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“What the fuck…?” he said.
The tide of violence swept along the row of stalled cars. Coming his way.
Coming fast.
He had no idea what was happening. A riot of some kind. People going nuts.
Either way, he wanted no part of it.
Patrick cut a look across the wide median and for the first time took note that it was empty, and he tried to recall if he’d seen a single car come that way since this began.
He was sure he hadn’t. Not one.
What the hell was happening over that hill?
The helicopters kept firing. Fireballs raced each other into the air. People were trying to turn their cars, and some of them managed to squeeze out of the press and U-turn on the shoulder. They blared their horns and there were dozens of fender benders as the panic to escape the moment overcame everything else.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
ROUTE 653
BORDENTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA
A wall of superheated gas came rolling down the highway, flattened wet grass, knocking people down, setting off the car alarms of those stopped vehicles their owners had turned off, bending the trees, turning the rain to steam.
It hit Goat as he struggled to his feet and flung him against the wrecked Cube. He hit hard, cracking the back of his head, his elbows, the middle of his back. His skin suddenly felt like it was covered with ants as the heat leached moisture from his flesh. Goat felt hot wind blowing into his screaming mouth and down his throat.
He collapsed on his knees, aware on some distant level that new pain exploded in his injured knee but not immediately able to care, then as the fiery shockwave passed he sagged over into mud that was no longer wet and cold.
Goat lay there, flash-burned and stunned, gasping for air in a world that no longer seemed to have any. Then …
Pulled into the vacuum created by the shockwave, fresh air buffeted him. He dragged in lungfuls of rainy air, sucking it down like a gasping fish returned to the healing waters of the stream.
People were screaming.
Screaming.
Horns blared and Goat heard gunshots. Spaced, erratic. Hunting rifles, he thought.
A moment later, the air above him was churned to pieces by the beat of helicopter blades, and a split second later heavier guns opened up. Goat wriggled painfully toward the back of the wrecked car and looked past the rear wheel to see something that made no immediate sense.
Five big military helicopters swayed in the air, their pilots fighting the harsh winds as door gunners fired miniguns at the lines of parked cars.
People were running in wild panic between the cars, racing out into the farm fields on the far side of the road, tearing cross the median toward the empty westbound lanes. Some had managed to get their cars going and were peeling out of the traffic jam, but most vehicles were too tightly packed. The driver of a Jeep Patriot rammed his vehicle forward, threw it into reverse and rammed backward, and went forward again, crushing bumpers until he’d forced open a hole big enough for him to turn off the road. But the car was blind, the headlights smashed, the grill punched in. It limped down the shoulder but stalled within a dozen yards. And everywhere Goat looked the panicking people were fighting.
Except that wasn’t what it was, and after staring for several long moments he understood what was happening. The firebombing. The attacks on the people in the cars. The violence unfolding before him.
He spoke a name.
Not Homer’s name.
He said, “Lucifer.”
Then headlights burned his eyes as a huge Escalade came tearing through the storm. The SUV slewed to a sideways stop, showering Goat with fresh mud and rainwater. The driver’s door swung open and a figure climbed out. Huge and powerful, but moving stiffly as if every muscle was cramped.
Goat said his name now.
