the highway,” Dean said.
“Right.” Sam nodded. “Good idea.”
“Sam, are you with me?”
Dean had a horrible fleeting image of his brother freezing halfway across the highway, staring off into space as a pickup truck bowled him over like a tenpin, shattering every bone in his body. “On second thought, you wait here. I’ll cross. We can trap him between us.”
As Dean ran toward the highway, the overpass deterioration accelerated. The whole caged tunnel began to roll over like a log in a stream. Chunks of concrete dropped to the highway, followed by falling people, slipping through the loose fencing. When a few attempted to exit the far side of the bridge, the man in the bowler struck them down. Everyone who had reached the bridge was trapped, screaming, falling and dying. Cars smashed into falling pedestrians or slammed into other vehicles, creating fuel spills, ruptured fuel tanks and more explosions. If racing across the highway had been a dangerous proposition before, now it was certain death.
Dean hesitated for a fraction of a second, then trotted briskly back to his brother. “Plan B.”
Unable to assist the fallen, they guided people away from the overturned stairwell.
“This way,” Sam shouted, directing people east, parallel to the fires and explosions.
Dean nodded and steered people west. By splitting the crowd into two groups, they minimized the potential for trampling.
For a quarter-mile on either side of the overpass collapse, wrecked and burning vehicles jammed all lanes of traffic. Because many drivers had swerved off the road to avoid major collisions, the shoulders were also packed with vehicles. Several ambulances approached from the east and west on Route 38, but their drivers had to stop well short of the injured and proceed on foot with emergency kits and stretchers. Other emergency vehicles—fire trucks and police cruisers—entered the mall parking lot from the east and north entrances to tackle the fires and treat the injured.
After the crowd from the caged staircase had dispersed, Dean and Sam approached the wreckage. Movement on the other side of the highway caught Dean’s eye. Metal creaked and twanged as the staircase on the far side tilted forward, performing a slow-motion collapse onto the road surface. Dean tried to remember when he had lost track of the man in the bowler. He had seen the man striking down pedestrians who tried to make it across the bridge, immediately before it collapsed. Somehow Dean doubted the stranger had suffered the same fate as his victims. His staircase had stood long enough for him to retreat to the south, and the smaller shopping center on the other side of Route 38 would provide cover for his escape. By the time they crossed the highway, the man in the bowler would be long gone.
“Dean!” Sam called.
This time Dean had been the one staring off into space.
Sam scrambled over the toppled staircase and edged into the remains of the smoking demolition derby. Within seconds, he was coughing uncontrollably.
* * *
With the cruiser’s siren wailing and lights flashing, Sergeant McClary drove with controlled recklessness through the streets of Laurel Hill. Initially, the mall shooting had been the destination, but reports soon came in about the collapsing pedestrian overpass, along with an impromptu demolition derby on Route 38. Riding shotgun, Bobby realized before McClary that the logjam ahead posed a real problem to any further forward progress.
“Looks like we hoof it from here.”
McClary shook his head. “Not just yet.”
With short, strategic blasts of his siren, the sergeant managed to coax several drivers far enough out of the lane for him to squeeze through. But he gained only a hundred yards at best and the pace was so deliberate Bobby wondered if walking would have been faster.
He saw the overpass ahead, in the final stages of a violent collapse, and spotted one lone tall, dark figure escape on the right side. Bobby leaned
“Right.” Sam nodded. “Good idea.”
“Sam, are you with me?”
Dean had a horrible fleeting image of his brother freezing halfway across the highway, staring off into space as a pickup truck bowled him over like a tenpin, shattering every bone in his body. “On second thought, you wait here. I’ll cross. We can trap him between us.”
As Dean ran toward the highway, the overpass deterioration accelerated. The whole caged tunnel began to roll over like a log in a stream. Chunks of concrete dropped to the highway, followed by falling people, slipping through the loose fencing. When a few attempted to exit the far side of the bridge, the man in the bowler struck them down. Everyone who had reached the bridge was trapped, screaming, falling and dying. Cars smashed into falling pedestrians or slammed into other vehicles, creating fuel spills, ruptured fuel tanks and more explosions. If racing across the highway had been a dangerous proposition before, now it was certain death.
Dean hesitated for a fraction of a second, then trotted briskly back to his brother. “Plan B.”
Unable to assist the fallen, they guided people away from the overturned stairwell.
“This way,” Sam shouted, directing people east, parallel to the fires and explosions.
Dean nodded and steered people west. By splitting the crowd into two groups, they minimized the potential for trampling.
For a quarter-mile on either side of the overpass collapse, wrecked and burning vehicles jammed all lanes of traffic. Because many drivers had swerved off the road to avoid major collisions, the shoulders were also packed with vehicles. Several ambulances approached from the east and west on Route 38, but their drivers had to stop well short of the injured and proceed on foot with emergency kits and stretchers. Other emergency vehicles—fire trucks and police cruisers—entered the mall parking lot from the east and north entrances to tackle the fires and treat the injured.
After the crowd from the caged staircase had dispersed, Dean and Sam approached the wreckage. Movement on the other side of the highway caught Dean’s eye. Metal creaked and twanged as the staircase on the far side tilted forward, performing a slow-motion collapse onto the road surface. Dean tried to remember when he had lost track of the man in the bowler. He had seen the man striking down pedestrians who tried to make it across the bridge, immediately before it collapsed. Somehow Dean doubted the stranger had suffered the same fate as his victims. His staircase had stood long enough for him to retreat to the south, and the smaller shopping center on the other side of Route 38 would provide cover for his escape. By the time they crossed the highway, the man in the bowler would be long gone.
“Dean!” Sam called.
This time Dean had been the one staring off into space.
Sam scrambled over the toppled staircase and edged into the remains of the smoking demolition derby. Within seconds, he was coughing uncontrollably.
* * *
With the cruiser’s siren wailing and lights flashing, Sergeant McClary drove with controlled recklessness through the streets of Laurel Hill. Initially, the mall shooting had been the destination, but reports soon came in about the collapsing pedestrian overpass, along with an impromptu demolition derby on Route 38. Riding shotgun, Bobby realized before McClary that the logjam ahead posed a real problem to any further forward progress.
“Looks like we hoof it from here.”
McClary shook his head. “Not just yet.”
With short, strategic blasts of his siren, the sergeant managed to coax several drivers far enough out of the lane for him to squeeze through. But he gained only a hundred yards at best and the pace was so deliberate Bobby wondered if walking would have been faster.
He saw the overpass ahead, in the final stages of a violent collapse, and spotted one lone tall, dark figure escape on the right side. Bobby leaned
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