23.

We rode the rails for almost three weeks, two weeks longer than necessary, in order, as it were, to let things cool down and encourage any speculation that we might have died in the car explosion. We ate in hobo jungles, paying for our meals with a few of the gold coins I had taken from the commune. For the most part the other “bos” were friendly, and only once did Whisper have to dissuade potential thieves. During this time our symptoms did not become better; on the other hand, they didn’t grow worse—and we were willing to settle for that. It gave us faint hope that the shadows in our spinal fluid were not growing larger.

We abandoned our made of transportation when we reached Scranton, walked from the yards into the center of the city, where we found a coin dealer who was willing to put up with our smell long enough to examine our treasure with no questions asked. The coins turned out to be, literally, worth more than their weight in gold, since they were quite rare. We sold three-quarters of the bag’s contents for twenty thousand dollars. We bought clothes and a few items we thought we might need for our assault on Ramdor. Then we checked into a hotel to clean up and change.

Happy time was over. With the dirt off me, I could see scales growing on the backs of my hands and feet; there were gossamer webs between all my toes, the beginnings of one between the thumb and forefinger on my left hand. We immediately checked out, bought a used van and headed for Centralia.

Viewed from the turnpike, there appeared to be a gray cloud, in an otherwise azure sky, hanging over the section of the state where Ramdor was located. It jogged my memory, and I recalled reading how Centralia, along with a large area surrounding it, was situated over hundreds of miles of coal mines and raw seams that, almost two decades before, had somehow caught fire. The underground fire still raged, eating through the black, bituminous veins and arteries of the earth like cancer. Occasionally the fire would gnaw through the skin of the earth in and around Centralia, bursting out with blast-furnace heat approaching two thousand degrees, spewing sulphur and other poisonous gases into the air; whole houses had disappeared into sinkholes that suddenly opened overnight. It was a perfectly hellish place, and we were sure the Loges felt right at home.

A few discreet inquiries around town told us that Siegfried Loge had been able to buy up hundreds of acres north of Centralia—ostensibly for a dairy farm—some three years before, at what could only be described as fire sale prices. If the owner of Ramdor occasionally lost a dairy cow or two to the natural barbecue pits riddling his property, he did not seem overly concerned. His neighbors did not care at all; their only concern was with somehow finding a buyer for their property so that they could move out.

Loge had picked up a lot of cheap real estate, but reports were that he’d sunk a lot of money—probably the Pentagon’s—into it. A lot of blasting and building had been going on, and this spooked the other residents, who could not understand why anyone would want to build anything around Centralia. Also, it was said, some very strange people worked there.

We had no difficulty finding the place. A dirt road snaked off the main highway into a thick, slightly singed forest. In the distance was what looked to be an escarpment, and at the top of the escarpment, situated at the very lip, was a windowless building that gleamed in the sunlight like stainless steel. There was a heavy gate across the entrance to the dirt road, and at the gate was a brown-uniformed, black-gloved sentry. We kept going, driving around the perimeter.

A flimsy rail fence surrounded the property, and there was no sign of more guards, Warriors of the Father or otherwise. Although we passed a few meadows where, in spring and summer, diligent cows might be able to scare up a snack, Ramdor certainly did not look like a dairy farm; what it looked like was something Dante had thought up and then rejected in an early draft as too depressing. Although this part of Pennsylvania was in a heavy snow belt, there was no snow on the ground here; the earth was obviously too hot. There were numerous fissures, surrounded by wasted earth where escaping fire and poison gas had scoured away all the vegetation. In some places fire leaped out of the ground and licked like the tongue of a blowtorch at the sky; the air was filled with the smell of rotten eggs—hydrogen sulfide.

We parked the van in a ravine off the highway, some three miles from the main entrance. We prepared some food over a portable butane stove, prepared backpacks, then got some much needed sleep. Some time after midnight we stepped over the rail fence onto the grounds of Ramdor, headed toward the escarpment.

Our plan, out of stark necessity, was starkly simple; snatch somebody. If Siegmund Loge turned out to be at Ramdor, we’d grab him and use a little gentle persuasion to force him to administer an antidote to Lot 56, if an antidote existed—or cook one up in a hurry, if it didn’t. If Father wasn’t there, we’d grab Siegfried or Auberlich for use as a bargaining chip, breakable, until the elder Loge was sufficiently inspired to halt the death working in us. Then, regardless of what Siegmund Loge did or didn’t do, somebody was going to pay for Tommy’s and Rodney Lugmor’s deaths.

That was all there was to it.

Dawn found us in a copse of scrub evergreens on a knoll overlooking the main buildings of Ramdor. Considering his surroundings, Siegfried Loge had chosen the site well; it was a valley of black stone, which protected the wood-frame buildings from the fire beneath. The black-stone cliff rose from the valley floor like a periscope from hell, and at the top, inaccessible by any route we could see, was the windowless metal building we had glimpsed from the road. At the base of the cliff, built into it, was a ranch house, its stone front yard decorated with potted plants. A hundred yards to the left of the ranch house was a barn, and beyond that a smaller building which could have been a bunk house. To the east was the forest; to the west, at the end of the valley, were green and brown patches of meadow.

If not for the owner, and if not for the ominous building—a new, or backup, Volsung—on top of the escarpment, it might all have seemed rather quaint.

“I’m really glad we have a plan,” Garth said wryly as he peered down at the complex through his binoculars. Two brown-uniformed Warriors on horseback clattered past the ranch house, waved to a third Warrior standing guard at a gate. All three men wore what appeared to be machine pistols in shoulder holsters, standard dairy farmer issue.

“Of course,” I replied as I adjusted the focus on my own binoculars. “Where would we be if we didn’t have a plan?”

“About where we are right now, I’d say.” There was anger in Garth’s voice, but I knew that it was directed at the situation, not me. “Our plan is no plan. We don’t even know what Siegfried Loge and his kid look like, what’s more where to find them, what’s more how to get past those men down there with guns, what’s more—”

“You’re a barrel of laughs this morning.”

“We’re not even certain any of the Loges are here.”

“True.”

“I think we should give some more thought to this.”

“Fine. You can groom your new fur coat while you’re thinking, and I’ll tend to my webs and scales. This is the only place we have left to look. We need at least one Loge as a hostage, and I say that ranch house is the logical place to look first; after that, the building upstairs. They’re not going to come to us, Garth; we have to go to them. What else is there to say?”

“Nothing,” Garth sighed.

“We’ll go tonight. With luck, we’ll get some cloud cover. I’ll still be able to see.”

“I won’t.”

“Neither will the guards. In the meantime, we’ll sit tight and keep checking things out. Maybe one of the Loges will come out wearing a sign around his neck.”

“Now that’s a good plan.”

“The place is staffed by freaks—if you’ll pardon the expression,” Garth observed around noon.

He was right. True to Siegfried Loge’s sense of humor, or to his bizarre obsession with fantasy, the “dairy farm” was worked by genetic outtakes like myself; dwarves, fat ladies, midgets, and a variety of other men and women with congenital defects moved about the valley, in and out of the barn, performing various chores. I wondered if any of these people staffed the building on top of the cliff, thought not; there was nothing whimsical about what went on in the windowless building, and it was staffed by technicians of death. The dairy farm itself was literally just a sideshow.

“Yeah,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I know the giant. His name’s Hugo Fasolt. He was with the Statler Brothers’ Circus. Not a particularly good omen. Hugo’s not exactly the smartest giant you’ve ever met. He’s also congenitally grumpy, and more than a little self-pitying.”

“What giant?”

“The one on the tractor with the gorilla. They’re just coming out of the woods.”

Garth aligned his binoculars with mine, looked toward the east where the tractor and its odd riders were hauling a wagon loaded with firewood. “A big son-of-a-bitch,” Garth said.

“Eight feet, three inches, four hundred and forty-four pounds when he was with Statler Brothers. And he was always on a diet.”

“The gorilla the same one that doused you?”

“No. That one was a big silverback. This one’s smaller, probably female.”

“This one’s wearing the same kind of screen and typewriter keyboard that you told me about, and she’s flashing signals at the big guy. He’s talking to her. You think the gorilla understands what he’s saying?”

For some reason, the notion of talking gorillas bothered me far beyond the fact that one had almost killed me. I grunted noncommittally.

“The giant acts like she does,” Garth persisted.

“All things considered,” I said tightly, “the one that grabbed me was pretty articulate—and Lippitt as much as told me that it was the gorilla that told Loge I’d been inside the Volsung complex. But Lippitt has a jet-black sense of humor. Maybe a gorilla can be trained and conditioned to indicate simple responses, but I don’t believe even the Loges can make one sentient, or teach it to communicate on a level approaching human language.”

“Why not? They’re doing a pretty good job of nudging you and me in the opposite direction.”

“Hugo always talked to himself a lot,” I replied, letting the binoculars drop around my neck and looking away.

“Damned if it doesn’t look like the gorilla is carrying a portable cassette player.”

“Yeah. Hugo always liked rock and roll.”

It all reminded me too much of my mother’s dream.

“Hey, pal. I’m down here.”

The Warrior who had been standing at the gate outside the ranch house started, then glanced down at about the same time that I punched him in the groin. The breath exploded from his lungs as he crumpled to his knees, hands clasped between his legs. I spun clockwise to gain momentum, cracked him in the jaw with my elbow. I had a little bone on me, too.

Garth appeared beside me, carrying the length of rope I had retrieved during a premidnight reconnaissance of the barn. I relieved the Warrior of his machine pistol, checked the magazine; it was full. We tied the man up, and Garth dragged him back to the barn. He returned five minutes later.

“I gave him another rap on the jaw for insurance, Mongo. That one will stay put. Any others?”

“We have to assume there are always two by the gate out on the highway, but they’re stationary. I’ve seen one night rider; he’ll be back around in another twenty minutes or so.”

Garth glanced nervously around him. “There doesn’t seem to be much security.”

“There’s probably a battalion of these jokers in the building up on the cliff, and they all may eat and sleep there. That’s where the action is. This whole operation is just a little show for the benefit of the neighbors. What I am worried about is an alarm system in the ranch house.”

“That seems like a reasonable concern.”

“You’re the cop. How do we defeat it?”

Garth thought about it, shook his head. “We probably can’t—not in the time we have. If this guy does have an alarm system, it’ll be state-of-the-art. On the other hand, with the armed guards, he may not have felt the need for an alarm system in the house.”

“What do you suggest?”

Garth shrugged, pushed through the gate. “Let’s go. We’ll find out soon enough if there’s an alarm.”

Garth, moving slowly and deliberately to avoid creaking steps, went up on the porch and began running his fingertips around the doorjamb. I stayed behind for a few moments to dig a hole next to one of the potted plants, buried Whisper. Then I joined my brother on the porch. Garth was on his knees, probing the keyhole with the lock pick he always carried in his wallet.

“Can you see?” I asked.

“I don’t need to see to do this. What were you up to?”

“I planted Whisper in one of the pots. We’ve got this cannon, and I figure it’s always a good idea to have some insurance against a rainy day.”

“I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your rather kinky sense of humor, brother. If it rains on us any harder than it is now, we’ll drown.”

There was a soft click. Garth rose to his feet, sucked in a deep breath, turned the knob. The door opened. There was no sound from inside, and moonlight falling through the windows provided sufficient illumination for me to see that the huge living room was empty. I gripped Garth’s hand and started to go inside.

Garth pulled me back outside, closed the door. “I know what the alarm system is,” he said tightly, touching his broad nose.

“What?”

“A state-of-the-art gorilla. It washes with shampoo and uses cologne, but it’s still a fucking gorilla.”

“How do you know what a gorilla smells like?”

“I know what it doesn’t smell like. Whatever’s roaming around in there ain’t no doggy, and it ain’t no pussycat.”

“Shit,” I said with heartfelt sincerity. It was beginning to look like Volsung all over again. I debated whether or not to retrieve Whisper, decided against it. I still wanted that backup insurance, and I didn’t plan on letting the gorilla get close enough for me to stick a knife in it. I took the machine pistol out of my belt, turned the knob and pushed the door open. “Let’s go. Grab a handful of my parka and stay close.”

“There’s going to be a hell of a racket when you shoot that gorilla—which is what I assume you’re going to do.”

“If it comes to that, I’ll hit the light switch; I’ve got my glasses in my pocket. We storm the barricades, and I blow away anything that doesn’t look crazy enough to be a Loge.”

“Go,” Garth said, resting a hand on my shoulder.

With the gun in my right hand and the glasses in my left, I slowly moved into the living room. After going a few feet, I stopped and looked around, peering into red-tinted shadows of blue and gray. There was no sign of any gorilla, and I proceeded toward a wide, winding staircase at the opposite end of the room.

Garth sniffed, and his hand suddenly tightened on my shoulder. “Behind you, brother,” he said, and whirled me around.

I dropped to one knee and thrust the gun out in front of me. A large ball of black fur darted across the room, disappeared behind a sofa. A few seconds later a head poked out and two bloodshot eyes stared at me; the head quickly ducked back.

“What’s happening?” Garth whispered tersely.

“She knows we’re here. At the moment, she’s lying low behind a sofa.”

“She must have good night vision, too, because I think she knows you have a gun. She must know what it can do, because there’s a strong smell of fear.”

“Good,” I said, keeping the gun leveled on the spot where the head had appeared. “I don’t want to wake up Loge, and I don’t want to shoot the animal unless I have to.”

“Go?”

“Go.” Without taking my eyes off the sofa, I reached behind me and grabbed hold of Garth’s parka. “The staircase is about four steps behind you. Take it slow and easy. I’ll keep my eye on the gorilla.”

Garth started to back up, pulling me after him—and then suddenly his parka jerked from my hand. There was a loud crash as he fell into the banister, a guttural, strangled cry. I wheeled around, saw my brother writhing on the floor. He’d torn loose a piece of the banister, and now the wood snapped in his hands like a matchstick. Saliva frothed on his lips as his body twitched, jerked, and banged around on the floor.

“Garth!”

Lights came on, blinding me and burning my eyes. I whipped on my glasses, spun around and fell on my back as I heard a muffled paddy-pad-pad coming up behind me. I had no choice now, and I squeezed off three shots between my upraised knees—aiming at a spot I estimated would be just above the animal’s head. Then I lowered the gun a foot and waited; the instant I felt hot breath or a paw on me, the gorilla was dead.

My vision cleared in time for me to see the beast beating a hasty retreat back behind the sofa.

Getting to my feet, keeping the gun aimed in the general direction of the sofa, I turned my attention back to Garth. There was nothing I could do except grind my teeth in frustration, nothing I could do to bring him out of the seizure or ease the pain of his horribly cramped muscles; if he got hold of me in this state, he could snap me like he’d snapped the banister.

I watched as Garth struggled to get to his feet. His eyes rolled and he fell down again, flopping like some broken thing, tearing at his clothes.

Paddy-pad-pad.

Spinning around, I aimed the gun directly at the gorilla’s chest. This time I had her—and she knew it; there was no time or place to retreat. She came to an abrupt halt a few paces away, and we stared at each other. A chill ran through me as I looked into the eyes; they were yellowish and bloodshot, but they were also eerily human—or near human. We stayed like that for a few seconds, and then she reached a leathery hand up to the keyboard-screen device strapped to her chest.

NO FUCKING KILL PLEASE

It seemed this gorilla studied from the same vocabulary list as the one I’d run into at Volsung. “Then get out of my fucking face!” I snapped. “Back off and I won’t shoot.”

FUCKING THANKS

She backed away across the room, meekly squatted down in a corner.

Suddenly the ceiling above my head shook with heavy footsteps; someone very large was running toward the stairs. I turned, went down on one knee, and used both hands to aim the gun at the top of the stairs. I might have qualms about killing dumb—or even not-so-dumb—animals, but I had no qualms whatever about killing dumb humans who were trying to kill me.

With some exceptions.

“Mongo!”

“Drop the shotgun, Hugo,” I said in a flat voice, trying hard to ignore the fact that both barrels were lined up on my chest. “You and I were friends once, and I hope we still are. The man on the floor is my brother, and we’re in trouble. We could use your help. I haven’t got time for explanations, except to say that you’re mixed up in some bad business here. I will kill you if you force me to. Don’t.”

The giant shook his head angrily, and his long, brown hair rippled across his shoulders. His brown eyes narrowed, and his lips drew back from his teeth. “I should be the one saying those things to you, Mongo,” Hugo Fasolt said in his deep, rumbling voice. “This is a shotgun I’ve got on you.”

“If you pull the trigger, we both die. I’m a good shot.”

Paddy-pad-pad.

There’d been one gorilla too many for me to keep track of, and now long, hairy, powerful arms wrapped themselves around me, squeezing my arms to my sides. The gorilla with fur whacked the gun out of my hand. Then she lifted me in the air, turned me over, and casually dropped me on my head.