There used to be a country called Australia.
There used to be a country called Norway.
In the distance he sees the Prophet, standing under a willow tree, talking to a teenage boy, maybe sixteen, tall and wiry, wearing a leather duster despite the heat. As he watches, the Prophet points back toward the campsite. The kid in the duster shakes his head, points up the road. They argue for a moment, then the Prophet nods and the kid in the duster walks to the road. The Prophet follows.
Simon nudges Louise. She says goodbye to the woman with the clipboard, and they set off after them. It occurs to Simon to give Paul his privacy, but Simon’s anxiety won’t let him. There’s an idea in the back of his head that wherever the Prophet is going, he is going there to talk about Simon.
They follow the pair through some low trees. There is a clearing on the far side. The kids they saw doing mountain bike tricks are assembled in a loose circle. The Prophet stands in the center with Duster and Duane.
Simon grabs Louise’s hand, pulls her into the shadows behind a tree.
“Is this it?” she asks. “Are we gonna make out?”
“Sshh.”
Simon leans through the gap, trying to hear. Most of the kids are in board shorts and T-shirts, some of them vaping. Duane is showing his sword tattoo, flexing his forearm. Another kid is jumping his bike on its back tire nearby, making small clouds of dirt with each hop.
“I know,” says Duster, “but nothing ever changes. So maybe forget saving the world and just blow some shit up.”
“Each step is a step,” says the Prophet.
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means of course things change. But slowly. One step at a time. This is what God says.”
Duster spits into the dirt. “We don’t believe in God.”
“Their god. I’m talking about ours.”
“We get a god?”
“We get the God. And he is mighty and righteous and pissed.”
Duster lights a cigarette, blows a smoke ring. “So on this quest you need what?” he asks.
“The right things in the right order. The Babe in Arms, the Burning Witch, the Last Stand.”
The Last Stand? thinks Simon, then feels a hand clamp down on the back of his neck. One of the crew has returned from the porta-potty and discovered Simon and Louise eavesdropping. He shoves them into the clearing.
“Spies,” he calls.
Simon shrugs himself loose. The sun is high overhead, and he’s sweating in the small of his back.
“Friendlies,” says Louise, then freezes. The skate punks and BMXers have all pulled pistols and knives. They’re aiming them at Simon and Louise. Duster holds an honest-to-God six-shooter that was holstered on his hip like a cowboy.
The Prophet waves them off. “Namaste,” he says. “We’re on the same side. Chill your aggression.”
They lower their weapons reluctantly. To pull a gun and not use it feels like going to a dance and leaving before the music starts.
“These are my friends,” says the Prophet. “Simon and Louise.”
“I’m a pacifist,” Simon tells them.
“Fuck pacifism,” says Duster. “I was at Parkland. I know the truth.”
“What truth?” says Louise, aware, always aware, that hers is the only black face in the group, and this group has guns.
“The only way to stop a bad man with a gun is a kid with a gun.”
He holsters his gun, spits in the dirt.
“Randall Flagg,” he says, offering his hand. “The Dark Man, the Walking Dude.”
“Isn’t that a character from a Stephen King story?” Simon asks.
“What do you mean story?” Duster asks.
Simon frowns. “You know—a story,” he says. “A made-up story.”
Randall Flagg exhales a plume of smoke. “No,” he says. “That shit happened.”
“The world ended and the devil took over Las Vegas.”
Flagg nods.
“Then how are we here today?” Simon asks.
“Look,” says Randall Flagg. “It’s a fictional world, dude. Why can’t I be a fictional character?”
For the life of him, Simon can’t think of a reason.
Randall Flagg looks around.
“We should get inside. A lotta boogaloos at this rodeo.”
They start walking, flanked by the others.
“Boogaloos?” asks Simon.
“The Hawaiian-shirt crowd, fighters of the coming race war, also known as the Big Igloo or the Big Luau. You remember Capitol Hill—all those jokers with body armor, live streaming anarchy.”
“Clowns?” Simon asks.
“Sure,” says Flagg. “Clown World is real. Those are some serious barracudas. We get two notches for each clown we take out.”
“Seriously?”
Flagg pulls back his duster to show his six-shooter.
“This shit ain’t theoretical, Mr. Ivy League.”
“I’m fifteen.”
“What can I say? I’m a time traveler from the future back with your 401(k) millions and your house keys in Greenwich fucking Connecticut.”
Simon’s thumbs are tingling. He fingers the paper bag in his pocket.
They reach a tented enclosure—tarps hung in a rough rectangle next to a corral of dirt bikes. Inside are camping mats, a cooktop, and a battered cooler. Randall is the last one in, casting around the woods for spies before closing the curtains. Inside, Louise finds a small battery-powered hand fan and holds it up to her face, blades spinning.
“Mercy,” she says.
Flagg crosses to the cooler. It’s full of ice water and chocolate milks. He reaches deep, pulls out a ziplock bag. Inside is an old flip phone. He hands the bag to the Prophet.
“I found your guy, Javier. Wasn’t easy. His number’s in the phone. It’s good for one call. Then torch that shit or SWAT teams are gonna rain down on you like hellfire.”
The Prophet unzips the wet bag, takes out the phone. “Four three two,” he says, reading the area code on the number. “Where’s that?”
“West Texas, Daddy,” says a heavyset Chicano kid with a wispy mustache, wearing a Heinz ketchup T-shirt.
“Don’t call until you’re close,” says Flagg, opening a cold chocolate milk. “I don’t know how much time you’ll have.”
The Prophet puts the phone in his pocket. “And you’ll take us?” he says.
Flagg punches the tiny straw into the milk carton. “For ten thousand.”