Maybe if he just let go and went with his feelings, this monster inside of him would go away.
In heaven, all the angels are named Claire. They smile at you with kind eyes, wiping the tears from your cheeks, and say with music in their mouths, What took you so long?
“I’m gonna need something more than forces of darkness,” says Louise, turning down the radio. Simon looks at her, so thin, no eyebrows. He considers telling her not to bother. That the details are irrelevant. Life is a joke. And as Neil Simon used to say, explaining a joke never makes it funnier.
“People in power fight to stay in power,” says the Prophet. “This is the nature of power. You’ve been to the Wizard’s parties. You know his circle.”
Louise nods. She does. For a panicked moment her only thought is to run.
“Moguls,” says the Prophet, “heads of state. They take what they want. They erase anything that annoys them.”
“And we’re about to annoy the shit outta them,” says Duane.
The Prophet looks at Simon, who’s been quiet so far.
“What do you think?”
Simon shrugs. He’s already done the hardest part. He got in the van. He broke the cycle of paralysis. Now it’s just inertia, momentum.
“We go to Walmart,” he says.
Louise frowns. “And if Javier isn’t there?”
The Prophet straightened his glasses. “Then God will show us a sign.”
*
They reach the Fort Stockton Walmart just after 11:00 p.m. Flagg calls on his walkie-talkie and tells Duane to hang back. He and Katniss snake into the parking lot, killing their headlights. They circle the dark box store on low idle, wary of an ambush.
In the last forty years more than half of the world’s vertebrates have died.
Simon sits in the back of the van next to Louise. The sound of their breathing feels too loud for the space. The engine is running, lights off. The Prophet squats on the floor with his back to the wall, eyes closed. Perhaps he is communing with his Lord. Beside him, Simon feels Louise take his hand in the dark, squeeze. But when he looks down, both her hands are in her lap.
A chill runs through him.
Claire?
Up front, Duane’s walkie-talkie crackles.
“All clear,” says Flagg.
Duane slips the van in gear, coasts forward into the lot. The exterior lights are dark, a dull glow coming from inside. The parking lot is at least a square mile wide, an empty smudge filled with painted oil stains.
“Put us by the front doors,” says the Prophet without opening his eyes. “And leave it running.”
Duane pulls up parallel to the curb in front of a row of sliding glass doors. There is a sign on the window—HALF OFF ALL RADIAL TIRES and another that reads 35 PERCENT DISCOUNT ON ALL FICTION TITLES.
The sliding door beside Simon rolls open, letting in the smell of hot summer asphalt. Then the Texas broil hits him, almost midnight and still ninety-eight degrees. Somewhere a coyote howls. Then Louise is by him, the Prophet close behind.
“Go get ’em, stud,” says Duane, winking at Simon, who blushes and stumbles out. He turns, feeling he should say something back, but the van door is already sliding closed.
Louise crosses to the box store’s greedy mouth, shut in slumber. “Smile,” she says pointing. “You’re on camera.”
Simon looks up, sees the ominous black dome. A feeling of panic hits him, but he shakes it off. There is a noise behind him. He turns. Flagg is there wearing a Halloween mask; Mr. Rogers, smiling benignly. Katniss crouches behind him, wearing the same mask.
“We came prepared,” says Flagg, moving past Simon. He tries the doors, moving methodically down the line, but they’re all locked.
“Mr. Rogers,” he calls, and Cyclops comes forward, carrying a sledgehammer. He too is wearing a Mr. Rogers mask.
“No,” says the Prophet, as Cyclops swings the sledgehammer back, ready to smash in the door glass. Cyclops looks at Flagg, who shakes his placid Mr. Rogers head. The sledgehammer comes to rest on the pavement. The Prophet walks to the door, knocks three times sharply. They wait, peering into the darkness. From close up they can see that there are lights on in the deep interior. Louise puts her ear to the glass.
“Are you hearing that?” she asks.
A shape emerges from the shadows of the gardening aisle, stops just out of the light and peers at them. It’s a small man, possibly Mexican. Next to Simon, the Prophet loosens his collar, pulls out a medallion. He holds it up to the glass.
“Amigos,” he calls.
The man edges closer, squinting. Outside the door he sees children, some of them in masks. He comes closer, wary of robbers. His name is Arturo Emilio Diaz III, and he has been in Texas now for six years, three of them spent locked inside the Walmart on the night shift, scrubbing floors with astringents so strong they make his head spin. He was an accountant in Mexico City, and the musical director of his church choir. Every afternoon before he drives his ancient Hyundai to work, he smokes a cigar and listens to Verdi. A few feet away now, he stops by the checkout counters. Louise waves. Simon does the same, feeling foolish. Arturo sees the Prophet’s medallion. He crosses himself, comes to the door.