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Running With the Demon
Copyright � September 1997 by Terry Brooks
Prologue
He stands alone in the center of another of America's burned-out towns, but he has been to this one before. Even in their ruined, blackened condition, the buildings that surround him are recognizable. The streets
of the intersection in which he finds himself stretch away in windswept
concrete ribbons that dwindle and fade into the horizon--south to the
bridge that spans the river, north to the parched flats of what were once
cornfields, east toward the remains of Reagan's hometown, and west to the
Mississippi and the Great Plains. A street sign, bent and weathered,
confirms that he stands at the corner of First Avenue and Third Street.
The town is eight blocks square, two blocks in any direction from where he
stands, petering out afterward in dribs and drabs of homes that have been
converted to real-estate offices and repair shops or simply leveled to
provide parking. Farther out lie the abandoned ruins of two supermarkets
and the mall, and down along the riverbank he can see the broken-down
stacks and rusted-out corrugated roofs of what is left of the steel mill.
He looks around slowly, making sure he is in the right place, because it
has been a long time. The sky is clouded and dark. Rain threatens and will
probably fall before night. Although it is noon, the light is so pale that
it seems more like dusk. The air and the earth are washed clean of color.
Buildings, streets, abandoned vehicles, trash, and sky are a uniform shade
of gray, the paint running from one into the other until nothing remains
but shadows and light to differentiate any of it. In the silence, the wind
moans softly as it rises off the river and whips down the empty streets.
Twigs, leaves, and debris skitter along the concrete. Windows gape dark
and hollow where the plate glass has been broken out. Doors hang open and
sag. Smears of black ash and soot stain the walls where fires have burned
away the wood and plastic veneer of the offices and shops. Cars hunker
down on flattened tires and bare axles, stripped of everything useful,
abandoned shells turning slowly to rust.
The man looks the town over as he would a corpse, remembering when it was
still vital.
A pack of dogs comes out of one of the buildings. There are maybe ten of
them, lean and hungry, quick-eyed and suspicious. They study him
momentarily before moving on. They want nothing to do with him. He watches
them disappear around the corner of a building, and he begins to walk. He
moves east toward the park, even though he knows what he will find. He
passes the bank, the paint store, the fabric shop, Al's Bar, and a parking
lot, and stops at Josie's. The sign still hangs over the entry; the enamel
is faded and broken, but the name is recognizable. He walks over and peers
inside. The furniture and pastry cases are all smashed, the cooking
equipment broken, and the leather banquettes ripped to shreds. Dust coats
the countertop, trash litters the ruined floor, and weeds poke out of
cracks in the tile.
He turns away in time to catch sight of two children slipping from the
alleyway across the street. They carry canvas bags stuffed with items they
have scavenged. They wear knives strapped to their waists. The girl is in
her teens, the boy younger. Their hair is long and unkempt, their clothes
shabby, and their eyes hard and feral. They slow to consider him, taking
his measure. He waits on them, turns to face them, lets them see that he
is not afraid. They glance at each other, whisper something punctuated by
furtive gestures, then move away. Like the dogs, they want nothing to do
with him.
He continues up the street, the sound of his boots a hollow echo in the
midday silence. Office buildings and shops give way to homes. The homes
are empty as well, those that are still intact. Many are burned out and
sagging, settling slowly back into the earth. Weeds grow everywhere, even
through cracks in the concrete of the streets. He wonders how long it has
been since anyone has lived here. Counting the strays, the dogs and the
children and the one or two others that linger because they have no place
else to go, how many are left? In some towns, there is no one. Only the
cities continue to provide refuge, walled camps in which survivors have
banded together in a desperate effort to keep the madness at bay. Chicago
is one such city. He has been there and seen what it has to offer. He
already knows its fate.
A woman emerges from the shadows of a doorway in one of the residences, a
frail, hollow-eyed creature, dark hair tangled and streaked with purple
dye, arms hanging loose and bare, the skin dotted with needle marks. Got
anything for me? she asks dully. He shakes his head. She comes down to the
foot of the porch steps and stops. She trots out a smile. Where'd you come
from? He does not respond. She moves a couple of steps closer, hugging
herself with her thin arms. Want to come in and party with me? He stops
her with a look. In the shadows of the house from which she has come, he
can see movement. Eyes, yellow and flat, study him with cold intent. He
knows who they belong to. Get away from me, he tells the woman. Her face
crumples. She turns back without a word.
He walks to the edge of the town, a mile farther on, out where the park
waits. He knows he shouldn't, but he cannot help himself. Nothing of what
he remembers remains, but he wants to see anyway. Old Bob and Gran are
gone. Pick is gone. Daniel and Wraith are gone. The park is overgrown with
weeds and scrub. The cemetery is a cluster of ruined headstones. The
townhomes and apartments and houses are all empty. What lives in the park
now can be found only in the caves and is his implacable enemy.
And what of Nest Freemark?
He knows that, too. It is a nightmare that haunts him, unrelenting and
pitiless.
He stops at the edge of the cemetery and looks off into the shadows
beyond. He is here, he supposes, because he has no better place to go. He
is here because he is reduced to retracing the steps of his life as a form
of penance for his failures. He is hunted at every turn, and so he is
drawn to the places that once provided refuge. He searches in the vain
hope that something of what was good in his life will resurface, even when
he knows the impossibility of that happening.
He takes a long, slow breath. His pursuers will find him again soon
enough, but perhaps not this day. So he will walk the park once more and
try to recapture some small part of what is lost to him forever.
Across the roadway from where he stands, a billboard hangs in tatters. He
can just make out its wording.
WELCOME TO HOPEWELL, ILLINOIS! WE'RE GROWING YOUR
WAY!
John Ross woke with a start, jerking upright so sharply that he sent his
walking staff clattering to the floor of the bus. For a moment, he didn't
know where he was. It was night, and most of his fellow passengers were
asleep. He took a moment to collect himself, to remember which journey he
was on, which world he was in. Then he maneuvered his bad leg stiffly into
the aisle, jockeying himself about on the seat until he was able to reach
down and retrieve the staff.
He had fallen asleep in spite of himself, he realized. In spite of what
that meant.
He placed the walking stick beside him, leaning it carefully against his
knapsack, bracing it in place so that it would not slide away again. An
old woman several seats in front of him was still awake. She glanced back
at him briefly, her look one of reproof and suspicion. She was the only
one who sat close to him. He was alone at the very back of the bus; the
other passengers, all save the old woman, had been careful to take seats
near the front. Perhaps it was the leg. Or the shabby clothes. Or the
mantle of weariness he wore like the ghost of Marley did his chains.
Perhaps it was the eyes, the way they seemed to look beyond what everyone
else could see, at once cool and discerning, yet distant and lost, an
unsettling contradiction.
But, no. He looked down at his hands, studying them. In the manner of one
who has come to terms with being shunned, he could ignore the pain of his
banishment. Subconsciously, his fellow passengers had made a perfectly
understandable decision.
You leave as many empty seats as possible between yourself and Death.
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