Read Online Blue World by Robert R. McCammon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert R. McCammon
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and started twice more. “We’re sorry, but--” His fingers went down on about five numbers at once. “We’re sorry--”
He screamed and wrenched the telephone from the wall, threw it across the kitchen, and it broke the window over the sink. Dead leaves began to drift in, and through the glass panes of the back door Brad saw something lying out in the fenced-in backyard. He went out there, his heart pounding and cold sweat beading on his face and chest.
Lying amid dead leaves, very close to its doghouse, was the skeleton of their collie, Socks. The dog looked as if it might have been stripped to the bone in mid-stride, and hunks of hair lay about the bones like snow.
In the roaring silence, Brad heard the upstairs phone begin to ring.
He ran.
Away from the house this time. Out through the backyard gate, up onto the Pates’ front porch. He hammered at the door, hollering for help until his voice was about to give out. Then he smashed a glass pane of the door with his fist and, heedless of the pain and blood, reached in and unsnapped the lock.
With his first step into the house, he smelled the graveyard reek. Like something had died a long time ago, and been mummified.
He found the skeletons in the master bedroom upstairs; they were clinging to each other. A third skeleton--Davy Pate, once a tow-headed twelve-year-old boy--lay on the bed in the room with posters of Prince and Quiet Riot tacked to the walls. In a fish tank on the far side of the room there were little bones lying in the red gravel on the bottom.
It was clear to him then. Yes, very clear. He knew what had happened, and he almost sank to his knees in Davy Pate’s mausoleum.
Death had come in the night. And stripped bare everyone and everything but him.
But if that were so… then who--or what--had dialed the telephone? What had been listening on the other end? What… oh, dear God, what?
He didn’t know, but he suddenly realized that he’d told whatever it was that he was still on Baylor Street. And maybe Death had missed him last night; maybe its scythe had cleaved everyone else and missed him, and now… and now it knew he was still on Baylor Street, and it would be coming after him.
Brad fled the house, ran through the dead leaves that clogged the gutters of Baylor Street, and headed east toward the center of town. The wind moved again, sluggishly and heavily; the wet fog shifted, and Brad could see that the sky had turned the color of blood. Thunder boomed behind him like approaching footsteps, and tears of terror streamed down Brad’s cheeks.
I’m cold,
Sarah had whispered.
I’m cold.
And that was when the finger of Death had touched her, had missed Brad and gone roaming through the night.
I’m cold, she’d said, and there would never be any warming her again.
He came to two cars smashed together in the street. Skeletons in clothes lay behind the steering wheels. Further on, the bones of a large dog were almost covered by leaves. Above him, the trees creaked and moaned as the wind picked up, ripping holes in the fog and showing the bloody sky through them.
It’s the end of the world, he thought. Judgment Day. All the sinners and saints alike turned to bones overnight. Just me left alive. Just me, and Death knows I’m on Baylor Street.
Mommy!“
The sobbing voice of a child pierced him, and he stopped in his tracks, skidding on leaves.
“Mommy!” the voice repeated, echoing and warped by the low-lying fog. “Daddy! Somebody… help me!”
It was the voice of a little girl crying somewhere nearby. Brad listened, trying to peg its direction. First he thought it was to the left, then to the right. In front of him, behind him… he couldn’t be sure. “I’m here!” he shouted. “Where are you?”
The child didn’t answer, but Brad could still hear her crying. “I’m not going to hurt you!” he called. “I’m standing right in the middle of the street! Come to me if you can!”
He waited. A flurry of brown,
He screamed and wrenched the telephone from the wall, threw it across the kitchen, and it broke the window over the sink. Dead leaves began to drift in, and through the glass panes of the back door Brad saw something lying out in the fenced-in backyard. He went out there, his heart pounding and cold sweat beading on his face and chest.
Lying amid dead leaves, very close to its doghouse, was the skeleton of their collie, Socks. The dog looked as if it might have been stripped to the bone in mid-stride, and hunks of hair lay about the bones like snow.
In the roaring silence, Brad heard the upstairs phone begin to ring.
He ran.
Away from the house this time. Out through the backyard gate, up onto the Pates’ front porch. He hammered at the door, hollering for help until his voice was about to give out. Then he smashed a glass pane of the door with his fist and, heedless of the pain and blood, reached in and unsnapped the lock.
With his first step into the house, he smelled the graveyard reek. Like something had died a long time ago, and been mummified.
He found the skeletons in the master bedroom upstairs; they were clinging to each other. A third skeleton--Davy Pate, once a tow-headed twelve-year-old boy--lay on the bed in the room with posters of Prince and Quiet Riot tacked to the walls. In a fish tank on the far side of the room there were little bones lying in the red gravel on the bottom.
It was clear to him then. Yes, very clear. He knew what had happened, and he almost sank to his knees in Davy Pate’s mausoleum.
Death had come in the night. And stripped bare everyone and everything but him.
But if that were so… then who--or what--had dialed the telephone? What had been listening on the other end? What… oh, dear God, what?
He didn’t know, but he suddenly realized that he’d told whatever it was that he was still on Baylor Street. And maybe Death had missed him last night; maybe its scythe had cleaved everyone else and missed him, and now… and now it knew he was still on Baylor Street, and it would be coming after him.
Brad fled the house, ran through the dead leaves that clogged the gutters of Baylor Street, and headed east toward the center of town. The wind moved again, sluggishly and heavily; the wet fog shifted, and Brad could see that the sky had turned the color of blood. Thunder boomed behind him like approaching footsteps, and tears of terror streamed down Brad’s cheeks.
I’m cold,
Sarah had whispered.
I’m cold.
And that was when the finger of Death had touched her, had missed Brad and gone roaming through the night.
I’m cold, she’d said, and there would never be any warming her again.
He came to two cars smashed together in the street. Skeletons in clothes lay behind the steering wheels. Further on, the bones of a large dog were almost covered by leaves. Above him, the trees creaked and moaned as the wind picked up, ripping holes in the fog and showing the bloody sky through them.
It’s the end of the world, he thought. Judgment Day. All the sinners and saints alike turned to bones overnight. Just me left alive. Just me, and Death knows I’m on Baylor Street.
Mommy!“
The sobbing voice of a child pierced him, and he stopped in his tracks, skidding on leaves.
“Mommy!” the voice repeated, echoing and warped by the low-lying fog. “Daddy! Somebody… help me!”
It was the voice of a little girl crying somewhere nearby. Brad listened, trying to peg its direction. First he thought it was to the left, then to the right. In front of him, behind him… he couldn’t be sure. “I’m here!” he shouted. “Where are you?”
The child didn’t answer, but Brad could still hear her crying. “I’m not going to hurt you!” he called. “I’m standing right in the middle of the street! Come to me if you can!”
He waited. A flurry of brown,
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