Whitley Strieber: 2012: The War for Souls

“I put that horror back in the mudroom where it belongs and leave it there please. In the future, if you want to rearrange my house, submit your request in writing.”

“Dad, it was all real! It happened! And we’re—” He stopped. Frowned a little, shook his head. “I lost it,” he said. “It was right on the tip of my tongue.”

Wylie called Matt, but nobody had reported anybody strange wandering around in Harrow, or anywhere in Lautner County, for that matter.

“What about the body in my crawl space? Is that resolved?”

“You want me to come out there with a net?”

“I thought you were gonna arrest me.”

There was a silence. Then, “Oh, yeah, you’ve got that absinthe, not to mention the cigar theft issue.”

He had no memory whatsoever of Al North, then.

They talked, then, about the state of the pheasant population, which was excellent. “Matt wants to hunt tomorrow,” Wylie called to Nick, “you game?”

Nick looked at him. “He doesn’t remember a thing, does he?”

“You want to go or not?”

“’Course I do.”

Wylie made plans to meet with Matt before dawn, and go to some of the walk—in land over in Smith County. “You sure there’s been nothing odd, Matt? No cars stolen around here, say?”

“In your neck of the woods? There hasn’t been any crime of any kind over there at all, ever. What the hell’s the matter with you today, anyway? Is this some new insanity? I don’t hunt with crazy people.”

“Read me the blotter for last night.”

“The blotter?”

“Look, it’s not gonna kill you, now read the damn thing!”

“Okay! 16:32, Miss Wicks’s chickens are in Elm Street again. Ticketed. 18:05, car fire, put out by occupant. 20:22, kids smoking and playing loud music behind Wilson’s Feed and Seed, sent home.”

“That was it? That was what we paid you for last night?”

“We got a possible stolen truck. Jim Riggs can’t find his farm banger. But it’s probably gonna be that Willie of his, hid it for a joke. That kid’s got an unfortunate sense of humor.”

So nothing strange had happened in this quiet little corner of Kansas for a long time, unless it was Samson who had gotten that truck, of course.

Or no, there was one thing: the miserable accident that had befallen poor William Nunnally.

“So, what’s new in the Nunnally case?”

“Nothin.’ Coroner’s report says it was exposure. He was high, it seems. Got a lotta meth heads down that way. Damndest thing. The family’s not gonna sue you, for some strange reason, going down there and terrorizing them like you did.”

“So it was just one of those things?”

“That would be true, crazy man.”

The night passed uneventfully, Wylie and Nick got up at four-thirty, and as the sun rose, they were hunting. True to form, Wylie over—or undershot every rise he got, and all his pheasants lived to see another day.

Nick, however, bagged Christmas dinner.

NEW WORLDS ARE MADE IN two places: the ruins of the old and the minds of the survivors.

The captured souls had instantaneously returned to their wandering bodies—all but those of the dead, who had begun another kind of journey.

Those who returned to life found themselves waking like sleepwalkers are known to do, in unaccustomed and impossible places. Lindy discovered herself riding in a jammed truck that was being driven by people who were equally mystified by where they were going and why.

At the first town they came to, they stopped the truck. Everybody was thirsty and hungry, and many of them were hurt, mostly with injured feet, which Lindy certainly had. They pulled over in Lora, Colorado, which they found empty. There was no power. All phone lines were dead.

Lindy remembered up until they had entered Third Street Methodist. The rest—she just had no idea. None at all. But she knew who she was and where she was from, and she also knew that she was going home. No matter what, she was returning to Harrow and to Martin and Trevor and her dear little Winnie.

This was far from impossible, as there were abandoned cars and trucks everywhere. She found a serviceable-looking hybrid that was full of gas. Her idea was that she was about three hundred miles west of home, so the hybrid would get her there with gas to spare.

She and some of the others from the Truck Gang, as they called themselves, broke into a place called the Lora Cafe. The milk was rotted, the eggs were higher than a kite, and there was no gas to cook with, so she contented herself with Cheerios washed down by water. They shared out the breakfast cereals, the cans of beans and soup, and took off in their various directions, all of them obsessed with the same thing: home.

Lindy did not care to travel with anybody else. She wasn’t sure what might happen. The world had collapsed. Then, for whatever unknown reason, her coffin nightmares had ended and here she was. She had obviously been walking for miles and miles, but she had no memory of it at all.

The car had a GPS but it didn’t manage to pick up any satellites, so she simply drove east on 70. Frequently, she had to go around abandoned vehicles, some of them in lines miles long, and travel cross country in the bounding car. It held together, though, well enough, and soon she was heading into familiar little Harrow.

There were people here and there, looking for the most part like they’d just come up after a tornado had passed, to see what was left.

Winnie said, “I can come back.”

The voice was so clear that for a moment she thought that her daughter was sitting in the backseat. She shook her head. Seeing Third Street Methodist, she experienced a surge of terror so great that she had to stop the car right there in the middle of the street.

“Mom?”

She did not open her eyes. She’d lost her kids, her husband, everything. There was no more Winnie and that voice had not been Trevor.

Then the car door opened.

She looked up into the smiling face of the most beautiful, most wonderful man in the world. She could not get out of the car. She tried, but she was shaking too hard, her hands just went out and went clutching toward her Martin, and then his arms were coming, they were strong around her, they were taking her and lifting her, and she felt his lips upon her lips and heaven came and lifted her.

There were a thousand whispered words, but no words could express the meaning of this meeting. Her husband’s and her son’s eyes were strangely dark, and hers were, too, they told her, and they told her that this was good, it was a miracle, it was the future of mankind in their eyes, dark still, but there would be light.

“What happened to us?” she asked as they drove out toward the Smoke Hills and home.

“There was an earthquake,” Martin said at last. “That affected the entire planet. And we’re not out of the woods yet. But we’re learning how to work in new ways. How to fix things.”

“A lot is wrong,” Trevor said.

Home was one of them, she soon discovered, and it was very wrong, so wrong that when she saw it, she burst into tears. “We can’t clean this up,” she wailed. She looked in disbelief at the melted, crazy furniture, at the twisted ruins of her kitchen. “What did this? This was no earthquake.”

“2012 came and went,” Martin said at last. “It turns out that the old Maya knew a lot. They calculated the return of—well, of—”

“Evil,” Trevor said simply. “Evil was here, but it failed.” He paused. “And it had a good effect, because fighting it transformed us. I guess that’s why you’re supposed to love your enemy.”

He fell silent, then, and in his silence and with it, she could hear something that was a voice and yet not a voice. It was more than a voice. She could hear engineers and physicists like herself and architects and workmen all gathered in a great chorus of plans and work and effort. “We’re going to put the world back together again,” she said.