As I open the garage door, I let out a burst of nervous laughter when I see Mr. Neely’s bright-yellow Hummer. Dickmobile. Like father like son.
I turn the engine, and Ted Nugent comes blasting through the stereo. I start stabbing at it with my finger to make it stop, but I only end up jamming the buttons. I roll down the windows to try and get away from it, but it’s no use. At least they’ll hear me coming.
The shops on Main Street are deserted. I get out to peer in the window of Gus’s Shoe Shop. The door’s open, but there’s no one there. It’s like everyone just walked out of their homes … their stores … their lives … but where did they go?
I see a black sedan racing down Main Street, turning on Route 17. I jump back in Neely’s car and take off after it. I’m going seventy and I still can’t catch up. I wonder if it’s state police.
The farther I get out of town, the duller the tornado sirens become. I’m grateful for it. Now, if I can just figure out how to silence Ted Nugent, I might be able to think. As I’m fiddling with the stereo, I hear screeching tires, followed by a cloud of dust in the road up ahead.
I slow down, hoping they didn’t get in an accident. As I approach, I’m trying to remember how to do CPR, but when the dust settles, I only find an abandoned car. I get out and track the skid marks in the road—must be twenty-five feet of burned rubber, but what made them slam on their brakes? And where the hell are they now? There’s a little peach on the license plate. Georgia. The inside of the car looks pristine, like it just came off the lot. I check the glove box. Registered to a Thomas Dixon from Atlanta. Why would he be way out here? We’re not anywhere near a major highway. Maybe he’s looking for shelter from the storm. A few wrong turns, maybe he panicked.
I scan the surrounding fields. It’s just a bunch of overgrown grazing pastures, part of the Neely farm. Nothing around for miles.
Getting back in Neely’s car, I drive ahead to see if I can spot anyone. Then I notice the other cars. It’s sporadic at first, until they’re lined up one after another on either side of Route 17. Some still have their doors wide open. Engines running. Some of the cars I recognize from town, but others are from as far away as New York City.
I weave in and out of the vehicles as far as I can go, until a semi’s blocking the road. Abandoning Neely’s car, I cut through overgrown pastures, yelling out to anyone who might need help, but there’s nothing, not even a bug scrabbling over the dirt. The wind’s picked up now. It doesn’t come in fits and gales—it’s like Mother Nature’s expelling one long endless steady breath. It makes the tall grass sway and shiver, like that mental patient sitting under the tree at Oakmoor.
It sends an icy chill over my skin.
The sky lets out an ominous groan. I look up. All the clouds seem to be amassing over the dividing line between our farm and the Neely ranch. The breeding barn.
And it dawns on me. This is no ordinary storm. This is God and the Devil … a battle between good and evil … this is everything coming to a head.
I pick up my pace. As the breeding barn comes into view, I see Miss Granger’s car out front. Two figures in long black dresses are dragging someone from the car.
I wave my hands in the air. “Hey … hey there!”
As I get closer, I see they’re not dresses, but robes. Of course … it’s the priests from All Saints, and they’re dragging Tyler Neely into the barn, his body contorted like a piece of plastic melting in the sun.
Miss Granger emerges from the car, pulling a girl out with her.
Ali’s shaking and crying. “Please don’t do this. Why are you doing this to me?”
“Wait,” I scream as I close the distance.
“Clay … help me!” Ali says.
The priests come out of the barn. Ali’s bucking and wailing like a pinned animal, but as soon as the priest with the reddish goatee lays his hand on her forehead, her body goes rigid, her eyes roll back in her head. The sound that escapes her twisted mouth is something straight out of a nightmare. A screeching wail of agony.
It takes me aback.
I watch as the priests drag Ali into the barn, but this isn’t Ali. I know that now.
“Please don’t hurt her.” I try to go after them, but Miss Granger steps in front of me, blocking my path.
“This is for the best,” she says.
“What’s going on? There’s cars everywhere … from all over the place … just abandoned in the road.”
“Probably storm chasers,” she says as she glances up at the menacing sky. “After all, this is a historic event. One hundred and twenty-seven years in the making.”
“But where is everyone? Oh my God, Noodle!” I suddenly remember, looking back toward town.
“She’s fine. She’s with the rest of the community at the school. She’ll be safe there.” Miss Granger takes my hands. “I heard what happened to Jess … about Lee.” She looks down at my swollen, bloody knuckles. “I’m so sorry, but soon this will all be over.”
“It’s time,” one of the priests calls from the barn.
“Let’s do this,” I say.