Michael rolled his eyes. She always brought up the thing about the rainbow.
“It’s night,” reminded Michael. “Whoever heard of a rainbow at night?”
“Maybe night’s the only time you can find a gray rainbow.”
“Maybe there’s no such thing as a gray rainbow, and that dream you’re having doesn’t mean a thing.”
Lourdes shook her head. “Dreams always mean something,” she said. “Especially dreams you have more than once.”
Michael cracked the window and took a deep breath. He could smell the end of the storm, the same way he could smell when it began. He could always smell the weather. An autumn storm always began with the smell of damp concrete and ended with the aroma of yellow leaves trampled along the sidewalk. A winter blizzard began clean, like the air itself had been polished to perfection, and ended with a faint aroma of ash.
As Michael sat there, breathing in the end of the storm, he had to admit that talking to Lourdes had made him feel a little bit better.
“Lourdes,” said Michael, “tell me something about you now. Tell me something about yourself you swore you’d never tell a living soul. It’s only fair.”
Lourdes shifted and the seat creaked, threatening to give way. Michael waited.
“I don’t have secrets,” she said in her deepest, most thickly padded voice.
Michael waited.
Lourdes sighed, and Michael leaned closer to listen.
“My parents . . . they love me very much,” said Lourdes. “I know this because I heard them talking one night. They said that they loved me so much, they wished that I would die, so I would be put out of my misery.” Lourdes spoke matter-of-factly, refusing to shed a single tear. “The truth is, I never felt misery until I heard them say that.”
Outside the air began to take on a new flavor—a rich, earthy smell that Michael recognized as fog rolling in, matching the cloudy, numb feeling in his brain.
“Lourdes,” said Michael, “I don’t care what anyone says, I think you’re beautiful.”
MICHAEL AND LOURDES ARRIVED in St. Louis the next morning, their van riding the crest of the storm. The black rain clouds followed behind them like a wave rolling in from the distant Atlantic Ocean, baffling the weatherman, who always looked west for weather.
Michael, starved, stopped at the first cheap-looking fast-food place he found, but all they sold were fried brain sandwiches, a local specialty. When Michael returned to the car with his questionable sandwich and a drink for Lourdes, he looked behind him to see a sheet of rain moving across the surface of the Mississippi River, until it finally reached them, letting loose over St. Louis. Michael hopped into the van and managed not to get drenched.
He handed Lourdes her Diet Coke. “What do you know about St. Louis?” she asked.
“I know I’d rather be just about anywhere else in the world,” he said, looking miserably down at the brain-burger in his hand.
“Besides that, what do you know?”
Michael shrugged. “The Cardinals,” he said. “That’s about it . . . .” And then he stopped dead—and started to breathe rapidly. Michael turned to Lourdes and grabbed her heavy arm, trying to speak but unable to catch his breath.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Lourdes . . . there’s one more thing I know about St. Louis . . . something that never occurred to me until now!”
“So, tell me.”
“I think maybe you should look for yourself.”
Lourdes followed Michael’s gaze to the south. Lourdes wiped the fog from the windshield, and her eyes traced the path of the riverbank, until she saw it, too. It was about a mile away, curving hundreds of feet into the sky—thousands of tons of gray steel, shaped and curved into the magnificent arch that graced the city of St. Louis. The sleek steel wonder stretched deep into the clouds, and back down to earth again, and the very sight of it gave Michael and Lourdes the eerie shivers—because more than anything else, the arch looked like a ghostly gray rainbow.
TORY AND WINSTON HAD already been at the arch for twenty minutes. They had stood with die-hard tourists in a line that wound through the underground museum, waiting to board the tiny car that would take them to the peak of the arch.
The logic made perfect sense. If you were supposed to meet someone in St. Louis, but didn’t know where, there were certain places one ought to try: airports, bus stations, train stations, landmarks—and they knew St. Louis had to be the place. They could sense something here they felt nowhere else they had been—the westward current suddenly seemed caught in a swirling eddy.
They had been to all the other places, and now they searched the city’s best-known landmark—their last hope—before continuing west. To Omaha, if Tory got her way.
Once at the top of the arch, the view was spectacular, for the very tip of the arch pierced the dense, low-hanging storm clouds. It was like a view from heaven.
Tory wore her scarf over most of her face like an Arabian veil. “I’ve never been this high,” she said. “I guess this is what it must look like from a plane.” The clouds beneath the observation window were slow-moving billows; huge cotton snails sliding over one another.
The car brought them back down to the underground museum, and still there was no sign of anyone on the lookout for them. It was worse than the old needle in a haystack. At least then you knew it was a needle you were looking for.
“There’s nothing here,” Tory finally had to admit. Then Tory and Winston heard a voice deep in the crowd.
“This is a waste of time,” the voice said. Tory and Winston quickly turned and saw a boy through the crowds. He had a thin, scraggly body and thin, scraggly hair. He seemed flushed and sweaty. Next to him stood a girl so immense there was no way she’d fit in the tiny car that rode to the top of the arch.
But it was the scraggly boy that caught Winston’s attention—not his face, but his eyes. Even from a distance, Winston could see the color of his eyes.
“I know him!” said Winston. “Don’t I know him?”
Winston and Tory pushed through the crowd, and as they did, the sounds around them seemed to become distant. The people milling about and waiting in line seemed like mere shadows of people. The guard mouthed the words “Move along,” but his voice sounded as if it were coming from miles away. The only sights clear and in focus were the fat girl and scraggly boy, who were now staring at them with the same troubled wonder.
Winston approached the scraggly boy, pulling his torn satin cloth out of his pocket. One glance at the cloth, and then at the boy’s eyes proved to Winston what he already knew. The cloth was the exact same color as the scraggly boy’s eyes. Impossibly deep—impossibly blue! This was the connection!
Michael grabbed the cloth and looked at Winston, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. Michael felt the urge to say It’s good to see you again, even though he knew he had never met this small black kid before.
Tory approached, staring at Lourdes, and rather than being repulsed, she felt somehow comforted by her large presence. It made Tory want to peel back her scarf, to reveal her own awful face, suddenly not ashamed of it in front of the present company.
“My God!” said Lourdes, as Tory revealed her face, and Lourdes smiled with a look of wonder instead of disgust. Still holding onto Michael, Lourdes reached out to touch Tory, who still had a hand on Winston’s shoulder; Winston had put his small palm up against Michael’s large one, closing a circuit of the four of them . . . and the instant the circuit was closed, something happened.
Their skin felt on fire, their bones felt like ice. They could not move.
Then an image exploded through their minds with such power and intensity, it seemed to burn the world around them away. It was a vision before sight, a tale before words. It was a memory—for it was so terrifyingly familiar to all of them it could only be a memory—not of something seen or heard but of something felt:
Bright Light! Sharp Pain! One screaming voice becoming six screaming voices.
Six! There are six of us!
As the vision filled them, the clouds above began to boil and separate, as a powerful wind blew through the ghostly steel rainbow and the wet earth was finally drenched by blinding rays of sun.
6. THE UNRAVELING
* * *
AT THAT SAME MOMENT, ABOUT FOUR HUNDRED MILES away, Dillon Cole doubled over in a pain even more intense than the wrecking-hunger. He burst into a men’s room in the small bus depot in Big Springs, Nebraska, stumbled into a stall, and collapsed to the tile floor. At first he thought this must have been God striking him down for the sheer magnitude of his sins—but then as the world around him seemed to burn away, he knew it was something else. The vision—the memory then burst upon his mind. It was both glorious and awful at once, and so intense that he thought it would kill him.
Awful Awful Awful
Blinding fire
Tearing
Shattering
Unbearable pain
Shard of light
Piercing
Screaming through the void
Then silence . . .
And a beat.
And silence . . .
A heartbeat.
And warmth
And comfort
And the soft safety
Of flesh and blood.
It was the vision of a cataclysmic death . . . followed by life. His own life. Something died . . . and he was born . . . but not just him. Others. The Others.
The convulsions that racked his body subsided as the vision faded, and he felt the grip of reality once more. He picked himself up and staggered back into the waiting area.
“Deanna?” He found her still doubled over on a bench. Her head was in her hands and she was quietly crying. She had shared this earth-shattering vision as well.
“You okay?” asked Dillon, still shaking from the experience.
“What was it?” Deanna got her tears under control. “I was so scared . . . what’s happening to us?”
“The Others are together,” said Dillon, just realizing it himself. The fact struck him in the face, leaving him stunned—and unsure of how to feel about it.
It was all beginning to make sense to him now. There were six of them in the vision, all screaming discordant notes.
They were all here, together, for fifteen years. Maybe thousands of miles apart by human standards, but from the perspective of an immense universe, they were right beside one another . . . and moving closer. The thought of it began to make Dillon get angry, and he didn’t know why . . . and then he realized why. It was the wrecking-hunger, suddenly brought to a full boil, as if the vision triggered it to attack.
“I think we somehow know each other—even though we’ve never met,” said Deanna. “There are six of us, aren’t there?”
“Four of them,” said Dillon. “And two of us.”
Dillon could see Deanna struggling to understand—but she couldn’t grasp the entire truth yet. She couldn’t see the pattern the way he did.
“We need to find them,” insisted Deanna. “We have to join them . . .”
“We don’t have to do anything.”
“Yes we do! We have to meet The Others and find out who we really are!”
“I know who I am! I’m Dillon Cole, and that’s all I need to know!”
“What’s wrong with you?” she shouted. “Isn’t that why we’ve been moving east? To find them?”
Dillon knew she was right. The thought of finding The Others had been like a carrot dangling before them. But now that carrot was quickly growing rotten in Dillon’s mind. What would joining the others prove? What would it do beyond making Dillon just one of six? Yes, the wrecking-hunger was awful—but it was something familiar. Joining The Others, however, was a great dark unknown.
They’re going to hurt you, the wrecking-hunger whispered to him. They’ll ruin everything. They’ll take Deanna away. He didn’t know what to believe anymore.
The hunger was clawing at him now, tearing up his gut as it had done so many times before . . . and from outside came the drone of a bus and black smoke pouring through the open door.
“Oh no!” cried Deanna in a panic. They both raced to the door in time to see their bus—which had only stopped in Big Springs for a few minutes—drive off. Along with that bus went what few things they had: a bag with maps, a change of clothes, and most importantly, Dillon’s wallet.
Fine, thought Dillon. Let the bus go. Who cares, anyway? Dillon stormed out the door and headed in the other direction. The hunger kept swelling inside of him, and he knew he would have to feed it soon.
“Where are you going?” shouted Deanna.
“Looks like I’m going to Hell,” he said, then turned from her and stormed away.
DILLON COLE’S PILGRIMAGE TO Hell began moments later, in a schoolyard across the street, where a tall kid, maybe a year older than he, was playing basketball alone.
Dillon was consumed by the wrecking-hunger now—and his mind was set on seek and destroy. He didn’t know how or what he would destroy—but this guy on the basketball court was directly in his path and was therefore a target.
The target bounced his ball without much skill, trying to weave it through his legs. When he saw Dillon coming, he stopped his dribbling antics, and the two of them began to shoot around.
The guy introduced himself as Dwight Astor, and, as they took shots, Dillon tried to hide the wrecking-hunger like a vampire hiding his fangs.
“How about a game of one-on-one?” asked Dillon.
“Okay, winners out,” said Dwight. And the game began.
Dwight played fairly well, and although Dillon knew he could beat him—for Dillon never lost any game he played—Dillon didn’t try. He let Dwight drive around him for lay ups. He guarded poorly, making sure there were never any fouls—no body contact.
. . . And while they played, Dillon did something he had never done before: he studied the patterns of his human subject.
Until now, Dillon had kept away from people, never making eye contact, thinking only of ways to avoid them. He was always much more comfortable with the simple, predictable patterns of crashing cars, shattering glass, stones, and billiard balls. But today Dillon dared to peer into the workings of a human being, and he discovered something remarkable:
Human beings have patterns too. Patterns of action and behavior that can trace their histories and futures.
Dillon bristled with excitement as he watched Dwight move around the court—and in about ten seconds of basketball, Dillon was able to predict every move Dwight could make on the court—but Dillon could do better than that! He could look beyond the court, right into every aspect of Dwight’s life.
It amazed Dillon just how much he was able to figure out; facts impossible for the most observant of people to uncover came to Dillon with the slightest effort.
The hesitation that made Dwight miss his shots told Dillon how long and how often his parents had punished him as a child. The way Dwight’s eyes darted back and forth told Dillon of friendships lost and trusts broken. The thrill in Dwight’s eyes each time he drove toward the basket told Dillon exactly how high his ambitions were and how successful he was going to be in life. Every move, every word, every breath betrayed a secret about Dwight’s days and nights, hopes and dreams, fears and failures.
Dillon had heard it said that every second we live bears the pattern of our entire life, the way a single cell bears the DNA pattern of our whole body. Now Dillon knew it to be true, because what might have taken years for a psychiatrist to uncover, Dillon instinctively knew in just a few minutes on a basketball court.
The blueprint of Dwight Astor’s life!
And to think that all along Dillon had this talent—this power to peer into the human clockwork. It was the single most thrilling moment of Dillon’s life.
Dwight missed a shot, and the ball went bouncing out of bounds.
“Your ball,” said Dwight. Dillon took the ball and began dribbling it around the court, thinking
about the many things he discovered by watching his opponent:
Dwight Astor. He was a B-plus student. His parents fought. He had at least two brothers and at least one sister. His father was a recovering alcoholic. This was Dwight’s past and present, but Dillon could also see the pattern of his future, as if the basketball were a crystal ball. If nothing changed, Dwight would go to college, would major in business, or maybe economics, and would go on to run a small company. It was all there—Dillon saw the complex tapestry of Dwight’s past, present and future as if he were simply reading a road map—and in that future, Dillon could see shades of wealth, success, and some level of happiness.
Dillon now had control of the ball. At last he worked his way around Dwight as if he were standing still. Then Dillon went for the lay up and released the ball onto the rim, where it hung, perfectly balanced—not on the back of the rim, but on the front of the rim. The ball just sat there, not going into the basket, and not falling out.
“Wow!” said Dwight. “How’d you do that? That’s impossible.”
As Dwight innocently stared at the balanced ball, Dillon Cole moved in for the kill.
“Listen to me, Dwight.” Dwight turned and was caught in Dillon’s gaze. “Your father says he doesn’t drink anymore, but he does. He keeps his bottles of booze hidden somewhere in the house. If you look hard enough, you can find them.”
Then Dillon whispered into Dwight’s ear, clearly and slowly.
“Your father would never notice,” said Dillon, “if you drank some of it.”
The words Dillon spoke were like bullets that pierced deep into Dwight’s brain. There was no blood, but the damage was the same—and the only one who could see the damage was Dillon. After all, he had done something anyone could have done . . . he had tossed Dwight a simple suggestion . . . but like the stone Dillon had tossed down the mountain in Tahoe, this was exactly the right suggestion to begin an avalanche in Dwight Astor’s life. Dillon could already see the road map of Dwight’s future changing. Dillon’s simple suggestion had paved Dwight a brand-new future filled with addiction. Alcohol first, and then other things. Dwight would drop out of high school. He would run far away from home. He would make the wrong friends, make the wrong choices. He would die young and alone.