Order, powerful as they were, could never match the thunderstorm power in his hard-knuckled hands. Iron Mike was the single most powerful warrior this old world had ever seen.
Even now the Enemy of Evil was holding the Bridge of Gelderhaus against the forces of Prince Viktor and his slavering band of genetic freaks, each of them armed with laser swords and shock-rods.
The battle had raged all night but Iron Mike Sweeney was not tired. His sword arm was as strong and steady as it had been when he drew his titanium rune-blade and braced himself, legs wide, at the mouth of the bridge while behind him the citizens of Gelderhaus cowered. Wave after wave of the genetic Warhounds had come charging him, but time and again Iron Mike’s unbreakable sword had smashed them down and beaten them back. The gorge far below the bridge was choked with their corpses and the river ran red with their radioactive blood.
Now the Warhounds had fallen back and Prince Viktor himself was striding across the bridge, his sword Deathpall in his gauntleted hand. He stopped, just out of sword’s reach, his eyes blazing with hatred, his mouth trembling with frustrated rage.
“You shall not pass!” roared Iron Mike Sweeney in a voice that echoed from the walls on both sides of the gorge.
Hissing with fury, Prince Viktor raised his sword and cried—
“—get the fuck out of bed now or do you want me to come up there?”
The roar jolted Mike out of the dream and his body was obeying before his mind could even process what was going on.
“Do you fucking hear me?”
Mike was on his feet and he hurried to his bedroom door and pulled it open, crying, “I’m up, I’m up!”
At the foot of the stairs Vic Wingate—Mike’s stepfather—stood with a foot on the first step, his hard right hand gripping the banister. “You deaf or something? I have to call you three times before you even bother to acknowledge my existence? What am I—the fucking maid?”
Mike had to head this off at the pass before Vic really got worked up. Though morning beatings weren’t usually Vic’s thing, it didn’t take a whole lot to set him off.
“Sorry, Vic, I was on the toilet with the door closed.”
Vic looked up at him for a moment and the anger gradually turned to a nasty smirk. “Yeah, that figures…I always figured you were full of shit. Well, get your ass down here and have your breakfast. I don’t want to hear about you being late for school.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have papers after school?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, get them done and get home. Don’t be late.” He leaned on those last three words.
“I won’t.”
Vic gave him a last perfunctory glare and marched off. Relieved, Mike sagged back against his door frame, exhaling the stale air that was pent up in his chest.
Downstairs he heard Vic yelling something at Mike’s mother, and then the door slamming as he left for work. Vic was the chief mechanic at Shanahan’s Garage in town and he was never later for work even though it didn’t matter what time he got there. Like most people, Shanahan was afraid of Vic and wouldn’t have dared risk pissing him off any more than Mike would.
“Eat shit and die,” Mike whispered to the closed door downstairs.
“Honey?” his mother’s voice called. It wasn’t seven o’clock yet and she already sounded half in the bag. Or maybe she hadn’t sobered up from last night. “Breakfast is on the table.”
“Yeah, I’m coming.” Breakfast would be a box of cereal and some orange juice. Mike went and sat down on the edge of the bed, fingers knotted together, shoulders hunched, staring at the patterns of sunlight on the gray indoor-outdoor carpet on his floor. He tried to remember his dream—something about a bridge—but it was gone. “Just another day,” he said aloud. He said it nearly every morning, usually in the same way, with the same total lack of enthusiasm.
This time, however, he was wrong.
(5)
Tow-Truck Eddie always started his day on his knees. As soon as he got out of bed, even if he had to go to the bathroom, he first dropped onto his knees, right on the cold wood floor, and prayed. He had a number of required prayers he had to say before he could start speaking directly to God, and he recited the Lord’s Prayer precisely fourteen times, which was twice seven—the number of God that was superior to six, the number of the Beast—and then said a rosary, a dozen Hail Marys. He crossed himself seven times, and then laid his head on the floor, his heavy brow pressed against the floorboards, until he heard the voice of God in his head.
Sometimes it would take an hour or