The deathstone, p.35
The Deathstone, page 35
Kristy screamed again as the first human hit the windshield with a hammer and sent showers of glass into the back seat. They were all over the car now, clawing and scratching and trying to pry their way in. One of them was Mrs. Taylor.
Ron jammed the car into reverse and pressed down on the accelerator. The car shot back and he could see bodies thrown into the dust. Jamming the car into drive, he pressed down again on the gas pedal. The car darted forward.
“Dad, Mom is... blood!” Kristy screamed and threw herself forward grabbing hold of her father’s neck. The car swerved, almost colliding into a tree. Ron shifted his foot from the gas pedal to the brake.
“Kristy, stop it. STOP IT!”
“I’m scared!”
Ron held tightly to the steering wheel. The car slid down an incline, but he knew he had it in control. Quickly he brought it up onto the main road, but instantly his back tires locked into the soft earth. He smashed his foot on the accelerator; the back tires dug deeper.
Ahead, like a group of frenzied animals, their ranks reeled and reformed, lurching forward under the momentum of recovery. There was no concern for their lives, but the anger on their faces indicated a deeper perplexity of hurt, a muted questioning of what was happening.
Then there rose the high shrieks of women; the men stared at each other, but were dumb. At that moment Ron felt the earth shake beneath the car; the cliffs above trembled; and, beyond in the distance, he heard the loud crash of stone; an instant more and a mountainous cloud seemed to roll toward him, dark and rapid.
Lightning flashed violently as the first large drops of rain splattered on the windshield.
No longer did the crowd think of justice and Ron and Chandal and Kristy; safety for themselves was their sole thought. Each turned to run—each dashing, pressing, crushing—amidst shrieks, and groans, the crowd vomited itself over the rocks and through the numerous crevices.
“Ron, help us!” Chandal pleaded. “Don’t let us die.”
Ron hit the accelerator again. The tires spun in their tracks.
Huge stones began to slide down the mountain, striking against each other as they fell, breaking into countless fragments, emitting sparks of fire, which caught whatever was combustible within their reach.
Below, the town had been set on fire, and at various intervals, the flames rose sullenly and fiercely against the solid gloom of night and rain.
Above, wild, haggard, ghastly with fear, small groups encountered each other in the momentary flickering of torchlight, but without leisure to speak, to consult, to advise; for the rocks fell more frequently now, extinguishing their lights, and all hurried to seek refuge beneath the nearest shelter. Never on earth had the faces of men seemed so haggard— never had there been a race of people so stamped with horror and sublimity of dread.
Quickly Ron threw the car in reverse. The car hesitated a moment, the tires spinning, then lurched backward. That’s when the creature threw itself across the windshield so that its body lay directly across Ron’s line of vision. For an instant, he stared into its eyes, its blue eyes. Mirrors of hatred.
In that moment Ron paused, then smashed his foot down on the gas pedal. The car shot back; the creature rolled forward across the hood and landed in front of the car. Violently Ron threw the car into drive and hit the accelerator. He felt a slight thud as the tires crushed the body. The body, Ron knew, of Alister Carroll.
The groans of the dying were broken by wild shrieks of terror—now near—now distant. In a universe of pouring rain and falling stone was heard the rumbling of the earth below, and the horrible grinding and hissing murmur of the escaping gases through the chasms of the mountains.
And then, in a sudden illumination, a burst of flames as the stone erupted, hurling a massive heap of rock and fire down upon the town, and the whole of Brackston’s civilization began to break apart.
Even after reaching the main highway miles away, Ron imagined he heard screams, an echo of screams, in the flickering destruction in the ultimate darkness, not quite screams perhaps, rather the roar of rage, the furious rage of trapped animals.
And then, and then—it was over, swiftly, abruptly over. The din, the lunacy of Brackston, the whole shattering experience, was done.
They drove through the night without stopping, without looking back, until finally they watched the changing landscape as it grew somehow less intense. Since the whole area was still covered with deep shadows, it was hard to tell, but it seemed to Ron that the earth had now become greener, softer.
And he knew, finally knew, that morning would come.
EPILOGUE
HE ASSUMED THAT THE CHANGE IN HIMSELF WOULD BE AUTOMATIC. That he would be better or worse, but at least different. But like other travelers to different places, he soon decided that what belonged to Brackston must forever belong to Brackston and even his memory of the whole thing would have faded like a summer tan had Chandal let it. It became too easy to say “that time in the mountains.” Ron actually found himself starting to tell the story to friends one night. It was in a tiny silence between words that he felt drawn to look toward Chandal. Her huge eyes met his in a kind of shock. He stammered, lost his place and trailed off.
Later at home he found her standing by the bedroom window staring out at the pool where the lights had first appeared so long ago, and wordlessly he went and put his arms around her.
“About tonight,” she said after some time.
Still he said nothing, knowing she could feel him nod against the top of her head.
“I don’t like talking about it to people. It’s a kind of pretending that the whole thing was, oh, an adventure rather than—the way it was. Just pure black hate. Just looking into the eyes of pure black hatred. And I won’t forget it. Not again. I keep telling myself, Ron, that maybe the whole thing couldn’t have happened if—if I hadn’t let myself forget the way it was back in the brownstone. And again in the carriage house.”
“Del—”
“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe it wouldn’t have happened this time.”
He met her gaze. “Maybe.”
“I keep watching Kristy’s face. Sometimes I can’t take my eyes off her for hours at a time. I watch the way she plays with her dolls. I look for signs that she’s—” Her voice broke.
“She isn’t, Del. She got through it okay. I know she did.” Gently, he added, “I watch her too, you know.”
“I wasn’t sure. But I’m glad.” She took a deep breath. “There were always things you wanted to know. Things I never wanted to talk about. I can’t tell anyone else. But now I want to tell you. Tonight.”
He tasted fear, the familiar dry acid taste of it on his tongue, but he managed a bit of a laugh.
“What’s funny?”
He hugged her tighter. “It’s the second half of our wedding ceremony, Del. The half I always felt got left out. I guess I’m ready. But you know that if you share this part of yourself with me, you’ll never get rid of me. You’ve got me for life.”
“I’m counting on it,” she said.
As she began to talk, he could feel the light coil of amazement inside of him that bounced up a slight smile to his lips. And he thought, even I. Even after all this, I have to fight to believe.
In that moment he understood how private is the destiny of each man and so amazing that words can barely pass the lips to describe it. He gazed at his wife and felt privileged to understand her halting words, her pain.
And around them were their own silent promises. To themselves and to each other. We will remember this time. We will remember.
And in the stillness of night, it was peaceful in its own special way.
Ken Eulo, The Deathstone
