Page 92 of Badlands

“A what?” Watts asked.

“It’s an intense dust storm that pushes on ahead of a weather front. Very dangerous and unpredictable.”

Wasn’t this weather unpredictable already?“No abort, I hope.”

“Not yet. They’re monitoring it and updating us constantly. When they can get through, that is—our comms are cutting out more and more frequently.”

Ten minutes of tense silence passed, then the pilot’s urgent voice broke across the intercom once more. “Base just reported that Agent Swanson’s cell phone was destroyed.”

“When?” Watts cried.

“Just two minutes ago,” said the pilot.

“How do you know?”

“FBI cell phones are equipped with a sat connection and emergency reporting software,” Sharp told him.

Every minute counted, Watts thought—maybe every second.

“Circling back around toward the LZ,” said the pilot.

At that moment, the chopper was buffeted so hard it was turned ninety degrees on its side. The rotors squealed in protest against the violent change in air pressure, and the engine seemed to cough as dust and sand were sucked into its turbine intakes. Watts clung to his restraints in a panic as the bird began to spin, slowly at first, engine grinding, and then faster, whirling them around.

“Brace,brace,” came the captain’s voice. “Autorotation! We’re going down!”

Watts could hear fresh waves of gravel breaking loudly against the fuselage. He took a grip on the restraints as the tail boom whipped around and around, beginning to spin uncontrollably. There was a horrifying jerk, followed by the sound of tearing metal, as a shower of sparks whipped by outside the canopy. Then the cockpit tilted upward, and tilted still further, until with a groan like that of a dying beast, it flipped onto one side and went into a sudden, sickening free fall that—even before Watts could prepare for impact—abruptly ended in a tremendous, jarring crash.

58

THE LIGHTNING STONEShad at last been put away and the kiva torches lit again. They were herded to the ladder and, because their hands were tied, hauled up one by one and dragged toward the rudely built tripod that held the body of Nash. Beside it now was not one empty tripod—but three.

Nora stared at Nash’s remains, now unrecognizable as a body, with a combination of horror, pity, and fear. The cultists fed more wood into the fire below them, building it up once again into a raging blaze.

She was beginning to feel the effects of the drugs they’d been forced to take. A sense of detachment—of not quite being there—was creeping over her. The chanting became a hollow echo in her ears. The colors of the fire grew in brightness, the whirling flames like tatters of orange light snapped around by the wind. A lassitude was taking hold of her mind and body… and, knowing this would lead to a sense of resignation, Nora tried hard to fight it off.

She met her brother’s eyes. Skip had long ceased his sarcastic comments. His face was deathly pale in the firelight, coveredwith a sheen of sweat. He was back on the ground, his face bloodied and his hair all awry. She was appalled at the almost unthinkable scene, torn up by her brother’s fear as well as her own terror. How could a group of people, no matter how brainwashed, do this to fellow human beings? She felt another surge of alienness cloud her thoughts and a buzzing sound start up in her ears; the drugs were really taking hold. She glanced over at Corrie, saw the terror in her face, the drugged weirdness in her eyes. Like Nora, she was trussed up and unable to move.

This was the end.

Now several cultists surrounded Skip as he lay on the ground, and took up the slender cable attached to the hobbles around his ankles. This was threaded over a reinforcing pulley at the crux of the tripod. Good God—they were going to be hoisted up by their feet, to dangle upside down over the piles of kindling, flayed to death and burned… just like Nash.

And Skip was going to be first.

“No!” Skip screamed as the cable was attached. “Get away from me!”

But the painted figures ignored him and continued their work. He twisted and fought as best he could, but despite his struggling, the figures began pulling on the cable now, in a rhythmic, chanted cadence, preparing to hoist Skip up.

“Don’t do this!” Skip screamed.

Slowly, Skip’s legs were raised from their prone position. The cable snagged in the pulley, and they stopped momentarily to fix it. Meanwhile, the fire beneath Nash’s corpse, fed fresh wood, was growing in size. What remained of the body—a lump of burnt flesh with charred ends of bones protruding—was on fire itself, swinging back and forth like a macabre pendulum, gusts of wind tearing off burning bits that swirled into the dark night.

“No,” said Nora. “No.No.”

The buzzing in her head increased, and the sounds around her grew distorted, as if her skull had expanded into a huge echo chamber. She desperately tried to keep a grip on reality—but that same reality was a mad froth of panic and disbelief.

“God!” Skip screamed as he was pulled into position and began to sway, upside down, stiff hair just brushing the tips of the logs and branches assembled below.

In her drugged nightmare, Nora became aware that Corrie was struggling wildly, trying to wrench herself free. Nora began to do the same, flailing at the nearby guards with her tied hands, trying to headbutt them and lash out with her hobbled feet. She screamed maniacally, cursing Bromley, his twisted gods, and his false religion.

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