destruction1_0 | (no subject)

(no subject)

This is not the Winnemucca road.

Reno, Chicago, Fargo, Minnesota, Buffalo, Toronto, Winslow, Sarasota, Wichita, Tulsa, Ottawa, Oklahoma, Tampa, Panama, Mattawa, La Paloma, Bangor, Baltimore, Salvador, Amarillo, Tocopilla, Barranquilla, and Padilla, I'm a killer

Just as well. There's not enough in his pack to justify the verb 'to tote'.

Boston, Charleston, Dayton, Louisiana, Washington, Houston, Kingston, Texarkana, Monterey, Ferriday, Santa Fe, Tallapoosa, Glen Rock, Black Rock, Little Rock, Oskaloosa, Tennessee, Hennessey, Chicopee, Spirit Lake, Grand Lake, Devil's Lake, Crater Lake, for Pete's sake

It's pretty dusty, though.

Start asking yourself a couple of questions about entropy and things get a little overwhelming. Better to just stop paying attention. The world has moved on. Is still moving on.

He whistles, and bootheels clock on hardpan hellground. He's a tall man, an ageless stranger in faded, pegged jeans and a denim jacket and a Boy Scout knapsack. He's a walking dude.

This isn't Highway 51, though. Not even

(God said to Abraham, kill me a son)

Highway 61.

Not even some two-bit two-lane highway.

There are highways in hiding that are traveled by the poor and the mad, by the professional revolutionaries and by those who have been taught to hate so well that their hate shows on their faces like harelips and they are unwanted except by others like them, who welcome them to cheap rooms with slogans and posters on the walls, to basements where lengths of sawed-off pipe are held in padded vises while they are stuffed with high explosives, to back rooms where lunatic plans are laid: to kill a Cabinet member, to kidnap the child of a visiting dignitary, or to break into a boardroom meeting of Standard Oil --

Or maybe Citgo.

-- with grenades and machine guns and murder in the name of the people.

Louisville, Nashville, Knoxville, Ombabika, Shefferville, Jacksonville, Waterville, Costa Rica, Pittsfield, Springfield, Bakersfield, Shreveport, Hackensack, Cadillac, Fond Du Lac, Davenport, Idaho, Jellicoe, Argentina, Diamontina, Pasadena, Catalina, see what I mean

Mid-World is right up his alley.

He strides on at a steady, ground-eating pace, and there's something in the air: something is coming. It's a sooty hot taste that comes from

Pittsburgh, Parkersburg, Gravellburg, Colorado, Ellensburg, Rexburg, Vicksburg, Eldorado, Larrimore, Atmore, Haverstraw, Chattanika, Chaska, Nebraska, Alaska, Opelika, Baraboo, Waterloo, Kalamazoo, Kansas City, Sioux City, Cedar City, Dodge City, what a pity

everywhere, as if God is planning a cookout and all of civilization is going to be the barbecue.

The land's time of transfiguration is almost at hand, and he's on hand. He always is.

Everywhere.

He's been everywhere.

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They hear him coming, huddled in the dust in their grief, the deadly slam of bootheels eating up distance, and Susannah knows she's seen the real deal now; this is him.

The Big White Man.

Patrick huddles behind her. "Hile," she says, her face a hard and savage mask. Her cheeks are dry and so are her eyes.

"Hile," he says, selecting a cigar with care from the pocket of his shirt --

It's short, but not too big around.

-- and pops a match on his thumbnail.

And grins.

"And merry greet-the-day."

Patrick moans.

(Want to play with fire, little boy?)

"Don't mind him, he don't like strangers," Susannah says curtly. "What brings you here, sai?"

"Third boxcar, midnight train, destination, Bangor, Maine."

He doesn't tilt his head back to exhale. Just exhales. The world doesn't shake or anything.

"Or shank's mare. Does it matter to you, lady-sai?"

She shakes her head. "Only in this--I ain't rode that particular horse in some time, and the boy can't carry me. I reckon this won't be a good place to be, by sundown at the earliest." Assuming the sun manages to set.

"You got any experience flying light planes?"

"Horse," he says, thoughtfully.

Grinning.

"You know anything about that? Eaten one? Lived like one? Penny for 'em, lady-sai. For a pretty."

The last word nearly a sneer.

"I used to ride when I was a girl," she says slowly, "and again, here. Never ate any. Hear it makes you sick."

Didn't do her son any good, tell you that much.

"Ride the Great White Train to Addictionville." Musing. "Nice slogan. Maybe I should go into advertising. What do you think?"

He'll get around to answering her question. Eventually.

That kind of horse, then. It isn't really impossible for her expression to get much more stern and forbidding, but she stands pat.

There's something in his face that reminds her of Eddie, and something that reminds her of her father.

(He's nothing like Dan Holmes.)

She's going to be patient, she decides, because she can't afford not to. Maybe he's useless to her purpose, maybe he's nothing, but maybe he can get them out of here. Roland said when there's only one possible plan, things will arrange themselves so that plan can happen. Because there's no other choice. Ka.

"Hear there's money in it," she says shortly. Drugs and advertising both. She lays a hand on Patrick's trembling leg to calm him, and to stop it curling into a fist.

"There's money in piloting, too. You know that the easiest way to get around in Alaska is by plane? Get north of Fairbanks and there aren't any roads. Bush country."

"I guess what you should ask yourself, Susannah-Mio, is just what you have that I want."

She looks down into the dirt. "Got no money. Got nothing, really. You could keep the plane."

This is a dry place; an empty place. The last roadhouse.

She looks up; meets his eyes with eyes that are the color of mud and dead inside. "If you want--that--let the boy go into the barn first." Her voice is flat and no particular tone at all.

Patrick makes a strangled, angry noise, and begins to dig in his pocket for something.

The thing is, you can shape mud.

He laughs, long and loud; clouds of dust gather around his boots. "Assuming I wanted it, I don't think I'd enjoy it. No. Not that."

"I tell you what."

"We'll call a flight payment."

"For services rendered."

Patrick found what he's looking for; a stainless steel Silva compass. It's a pretty valuable trinket, for these waste lands, and it helped him find his way here. He holds it out to the terrifying stranger.

"You got a name?" Susannah asks. "Since you know mine."

One step forward and another. Bootheels click even though there's nothing for them to click on.

He bends, almost like a tree snapping in half with oddly slow and liquid grace -- and does anyone care? -- and plucks the compass from Patrick's hand like a mote from a kid's eye.

"Thankee-sai, little trailhand."

A wink at Patrick, and he straightens. "They call me plenty of things. And they say D is for many things. One more puzzle for you."

Services rendered, huh.

"T is for Texas, that's all I know."

Patrick jerks back like a startled horse.

"Plane's in the barn."

He's studying the compass like an old friend. "Now. What the hell am I supposed to do with this?"

"Supposed to point your way," Susannah says. "Don't know how much good it'll do you here."

Patrick grunts, then resorts to hand gestures; he mimes handing something over, then crosses himself; points upwards.

Susannah gives him an odd look.

"Time grows thin, the past's a riddle."

Destruction of the Endless frowns.

"I can't make a line about everything drifting out of alignment rhyme."

"It's bad poetry to begin with," she says.

Fuck Stephen King. Fuck him right in the ear.

"Everybody's a critic." Almost sadly. "When was the last time you ever bothered creating, Susannah-Mio?"

"With your sister, (http://community.livejournal.com/endless_realms/14334.html?thread=235262#t235262)" she says, taking a risk.

"One of hers," he says, tilting his head. Looking at her. Looking through her. "So you are. Say true. Say hallelujah."

"Go on. Say amen."

"Amen," she says, dry as dust.

"I find your lack of feeling appalling." But his grin has too many teeth for that. "One could almost think you didn't believe in happy endings."

She does, though. That's the bitch of it.

"Just endings," she says, looking out to the shrinking horizon.