Tyndale House - The Mark - The Beast Rules the World

No one knew how frequently, if ever, the GC invested the time, equipment, and manpower to overfly the quarantined city their own databases told them was heavily radioactive. It didn't make sense that anyone would be near the place. If the readings were true-which David Hassid and the Tribulation Force knew was not the case-no one could live there long.

Still, Rayford's plan was to come and go in his helicopter from the tower in the dark of night. And Buck, or anyone else coming or going, would do the same from the garage. It was tricky going, because no light sources-outside the Strong Building-were engaged in the city. Unless the moon was bright, seeing anything in the dark was almost impossible on what used to be those miles of city streets.

Buck pulled away slowly, the gigantic Hummer propelling itself easily over the jagged terrain. He wanted to get used to the vehicle, the largest he had ever driven. It was surprisingly comfortable, predictably powerful, and-to his delight-amazingly quiet. He had feared it would sound like a tank.

Driving around Chicago in the dark was no way to familiarize himself with the car. He needed open road and the confidence that no one was paying attention. Half an hour later he hit the city limits and took the deserted frontage road that would deliver him into the suburbs without detection. He turned on his lights and set the manual brake light switch where he could reach it with his left hand.

Near Park Ridge a rebuilt section actually had a few miles of new pavement and a couple of working traffic lights. The rest of northern Illinois seemed to have regressed to the earliest days of the automobile. Cars made their own trails through rubble, and rain sometimes made those routes impassable.

Buck saw a couple of GC squad cars, but traffic was light. When he felt safe, he tested the power of the Hummer and practiced several turns at varying speeds. The faster he went and the sharper he turned, the more violently his body was pressed against the safety belt. But it seemed nothing would make the Hummer tip. Buck found a deserted area where he was sure no one could see him and tried a couple of fast turns even on inclines. The Hummer seemed to ask for more. With its superwide stance, its weight, and its power, it had unmatched maneuverability. Buck felt as if he were starring in a commercial.

He floored the vehicle, got it up to near eighty on packed dirt, slammed on the brakes, and turned the wheel. The antilock system kept him from skidding or even hinting at going over. He couldn't wait to compete with whatever toy the GC was using in its stakeout in Des Plaines.

Buck had to calm himself. The idea was to pick up Zeke undetected. He considered stopping at the station like a normal customer and ramming the GC as they came to investigate. But they had phones and radios and a communications network that would hem him in. If he could find a way to approach the station from the back, lights out, they might never see him, even after he pulled away with his quarry.

His phone chirped. It was Zeke. "You close by?" the young man said.

"Not far. What's up?"

"We're gonna hafta torch this place."

"Why?"

"Once they figure they've busted every rebel that used to gas up here, they're going to torch it anyway, right?"

"Maybe," Buck said. "So why not let them?"

"They might search it first."

"And find what?"

"The underground, of course. I can't even think about gettin' all the stuff outta here that could give my dad away."

"What more can they do to him?"

"All they got him on now is sellin' gas without GC approval. They fine him or make him sit a month or two. If they find out me and him was runnin' a rebel forgery biz outta here, he becomes an enemy of the state."

"Good thinking." Buck never failed to be amazed at the street wisdom of the unlikely looking Zeke. Who would have guessed that the former druggie-biker-tattoo artist would be the best phony credentials man in the business?

"And remember, Mr. Williams. We were feedin' people outta here too. Groceries, you name it. Well, you know. You bought a bunch of 'em. OK, here's what I'm thinkin'. I rig up a timer to a sparking device. You know, it ain't the gas that burns anyway."

"I'm sorry?" Buck felt stupid. He had been a globe-trotting journalist, and a virtual illiterate was trying to tell him gasoline fires aren't what they seem?

"Yeah, it's not the gas that burns. When I was workin' above ground, helpin' Dad in the station when it was legal and all, I used to toss my cigarettes in a bucket of gas we kept in the service bay." "No, you didn't." "I swear." "Lit cigarettes?"

"Swear to – I mean, honest. That was how we put 'em out. They'd hiss like you was tossin' 'em into a bucket o' water."

"I'm confused."

"We kept gas in there to clean our hands on. Cuts grease, you know. Like if you just did an axle job and now you gotta go fill a tank or write on a credit card receipt or something."

"I mean I'm confused about how you could throw a cigarette into a container of gasoline."

"Lots of people don't know that or don't believe it." "How'd you keep from blowing yourselves to kingdom come?"

"Well, if the bucket of gas was fresh, you had to wait awhile. If you saw any of that shimmerin' of the fumes over it, like when you first pour it in there, or when you're fillin' your tank, well, you don't want any open flame of any kind near that."

"But once it sat and the, uh, shimmering fumes were gone?"

"Then we tossed our cigarette butts in there."

"So, it's the fumes."

"Yeah, it's the fumes what burns."

"I get it. So, your thoughts?"

"See, Mr. Williams, it works the same in an engine. Like a fuel-injected engine shoots a fine spray of gas into the cylinders and the spark plugs spark and burn it, but they're not burning the spray."

"The spray is emitting fumes and that's what's, in essence, exploding in the cylinder," Buck said. "Now you've got it."

"Good. I'm heading your way, so cut to the chase." "OK. I moved two huge boxes of stuff out by the pile of dirt in the back, and I got one big canvas bag. All my files, my equipment, everything is there. Even had room for some food."

"We have plenty of food, Zeke." "Never have enough food. Anyway, the stuff's out there waitin'. I figure if you don't get seen comin', I can be waitin' for ya and load my stuff in there real quick before I jump in."

"Sounds like a plan. Back to the torching." "Yeah. I've got auto parts down here. I cut a feed from the pipe that leads to the storage tank, which runs right by the wall we dug out here, and I hook a fuel injector to it. When I leave, I turn the spigot, the gas runs through the fuel injector and starts sprayin' gasoline."

"And pretty soon the underground is filled with gas." "Fumes."

"Right. And you, what, toss a match down the stairs on your way out to the car?" Zeke laughed.

"Shh."

"Yeah, they can't hear me. But no, tossing a flame down here then would blow me all the way to Chicago. Save you a trip, eh?"

"So how do you ignite it?"

"Put a spark plug on a timer. Give myself five minutes or so, just in case. At the right time, kaboom." "Kaboom." "Bingo."

"Zeke, even if I agreed, you'd never have time to rig that all up. I'm not ten minutes away." "I figured you'd agree." "And so-?" "It's all done." "You're kiddin' me."

"Nope. If you're ten minutes away, I'll set the timer for fifteen, and when I leave I'll open the spigot." "Hoo, boy, you're resourceful." "I know how to do stuff." "You sure do, but do me a favor." "Name it."

"Set the timer for five, but don't start it until after you've turned the spigot on your way out. Deal?"

"Deal."

"Oh, and one more thing. Make sure I'm there before you open that spigot."

"Oh, yeah, right. That would be important."