“Hit the deck!” Kronsky screamed, but didn’t give Frank a chance to do so; just grabbed him around the neck and yanked him down.
The bazooka shell hit C Wing and exploded. In the world beyond the Tree, fourteen former Dooling Correctional inmates disappeared, flashing once, before clouds of moths spilled into the open air where they had stood.
4
Although he had a walkie, Drew T. Barry was one of those who had not responded to Frank’s command to report in. He didn’t even hear it, because he had turned the walkie off. He’d gotten as high up as he could while maintaining cover, and unslung his Weatherby. The angle wasn’t quite as good as he’d hoped. Through the Weatherby’s scope, he could see a corrugated metal shed. The back door to the prison was open—light spilled out in an oblong—but that guy was behind the shed, defending the way in. Barry saw an elbow . . . a shoulder . . . part of a head, but quickly withdrawn after a single peek at where Elmore Pearl and Don Peters were still stationed. Drew T. Barry had to put that guy down, and itched to take the shot—yes, his trigger finger was literally itching—but he knew that no shot was better than a bad one. He had to wait. If Pearl or Peters would throw another rock, that might make the guy down there stick his whole head out to see what was happening, but Drew T. Barry did not expect this to happen. Elmore Pearl was too cautious, and that fat little shit Peters was as numb as a pounded thumb.
Move, you sucker, Drew T. Barry thought. Two steps would be enough. Maybe just one.
But although he cringed into a crouch when the bundle of dynamite went off, Billy Wettermore held his position behind the shed. It took the exploding bazooka shell to get him on his feet. He stepped out from behind the protection of the shed, looking toward the sound, and that gave Drew T. Barry the clean shot he had been waiting for.
Smoke was billowing above the prison. People were yelling. Guns were firing—wildly, no doubt. Drew T. Barry had no patience with wild shooting. He held his breath and squeezed the trigger of his rifle. The result was entirely satisfactory. In his scope he saw the defender fly forward, his shirt billowing out in shreds.
“Got him, by God,” Drew T. Barry said, looking at the remains of Billy Wettermore with a species of doleful satisfaction. “Was a good shot, if I do say so myse—”
From the trees below came another gunshot, followed by the unmistakable voice of Deputy Elmore Pearl: “Oh, you fuckin idiot, what did you do? WHAT DID YOU DO?”
Drew T. Barry hesitated, then ran back toward his mates, keeping low, wondering what had gone wrong now.
5
Clint and Willy saw Billy Wettermore thrown in the air. When Billy came down he was boneless. One of his shoes flew from his foot, spun up, and banged off the lip of the shed roof. Clint started toward him. Willy Burke’s hand pulling him back was surprisingly strong.
“Nope, nope,” Willy said. “Back it up, Doc. That way’s no good now.”
Clint tried to think. “We might be able to get into my office through the window. The glass is reinforced, but not barred.”
“I can take care of the window,” Willy said. “Let’s go.” But instead of moving, he bent over and grasped his knees again.
6
Don Peters hardly heard Elmore Pearl shouting at him. Down on his knees, he was staring at his erstwhile Zombie Patrol partner, who was spreadeagled on the ground with blood gushing from a hole in the base of his throat. Eric Blass stared up at him, gagging on more blood.
“Partner!” Don shouted. His football helmet slid down, obscuring his eyes, and he pushed it back up with the heel of his hand. “Partner, I didn’t mean to!”
Pearl hauled him to his feet. “You dumb asshole, didn’t anybody ever teach you to see what you were shooting at before you pulled the trigger?”
Eric made a thick glugging sound, coughed out a fine spray of blood, and pawed at the ruins of his throat.
Don wanted to explain. First the roar of the dynamite, then a second explosion, then the rustling bushes behind him. He had been sure it was more of that fucking shrink’s men. How was he supposed to know it was Blass? He had shot without thinking, let alone aiming. What evil brand of providence had caused the shot to hit Blass as he came through the trees to join them?
“I . . . I . . .”
Drew T. Barry appeared, his Weatherby slung over his shoulder. “What in hell’s name—”
“Wild Bill Hickok here just shot one of ours,” Pearl said. He socked Don in the shoulder, driving him down beside Eric. “Kid was coming to help out, I guess.”
“I thought he was back at the buses!” Don gasped. “Frank told him to stay back in case there was wounded, I heard him!” This much was true.
Drew T. Barry hauled Don to his feet. When Pearl balled up a fist to hit the weeping, white-faced man again, Barry grabbed him. “Beat him all you want later. Beat him like a red-headed stepchild, for all of me. Right now we might need him—he knows the lay of the land in there, and we don’t.”
“Did you get him?” Pearl asked. “The guy down there by that shed?”
“I got him,” Drew T. Barry said, “and if this ever winds up in a courtroom, remember you gave me the green light. Now let’s end this.”
From a knoll above the prison, they saw a flash of bright light, and a contrail of white smoke. This was followed by another explosion on the other side of the prison.
“Who in fuck is shooting rockets from up on that hill?” Pearl asked.
“Don’t know and don’t care,” Barry said. “Being as how we’re behind the prison, we’ve got a thousand or so tons of concrete between us and them.” He pointed down the hill and across the track. “What’s inside that door, Peters?”
“The gym,” Don said, eager to atone for what he was already coming to believe had been a justifiable mistake, the sort of thing anyone might have done. I was trying to protect Pearl as well as myself, he thought, and when this madness is over, Elmore will see that. Elmore will probably thank me and buy me a drink down at the Squeak. And hey, it was just Blass, a lunatic delinquent if ever there was one, lighting that poor homeless bag on fire before Don could stop him.
“It’s where the cunts play basketball and volleyball. The main corridor starts on the other side, what we call Broadway. The woman’s in a cell in A Wing, down to the left. Not far.”
“Then let’s go,” Pearl said. “You lead, Quickdraw. I got clippers for the fence.”
Don didn’t want to lead. “Maybe I ought to stay here with Eric. He was my partner, after all.”
“No need,” Drew T. Barry said. “He has expired.”
7