Buddy Holly is Alive and Well on Ganymede - Bradley Denton (best thriller books to read TXT) 📗

class="calibre2">I had begun to think that the SkyVue was improperly aligned, but then Oliver went into a rage and hit it with the wrench that came packed with the electronics. At that moment, the snow cleared and Buddy Holly appeared. “Hello, Michelle,” he said. “C. can’t come to the camera, but he wants you to know that he’s waiting for you. I myself want to thank you for remembering me even when almost everyone else has forgotten. Sam and Elvis say hello.” Then he vanished, and the baseball game reappeared. I called to Oliver and told him that he had fixed the picture.

Now, whenever the TV warps into fuzz, I will know that Buddy is calling me. I will send Oliver to hit the SkyVue, making sure that he uses that special wrench, and I shall commune with my gods.

Perhaps they will let me talk to C. sometime.

And so they did.

At 11:30 P.M. on Monday, February 6, I found myself on the same blacktop road on which I had fled El Dorado the preceding Friday. This time I slouched in the back seat of a ‘68 Barracuda instead of straddling a ‘57 Cyclone.

Soon after turning north on U.S. 177, Gretchen had become convinced that we were being followed, and she had taken the Oklahoma Kamikaze onto various back roads for the next several hours, racking up so many miles that we had to stop at a middle-of-nowhere gas station to refuel despite the car’s extra tank. We had crossed into Kansas well after sundown, and now, at last, we were only some twenty miles south of the SkyVue Drive-In Theater and Earth Station Emporium. My circular pilgrimage was almost over. It would be ending as it had begun, in full darkness.

Pete was fiddling with the dash radio, and he found a Wichita station that was talking about us. He had to turn the volume up high so we could hear it over the wind.

“—citizens report spotting the white Barracuda that was involved in the Oklahoma chase and that is believed to be occupied by accomplices of Oliver Vale. The vehicle was seen northeast of Winfield—”

“Rats’ asses!” Gretchen said.

“—on Haverhill Road, and another report states that Vale himself, still on an Ariel motorcycle, is trailing the automobile by several miles.”

“What are they talking about?” I yelled. “Peggy Sue’s dead! They burned her!”

“Maybe it’s risen from the grave too,” Gretchen said. “Maybe it’s become one of the Undead.”

I thought she might be more right than she knew. If anything could find its way back from the Spirit Land, it would be Peggy Sue.

But who was riding her?

There was only one possibility. If Peggy Sue were able to come back, she would bring Buddy with her. Except that he had already left the Spirit Land for Ganymede….

The radio was still going on about us. “—Cowley County Sheriff’s Department states that due to disturbances at Southwestern College, they will be unable to send a car to verify the report. Kansas Highway Patrol officials will not comment, and we have not yet been able to reach the Butler County Sheriff.

Pete pointed ahead. “Oil pumps and a holding tank on the right. If we hide there awhile, we can watch to see whether this road’s being searched. If it is, they’ll probably go right past us, and then we can continue.”

Gretchen took the Kamikaze onto the oil pumper’s road, and we bounced across river gravel to the tank, which sat sixty or seventy yards from the blacktop. When we were hidden behind it, Gretchen killed the engine and lights, and the radio went dead as well. The tank hulked over us like a small butte, and the silhouettes of the pumps rose and fell like rocking horses. The smell of crude oil, the stink of ancient death, was heavy. The only sounds were the squeak-whirr-squeak-whirr of the pumps and the tic-tic-tic of the Kamikaze’s cooling engine.

“This is just putting off the inevitable,” I told Pete. “In fact, I was going to give myself up at SkyVue anyway. Tell you what—I’ll walk north, and the Authorities can pick me up while you and Gretchen cut back south.”

“Sounds good to me,” Gretchen said, opening her door and stepping out. She tilted the driver’s seat forward so that I could get out as well.

As I did so, Pete said, “The radio claimed that your bike is following us. Don’t you want her?”

I didn’t answer, but left the car and walked around the oil tank to stare toward the south. The night sky was blackened by clouds, and I couldn’t see anything in the distance except the weird shadows my imagination conjured up. They were shaped like spaceships, women, dogs, patrol cars, motorcycles…

Pete’s shoes crunched on the rocks beside me.

“Do you think Peggy Sue’s coming back to me?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t put it that way,” he said. “My guess is that Bill Willy has a bounty on your head, so somebody from the revival, maybe even a Corps of Little David minister, is using her to get to you. But he’ll have to pass by here, so we might be able to get your Ariel back if he doesn’t wreck her when I run the Kamikaze up his butt.” He put a hand on my shoulder and steered me behind the tank. “But whether we recover Peggy Sue or not, I promise that I’ll get you to SkyVue. So don’t take off on your own yet.”

We sat on the Barracuda’s fender and watched for headlights approaching on the blacktop. Evergreens partially blocked our view to the north, but the south was clear. During the next twenty minutes, only one vehicle passed by. It was heading toward El Dorado, and although it was neither a patrol car nor a motorcycle and didn’t even slow down, I worried. Its engine noise sounded familiar and unsettling. When I spoke that thought aloud, Pete replied that it sounded like any other old Datsun to him.

Soon after the Datsun passed by, Gretchen leaned close to Pete and said, “It’s so peaceful out here that it’s hard to believe there’s anything wrong in the rest of the world.”

“We can take care of that,” Pete said, jumping off the fender. “The kids gave me a pocket TV for Christmas. It’s in the glove box.” When he brought it out, its three-inch, black-and-white screen was displaying the same view of Buddy Holly that had driven me from my home and instigated worldwide chaos. Pete spun the tuner, and the picture popped off and on as the receiver caught different stations.

Buddy was sitting in the dust, plinking the strings of his Stratocaster. He look stranded and forlorn. I turned away and stared toward the black road some more.

“What the hell’s that?” Gretchen said.

I scanned the night. “I don’t see anything.”

“Not out there, mush-for-brains. On TV.”

I looked at the picture. The camera had drawn back so that Buddy was a minuscule figure at the bottom of the screen, and he was gazing up at an object that floated several feet over his head. It was a shimmering, oblong. Cadillac-size thing that blazed as if made from the stuff of supergiant stars.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” I murmured.

“I have,” Pete said. “That’s what appeared when we were about to have that head-on crash. See, it’s shaped like a spoon.”

The object rotated on its long axis with ponderous slowness, its nebulous halo shrinking and swelling as if with a gargantuan heartbeat. As I watched, I became aware that its shape was not that of a spoon.

“It’s a guitar,” I said.

Gretchen shook her head. “No. A crescent wrench. Or maybe, it’s more like… well, you know.”

A spoon, a guitar, a wrench, a rocket, a phallus: It was all of these, and none.

Whatever it was, Buddy was glad to see it. He stood, leaving his Strat at his feet, and raised his arms.

“Hey, you finally showed up!” he cried. “Thank you, Oliver Vale! I’m ready to go home!”

But Oliver Vale sat on a fender in Kansas, shivering, knowing that Buddy had waited in vain. The glowing thing would not bring him home. It stayed out of his reach, rotating and pulsing in silence.

After a while, Buddy lowered his arms. He looked at the object for a few more minutes, and then, with a shrug of resignation, he picked up his guitar and began playing.

He sang “Crying, Waiting, Hoping.” It’s one of his best, written in New York and recorded in his apartment with a custom-made Guild acoustic just weeks before his death. It’s a song of love, loss, and yearned-for redemption.

“Jeez, what’s that?” Gretchen said.

“Whatever you want it to be,” I said.

“Not that, pruneface. Over there.”

She pointed toward a wavering red light that illuminated the clouds over the western horizon.

“It’s Wichita,” Pete said. “It must be on fire.”

We reentered the Kamikaze with Pete behind the wheel. He turned on the radio, and it told us that angry religious groups and couch potatoes had set massive bonfires outside TV stations not only in Wichita, but in cities across the country. Stations in Denver, San Diego, and Baltimore had already burned to the ground, and others were sure to follow. Some of the fires had spread far beyond their points of origin.

And the fires were not the only civil disturbances.

In New York City, the mayor had declared martial law. The consensus of the radio commentators was that he didn’t have the power to do that, but he had done it anyway. With or without the governor’s consent, he had rallied two or three thousand National Guardsmen to assist the police in squelching the rioters who were tearing apart the RCA Building. At the latest report, however, the rioters had been squelching the Guardsmen, who were retreating to Wall Street to regroup. There, it was predicted, they would be attacked by berserk stockbrokers.

In Boston, the infamous downtown Combat Zone had actually become one. A horde of overweight men who normally spent their evenings at home watching television were fighting in the streets over the peep shows and prostitutes.

In St. Louis, crazed people wielding cutting torches were attempting to topple the 630-foot, stainless-steel Gateway Arch, claiming that it was the broadcast antenna for the Buddy Holly disturbance.

In Tokyo, everybody was trying to work extra shifts so that they wouldn’t have to watch television. Factories were becoming overcrowded as workers refused to return to their dormitories.

In London, Labour leaders were blaming the Tories for failing to deal with the crisis, and the Tories were blaming Labour. Skinheads had burst into Parliament and had chain-whipped M.P.s regardless of party affiliation.

Reports from Warsaw and Moscow suggested that Polish and Soviet citizens were enjoying the change of programming.

Six Flags Over Texas had been overrun by entertainment-starved Dallas Yuppies.

Movie theaters everywhere had been reduced to rubble by throngs battling for tickets.

Burbank was being sacked.

The reports were horrifying, hilarious, bizarre, and devastating. The more we listened, the more it seemed as if it all had to be a colossal joke—but the picture on the TV in Pete’s hand proved otherwise. Buddy was in his Jovian heaven, and all was wrong with the world.

Besides which, the Oklahoma Kamikaze had been sitting behind a rural oil tank for over thirty minutes, and neither the cops nor Peggy Sue had passed by. I was beginning to feel SkyVue tugging at me, telling me that it had the answer I needed if I would only hurry up and take a look….

“Let’s go to El Dorado,” I said.

Pete started the Barracuda, and we left our hiding place just as a constellation of headlight beams appeared from behind the evergreens to