“Oh, Frank.” Alicia started to chide him. “Of course Las Vegas still exists!” Her expression dropped and she turned uncertainly to Mouse. “Doesn’t it?”
“I would think so. It is the small things that change first. They are more brittle. Small things. A few plants, an animal or two, the color of the sky, a small town sooner than a large one. Your road has not yet changed, has it?”
Frank had to admit that I-40 looked as monotonous as ever. The smooth concrete stretched out unbroken before them. The barbed-wire fence lining the limits of the state’s right-of-way held back the desert. The culverts they occasionally passed over were still fashioned of corrugated steel—though after detecting motion in one of them he found he no longer glanced in their direction.
“All right. We’ll take you in to Vegas, but no farther. No matter what’s happening to the ‘fabric of existence.’ Got it?”
“I am grateful for your aid. Though you know it not, you are helping yourselves as you help me.”
“Yeah, sure.” Frank didn’t hide his displeasure as he hunched over the wheel.
5
THE FABRIC OF EXISTENCE, unraveling like a ball of twine. Chaos yclept Anarchis. Sirens with lavender eyes who came from a civilization of eerie musicians and sang like whole choirs of electronic instruments. Armies of oversized rodents that fought with tiny knives and axes and gazed at you out of eyes wet with malevolent intelligence.
Somewhere between Barstow and Baker Frank had unknowingly taken an off ramp named Madness. But he couldn’t be going mad because his whole family was seeing the same things. It was all much too real. Certainly his fear was. His fear and frustration.
Why him? Why innocent, ordinary Frank Sonderberg? Hadn’t he worked his butt off all his life? Hadn’t he been a good father and husband, not hitting the kids any more than absolutely necessary, not cheating on his wife except maybe once? Wasn’t he understanding even of his daughter’s freako friends and his son’s alarming passion for junk food and candy? Why did the damnable fates have to go and pick on him and his family when all they wanted was a little safe, clean excitement and to sit by a pool for a few days? He knew he was nothing special. Why not pick on the president, or a general, or some brilliant scientist? Why the owner of a chain of sporting goods stores?
He knew why. It was all because He was the One who had Stopped. Him, Frank Sonderberg and kin. They were the ones who stopped for Mouse, thereby aligning themselves with her and her mission. According to her, if they hadn’t stopped and she’d been left standing rideless by the side of the highway much longer, the world would soon perish in a cataclysm of unraveling reason.
Had she maybe overstated the situation just a little to keep them from throwing her off? Might her theorized Armageddon not have come in his lifetime?
No use supposing, as he’d told his kids on more than one occasion. The fact of the matter was that they had picked her up. She was real, as were the gas station attendant with his hidden tail, and the syrupy bleeding vegetation they’d passed, and the rat army. So how could he dispute everything else she’d told them?
She’d given no guarantee she was any better than the other unnatural creatures they’d encountered. No guarantee at all, except—he’d seen the evil in those compact rat faces, had heard it in the old attendant’s chuckle. And she’d driven off the rat-things. That meant she could protect them from similar attackers. Perhaps there wouldn’t be any more attacks. Perhaps they’d drive straight through to Vegas, drop her off somewhere, wave good-bye, check into their hotel, and start pumping quarters into slots. The only narrow, pinched faces he wanted to see from this point on were those belonging to the habitual gamblers who packed tight around the craps table.
They’d take in Wayne Newton and maybe he’d even let Wendy persuade him to go see Tina Turner. When they were suitably relaxed and tanned they would take a limo to the airport and fly home. He’d completely lost his desire to explore this damnable, ominous desert. Fine with him if the next time he saw these blasted mountains it would be from thirty thousand feet.
“I don’t have time to save the world,” he murmured to himself. “I’ve got a family to look after and a business to run.”
He’d whispered it under his breath, but Mouse heard nonetheless. “That’s the trouble with you people. You don’t have any time for your world. You’ve time for your business and time for your religions. You’ve time for your families and time for your fun. But you don’t have time for the fish and the birds, for the land and the air. No time for the trees. No time for—”
“Spare me the eulogy,” Frank said, interrupting her. “I said we’d get you to Vegas, and Frank Sonderberg’s not a guy who goes back on his word. Ask anybody in sporting goods west of the Mississippi. East, too, pretty soon. I’m thinking of expanding into Chicago.”
Alicia turned in surprise. “Frank! You didn’t say anything about that.”
He tried to sound casual about it. “It came up at the executive meeting about a month ago. Carlos and Garrison agree with me. They think it’s time. I sent Garrison into Chicago a few weeks back to start scouting locations. Got to keep moving if we’re ever going to be nationwide.”
“I’m so proud of you, Frank.”
“Yeah, well, I guess it won’t mean much if this young lady doesn’t make it to her Vanishing Point.”
“I assure you, Frank Sonderberg, that all your hopes and dreams will be for nothing, as will everyone’s, if the Spinner is not soothed.”
“You know something?” he said suddenly, surprising even himself. “I’ve never been afraid of any challenge that’s been put to me. Never. And one thing I’m for sure not afraid of is chaos. Because if you’d ever seen what goes on in my headquarters, you’d see that I have to deal with it every day.”
As they drove east he found himself feeling better about their situation. Nothing else had materialized to attack the motor home. The sky had become normal once more, and even the plants lining the shoulder were looking healthier. It would have been nice to write it all off as a dream, but he knew he couldn’t do that. He was nothing if not realistic. To run a nationwide business you had to be. No, they hadn’t dreamed any of it.
Perhaps the worst was behind them. Maybe Mouse’s singing had frightened off any other potential assailants. Or maybe Evil was hunting for them elsewhere. Maybe even on another line of existence. Hadn’t their passenger told them that Chaos was bad at organized pursuit?
They passed another sign indicating they were coming up to Hades Junction. It didn’t matter whether it was the renamed, misplaced Baker or not because he had no intention of stopping. Not until the sky was stained with neon. Having filled the motor home’s tanks at the threatening old man’s station, they could cruise straight in to Vegas without a break.
The desert sky was bright and reassuring. No fog, no rain clouds, no unnatural dimness. It was ninety-five degrees outside, baking hot, and that was how it ought to be.
So relaxed had he become, he didn’t even get excited when the engine began to cough and sputter and the big vehicle started to slow. Pumping the accelerator only intensified the coughing from beneath the hood.
Alicia eyed him uneasily. “Frank?”
“Relax, sweetheart. Sounds like a clogged fuel line. Maybe the gas that old fart sold us was as old as he was. It’s starting to mix with the good stuff we bought in Barstow. No big deal.”
Of course, if they’d been close to empty when they had filled up at the ancient station with bad gas, the motor home would have died a mile or two east of it. Could that have been what the old man had had in mind all along for them?
If so, he’d miscalculated. Frank had only stopped to add a few gallons to tanks more than half full.
“Could be the filter, too,” he said cheerfully. “Whichever, should take just a minute or two to clean it out.”
He carefully checked all three rearview mirrors, expecting the highway behind them to be empty. It was actually more of a relief to see the big rig coming up fast behind them. It rumbled past as he pulled off onto the shoulder. A packed station wagon followed close on the heels of the truck. Both were additional signs of normalcy.
He set the emergency brake, rose from his chair. “Have a cold drink or something, darling. I’ll have us back on the road in a jiff.”
She was trying hard, he saw, not to panic. “All right, but don’t take any longer than you have to, Frank.”
“Don’t worry. I mean, it’s hot outside, right?”
She moved to join him. “Would you like something cold when you finish?”
“Anything with ice and caffeine.” He gave her a quick kiss and they exchanged smiles. As he headed for the door she moved to the refrigerator.
The hot sun felt good on the back of his neck. Maybe, he mused as he made his way around to the front of the vehicle, I shouldn’t get on Steven’s case so much about all the junk he eats. He glanced in the direction of his own inescapably mature gut. It wasn’t that many years ago that he could still see his belt. Now, even when he inhaled deeply, it was difficult to locate the leather band that held up his pants. Whoever had made dining so enjoyable had a lot to answer for.
Slipping his left hand under the Winnebago’s hood, he flipped the security latch and raised the metal cover. A single support rod held it in place. The big engine smelled warm but not overly hot. Ignoring his suspicions for the moment, he took the time to check the oil level, coolant overflow tank, even the brake fluid. Only then did he hunt for the fuel filter. If it was just the filter, they’d be back on the road in a couple of minutes. If he had to clean out the line they might have a problem.
The little plastic cylinder looked like the carbon-loaded filters Alicia used on the den aquarium. Using a pair of pliers he detached it from the line, resisting the urge as he worked to look over his shoulder every thirty seconds. But there was no elderly, grinning gas station attendant hovering nearby ready to offer advice of an uncertain nature.
He could hear the welcome whoosh of other cars and trucks racing past, glad of the familiar sound. Birds get nervous when they become separated from the rest of the flock, he told himself.
Alicia looked up from the refrigerator. “Where are you going, dear?”
“Just outside for a minute, Mom.” Wendy paused impatiently in the doorway.
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. What if some of those horrible little rat-things are still out there?”
“Naw. They’re all gone. Mouse sang ’em all away. There’s nothing out there anymore. Everything’s back to normal again. Dad’s been outside for a while and nothing’s bit him on the leg. Come on, Mom! I’ve been cooped up in here for days.”
“Just for a few minutes, then, and stay close to the motor home.”
Wendy sniffed boredly. “Why not? There’s nowhere to go out here anyway.”
