Over the mountain, take me across the sky
Something in my vision, something deep inside
Where did I wander, where d'ya think I wandered to
I've seen life's magic astral plane I travel through

- Ozzy Osbourne

On the afternoon of July 16, Lucy Loud crossed from Colorado into Utah on US50. Barren brown hills rose up along the westbound lane, and flat hardpan blanketed with thistly sage opened up along the eastbound lane. In the distance, low mountains swam across the horizon. The sky was wide and dusty blue. It was dry. And hot.

She was riding a mountain bike she had taken from a shop in Grand Junction. It was slightly too big for her, but she didn't trust any of the smaller bikes to handle the terrain: She was past the Rockies, but (at the time) still in the foothills, the highways rising and falling, in places twisting around jagged hillocks. She didn't know how she would have gotten through the range if not for the old man.

She met him on the morning of July 11. She was walking down the center of US25, in the extreme southeast corner of Wyoming south of Pine Bluffs, when the drone of an approaching engine rose in the distance behind her. For a moment she didn't know what it was: Her stomach twisted as she pictured Mother Abagail bearing down on her at the head of an armored column. She started to duck off the road, but it was too late: A car appeared over a rise, swerving back and forth across the center line. It blew past her, stopped, then backed up. It was a red muscle car. Lucy didn't know what kind.

The man in the driver seat was tall and gaunt with leathery skin. His hair and beard were white. He wore a tight white T-shirt. Lucy shrank back when he leaned across the passenger seat and spoke to her.

"Hey, little miss, you lost?" He laughed.

On her shoulder, Lincoln cawed.

"I'm going to Las Vegas," she said.

The man's eyes widened. "That so? Just so happens I am too. Want a lift?"

Lucy looked at Lincoln. What can it hurt? She thought. Flagg's watching out for me.

"Okay."

She reached for the door handle.

"You bringing the bird?"

"Yes."

The old man shrugged. "Alright."

The passenger footwell was piled with trash: Fast food wrappers, nakpins, recipts, crumpled cigarette packages, empty beer cans.

"Sorry about the mess," the old man said, "wasn't expecting company."

Lucy climbed in and closed the door. The air stank of dirty feet and stale cigarette smoke. The old man hit the gas, and the car rocketed down the highway. He reached between his legs and brought a bottle to his lips. The label had a picture of a pirate wearing red.

"How long you been on the road?" he asked after a long, awkward silence.

"I don't know," Lucy said. "I don't even know what day it is anymore."

"July 11," he said.

"That's it?" Lucy was surprised. It seemed like much, much more time had passed since she left Michigan.

"Yup," he said. "Where you coming from?"

"Detroit," she said. It wasn't a lie. Detroit was close enough.

He whistled. "You been alone all this time?"

"I'm not alone. I have Lincoln." She petted the bird. "And Flagg."

"That's company enough, I guess."

From there they rode in silence. Every once in a while, Lucy caught him stealing glances at her. She couldn't tell whether he was afraid of her, intimidated by her, or wanted to molest her.

As it so happened, it was the last one.

It was July 14. Lucy gazed out the window at the massive mountains reaching toward the heavens. They were on a narrow, windy road east of Grand Junction. To their right was a steep rockface, and to their left, a drop into nothing. The old man had been drinking since they got on the road, and even though she had Flagg's protection, she was beginning to worry that he was going to drive them through the guardrail and off the mountain. He drummed his fingers on the wheel and kept looking at her. Over the previous days he'd made of habit of not, because every time he did, Lincoln stared him down. Today, however, he was just drunk enough not to care.

Sometime after noon, they rounded a bend, and not ten feet away, a rush of stalled traffic blocked the way. "Shit!" he cried, and stomped on the brakes. Lucy jerked forward, and Lincoln cawed.

Groaning, the old man threw his head against the headrest. "We have to go all the way back."

"It's not that far," Lucy said. She turned, and he was stare at her, his eyes pink, puffy, and hungry.

"You're a pretty little girl. Anyone ever tell you that?"

"Yes," she said in a cold tone.

"Really pretty."

He reached out and stroked her hair. Lincoln pecked his hand, and he pulled it back with a hiss. "The hell's wrong with that damn bird of yours?"

"He doesn't like it when you touch me. And neither do I."

"Yeah? Well, I don't give a shit what you think."

Moving like quicksilver, he snatched Lincoln off her shoulder. Lincoln cawed. "Give him back!" Lucy screamed.

Grinning, the old man grabbed Lincoln's neck and twisted. Lucy heard the snap of bones, and horror filled her.

"You bastard!" she screamed, and launched herself at him, intending to claw his eyes out. Instead, he grabbed a handful of her hair and threw her back against the passenger door.

"You be nice to me and I'll be nice to you," he panted, unbuckling his belt. Lucy's heart thundered in her chest, her eyes wide with horror. He came across the center console and mounted her. He smelled like armpits and alcohol. She tried to punch him, but he caught her by the wrist. His other hand crept up her leg.

"Just the head," he panted, "that's all. I promise."

Lucy turned her head away and caught sight of Lincoln lying in the driver seat, his eyes wide and his head bent. Rage welled up within her, so hot it threatened to burn her center.

She whipped her head around, and the old man must have seen something in her eyes, for he gasped.

"Get the fuck off of me!"

They locked eyes, and for a moment he was frozen. Then, ever so slightly, he began to tremble.

Lucy blinked, and his head exploded. Gore, blood, and bits of brain matter splattered her. She let out a horrified scream. His body pitched over and crashed into the passenger door, knocking it open. Still screaming, Lucy tumbled out and fell to the pavement. For a moment she laid where she was, trying to catch her breath.

Then she remembered Lincoln.

"Lincoln!"

She pushed herself up and went around to the driver side. She ripped open the door, fell to her knees, and scooped the bird up in her hands. His neck flopped brokenly.

"Lincoln," she stammered, "God, Lincoln."

She hung her head and sobbed bitterly. Several times over the next hour she tried to bring him back, but couldn't. At one point, as she stared at him, willing him to live, his wing flapped, but that was it.

She buried him in a shallow grave by the road and marked it with a weirdly shaped rock. If you looked at it from the side and squinted, it kind of looked like a heart.

Numb and covered with blood, she walked down the mountain, her fists clenched. The sky, previously clear, darkened, and cold rain fell.

Presently, she swerved to avoid a Jeep lying on its side like a wounded animal. It was the first vehicle she had seen in nearly an hour. The last was a red Ford Taurus parked in the breakdown lane. She stopped to search it for anything valuable (her sunburn had begun to peel, but she knew she was going to get burned even worse in the desert, so some alo would be nice). It was parked so neatly that she expected it to be abandoned.

It wasn't.

In the back, the bloated body of a little boy, no more than three, was strapped into a car seat. His face was rotting, the skin beginning to slip. His eyes bulged from their sockets, and maggots squirmed in a hole in his cheek. Lucy turned awake and puked onto the asphalt. She tried even now not to think about him, but his face haunted her.

"I wish I never stopped," she said. She looked to her shoulder, but Lincoln wasn't there, and she sighed.

Second Lincoln I've watched die.

Biting her bottom lip, she pedaled faster, the wind rushing through her hair. Images of Lincoln the bird and Lincoln the boy went through her mind. She bit harder and pedaled faster. The old man's face appeared, grinning, leering. She bit harder, pedaled faster. She could taste blood now, but she didn't care. She was soaring along the highway, the world rushing past in a blur. Part of her hoped she hit something, flew off, and cracked her head on the pavement. At least she'd be with her family again. Maybe.

Another part of her wanted only to finally be in Vegas. It would never be Royal Woods, but it would be home.

She made almost two hundred miles by sundown, and allowed herself some sleep. She camped off the highway east of Green River. The land sloped away from the road. The soil was sandy. The air was cold. She built a fire and slept as close to it as she could. In her sleep, the old man appeared, his eyes bulging, his teeth clenched. Blood flowed from his nose and ears. Lucy muttered and turned, restless.

"You did this to me," he said, reaching for her.

No. It was Flagg.

"You did this to me..."

You were going to hurt me.

When she woke, dawn was just beginning to creep across the eastern sky. The fire had burned down to embers, and she was cold. She looked for Lincoln, then sighed when she remembered he was gone.

She sat up and drew her knees to her chest, loneliness crashing over her. Flagg was one state away, she told herself, waiting for her. His eyes were everywhere, his spirit was omnipresent. Still, she might as well have been on Mars.

She missed Lincoln the bird, she missed Lincoln the boy, she missed Lori and Leni and Luna and Luan and Lynn and Lisa and Lola and Lana and Lisa and Lilly and mom and dad, she missed Clyde and Bobby and Ronnie Ann, she missed Royal Woods.

You have more power than you know.

She didn't feel like it. She felt weak. Afraid.

The old man...

That was Flagg. He was protecting her.

Part of her believed that, but another part of her, a more instant part, told her that it wasn't Flagg; it was her.

Spiritualism and parapsychology are absurd, Lisa's voice rang in her head. Lucy believed her, but deep down, she wondered. After all, didn't she dream of Lilly before she was born? Before she was even conceived? Yes, she suddenly remembered, she did. And didn't she sometimes know things?

You have more power than you know.

She stared at the glowing embers, focusing.

Nothing happened.

She called up her anger, her fear, her pain, and, as if kicked by an unseen foot, the coals scattered across the ground. Gasping, Lucy fell back, her eyes wide. She did it. She actually did it.

Closing her eyes, she focused, and a vista of sight and sound opened before her. She saw the house in the corn, saw Mother Abagail standing next to a young man with wavy hair. He wore an eyepatch. A pick-up truck idled in the dooryard, its bed crammed with people.

Boulder, Lucy thought, they're going to Boulder.

She saw Vegas. People in orange vests and hardhats carried bags out of buildings and heaped them into the back of garbage trucks. Other people were busy sweeping debris out of the street. Trash, broken glass, other, less nameable refuse.

Then she saw the old man lying next to his muscle car, his head ruined. A buzzard pecked at the exposed flesh of his arm.

Lucy opened her eyes.

She was more powerful than she knew.