Swan Song by Robert McCammon Page A

the cooler temperatures were kinder on the tires and boosted gas mileage. He was a careful man who took no chances.
    “I’ll bet they’re looking at us right now with radar.” The boy stared toward the woods. “I’ll bet they’re really taking us apart.”
    “Could be,” Phil agreed. “They’ve got about everything you can think of up here. It’s a terrific place, wait’ll you see it!”
    “I hope it’s cool in there,” Elise said irritably. “God knows I didn’t come all this way to cook in a mine shaft.”
    “It’s not a mine shaft,” Phil reminded her. “Anyway, it’s naturally cool, and they’ve got all sorts of air-filtration systems and safety stuff. You’ll see.”
    The boy said, “They’re watching us. I can feel them watching us.” He felt under his seat for what he knew was hidden there, and his hand came out with a.357 Magnum. “Bang!” he said, and he clicked the trigger toward the dark woods on his right. And another “Bang!” to the left.
    “Put that thing down, Roland!” his mother told him.
    “Put it away, son. We don’t want it out in the open.”
    Roland Croninger hesitated and grinned slyly. He pointed the gun at the center of his mother’s head, pulled the trigger and said quietly, “Bang.” And then a “Bang” and a click of the trigger at his father’s skull.
    “Roland,” his father said in what passed for a stern voice, “stop kidding around, now. Put the gun away.”
    “Roland!” his mother warned.
    “Aw, heck!” He shoved the weapon back under the seat. “I was just having some fun! You two take everything too seriously!”
    There was a sudden jolt as Phil Croninger planted his foot on the brake pedal. Two men in green helmets and camouflage uniforms were standing in the middle of the road; both of them were holding Ingram submachine guns and had.45s in holsters at their waists. The Ingram guns were pointed right at the RV’s windshield.
    “Jesus,” Phil whispered. One of the soldiers motioned for him to roll down the window; when Phil had done so, the soldier stepped around to his side of the RV, snapped on a flashlight and shone it in his face. “ID, please,” the soldier said; he was a young man with a hard face and electric blue eyes. Phil brought out his wallet and the ID card and handed it to the young man, who examined Phil’s photograph on the card. “How many coming in, sir?” the soldier asked.
    “Uh… three. Me, my wife and son. We’re expected.”
    The young man gave Phil’s card to the other soldier, who undipped a walkie-talkie from his utility belt. Phil heard him say, “Central, this is Checkpoint. We’ve got three coming up in a gray recreational vehicle. Name on the card’s Philip Austin Croninger, computer number 0-671-4724. I’ll hold for confirmation.”
    “Wow!” Roland whispered excitedly. “This is just like the war movies!”
    “Shhhh,” his father warned.
    Roland admired the soldiers’ uniforms; he noted that the boots were spit-shined and the camouflage trousers still held creases. Above each soldier’s heart was a patch that depicted an armored fist gripping a lightning bolt, and below the symbol was “Earth House,” stitched in gold.
    “Okay, thank you, Central,” the soldier with the walkie-talkie said. He returned the card to the other one, who handed it to Phil. “There you go, sir. Your ETA was 10:45.”
    “Sorry.” Phil took the card and put it away in his wallet. “We stopped for a late dinner.”
    “Just follow the road,” the young man explained. “About a quarter mile ahead you’ll see a stop sign. Make sure your tires are lined up with the marks. Okay? Drive on.” He gave a quick motion with his arm, and as the second soldier stepped aside Phil accelerated away from the checkpoint. When he glanced in the sideview mirror again, he saw the soldiers reentering the forest.
    “Does everybody get a uniform, Dad?” Roland asked.
    “No, I’m afraid not. Just the men who work here