Starvation Ridge: Abide the Fire -- Chapter Fourteen

 

Mullins poked at the ringbolt with his index finger. "It's got a lot of shine to it – he must have found a way to wear through the last link with sheer friction. Three weeks' work."

    Lockerby stood up and looked across the back of the LAV toward the Eastsiders, who were holding some kind of meeting, holding the reins of their horses. "We're screwed, y'know that?"

    "Screwed every way I can think of, Lockie. Wolf is at large, and even if he didn't move all the goods, he'll have stashed something. The riders look like they're thinking of bolting, and we're not much good without 'em. The trucks are soured, and both the Cat and this too-valuable-for-its-own-good gun platform are gettin' a bit iffy themselves. There's maybe two shipments of stuff comin' up th' road before Magee notices there's no more runners comin', meanin' if we ever see another runner from him, be tellin' us to either commit hara-kiri or come home an' be shot."

    "Shot would be nice, compared to letting the Doctor have us." Lockerby looked at the sun. Its light was already angling down through the trees, which in this valley meant that they'd already wasted a good three hours of daylight. "What have we got in our favor?"

    "Well, if we cut ourselves loose – to which I see no alternative – we have here more than half the army Magee could raise against us, and three weeks' head start. Close to parity if we can keep the Eastsiders interested."

    "But the machines will run out of fuel by then."

    "Yeah, we could circle th' wagons and go on th' defensive, maybe at th' big river. But there wouldn't be enough food and ammunition to hold him off for long, even with this cannon here."


    "Here comes Lacey."

    The tall Tribal stopped about fifteen feet away. That's how it's going to be, thought Lockerby. Nobody will trust anybody now. Lockerby made a faint gesture, palm down, for the benefit of the Volunteers: "hold off." If anyone got overeager, Lockerby would have to kill him himself.

    Lacey looked them over, his hands on his hips. His men had fanned themselves out, with easy access to the weapons slung on their horses. "You have had a casualty."

    "We don't know that," said Mullins. "The prisoner's gone and his guard with him."

    "It is a casualty. We have found the body of your guard. He has been stripped of everything he had on him, and he is missing an arm."

    "Shit, Wolf's provisioning himself."

    "He is practical. A man caught up to him; my Bringer of Food, our best tracker. So we have our casualty as well, and we are also missing a horse."

    "I'm sorry to hear that. We oughta leave off playing hide-and-seek with him, though. With any luck, he'll go after Magee and leave us to ourselves."

    "That may be so. Some of those here wish to return home. We have seen that the machines have liabilities, and that the expedition may be compromised."

    "What's your personal take on that?"

    The chieftain ticked off three fingers. "I can command only in battle; on the march; or my own kin. As we are encamped, if the Bends wish to go, they may go. I have advised otherwise. Yet there is sense in it. They are few enough that they may subsist on game together and may see their homeland again."

    "You sound like you are thinkin' of stayin'. Yes?"

    "When there is no clear way, multiple strategies may lead to at least one acceptable outcome. We Prinevilles live closer to the invasion in the East. We have more at stake here. It may be we may still have the aid of the machines."

    "Magee's not likely to keep his end up now."

    "We understand that this is so. But perhaps you will."

    "I hear ya. And I'm glad of it. Tell ya what, I'll make it clear to my guys in the buildings not to whack your guys, and you ask your guys to back away from those bows a bit with those itchy fingers, and we'll chat some more. You're right; Magee's gonna come after us, and if we've got that power plant and the farmers' food, we have a chance of making something out of this mess."

    Lacey nodded. "Yes. Everything must be decided soon. There is little for our animals here, and morale will improve with a march." He walked away.

    Mullins turned to Lockerby. "Can you get to that Ay-kay?"

    "Yeah, it's in the turret."

    "Get in there an' put it just inside the rear doors, chambered and safety off. Unlatch both doors and we'll stay near 'em during this meetin'." Lockerby climbed onto the rear deck of the LAV. "All goes well, won't need it," added Mullins. "We gotta watch our guys as well as th' wild 'uns. Gonna make the speech of my life. I'm hopin' to start for that valley by mid-day."

    Lockerby climbed into the hatch, gingerly; the metal was already absorbing a lot of the sunshine. He looked back. "Do we even know where to go without Wolf?"

    "Yeah, some. The Doctor is pretty good at map stuff, y'know. Move it; they're tying up their horses."

:::

    By ox-cart, hauled by the last trained ox, Karen and Marcee made their way down into the scarred and stinking valley of Starvation Creek. As their excuse for the luxurious accommodation, they had volunteered to parcel out water bottles and soup, and Juanita and Guchi had taken them up on it gladly. As they rode along, making stops along the way, they surveyed, with increasing alarm, the destruction that had been visited upon their homeland.

    A change in the weather had slowed the rapacious flames at last, and a fire line thrown along Lazar's Creek had held. Lazar's, Reymer's, Ellins,' Beeman's, Holyrood's, Jones', Wilson's, and Ames' farms were, for the most part, no more. Houses, barns, fields, orchards, and many of the vital windmills had been swept away. The fire had leaped the north fire road and roared across the east end of Maggie's Hill in the general direction of Roundhouse. 

    Farmers, trained by Selk in the brute-force mysteries of two-twenty-volt electricity, had salvaged every available form of irrigation equipment not destroyed in the Great Fire. Pipes and hoses radiated by valve and by tee from the five rebuilt pumps Selk had prepared. These, though their intake valves sometimes clogged with algae, sucked at the Creek with a persistent hum new to most Creekers' ears, bringing water to sparse and withered crops on the remaining farms.

    Other work parties, made up in large part of people from Roundhouse, were re-planting in burned-over ground from Lazar's eastward. It was very late in the season; but there was some hope of establishing fava beans, collards and kale before winter. Broad swaths of drought-hardened soil, with the ashes of burned oats and barley, had been twice gone over by Deerie. Jorj, the hero of the moment, had clattered everywhere with his wonderful machine in the last two weeks, pulling an antique single-moldboard plow, and then a combination disk and harrow. Old stocks of seed were committed to the dusty seedbeds, and water brought by hand where pipes could not be made to reach.

    Still others, newly designated as "smoke jumpers," tracked down blue wisps of acrid fumes at the roots of trees or beneath blackened logs, digging out coals and smothering them in dirt.

    Very few people were to be found at Ridge in daylight of late. 

    The farming was more monocultural than the Creekers liked, with so much organic matter gone up in smoke. They worried about soil loss come winter rain, but there was nothing for it but to plow on the contour, east and west, and hope. Deerie had prepared almost a hundred acres when there had been an ominous bang beneath the tractor's engine cover and the celebrated machine had stopped in its tracks. 

    Raoul Molinero, his close-cropped mustache now complemented by a shadow of beard, met Karen and Marcee on the Creek road at the edge of the burn. "'A sight for sore eyes'; we are all tired of chewing venison leathers and of course everyone is thirsty. The Creek is poisonous for the foreseeable future."

    Karen looked at the Creek, trickling between two scorched cottonwoods. Yes, that scum on the pools looked like blue-green algae. And very thick. 

    "We're happy to be able to help," said Marcee. Standing up in the alarmingly tilted cart, she could see Deerie in the middle distance, with her engine cover raised. No smoke was coming from the woodburning cylinders on the platform at her back; Jorj and Deela could be seen laboring at something in the front, while Doctor Mary, with an umbrella fixed to her wheelchair for shade, kibitzed. "Do we know what happened to the poor Johnny-popper?"

    "I'm told there's a "mangled cylinder sleeve," whatever that is. It does sound serious. We are going to need your bullock, very likely, after we send you and Dr. Mary back in the cart."

    Karen, also standing, swept her eyes over the scene. "We could send him right back down, but he'll need some fodder, water and rest, after the climb. It could be dark by then; could he come down with your breakfast, and help out tomorrow?"

    "Anything will be help at this point. Some of us have been spading and hoeing. It's very slow."

    Karen, having turned sod by hand – it seemed so long ago – for an old woman in exchange for a winter's shelter, nodded. "Here's five gallons of soup – it's mostly sunchokes, reconstituted turnip greens and comfrey, with some fish stock – and clean water, fifteen gallons."

    "It will be welcome. We like anything at this point. And fish! Where did you get fish?"

    "We checked the pools over at Lawson's; a lot of them were trapped there by the drought. I'm sure they're radioactive but it is the least of our worries ... we've boiled them in sacks until the bones were softened, then strained out the fins and gills and such. We're drying all the ones we didn't use."

    "Sounds great. No, really."

    A very tanned black-haired girl whom Karen and Marcee hadn't seen before walked up. Her hair hung down in amazingly long braids, double-wrapped in beaded leather thongs. Hair! One of the new people, none of whom had yet given in to the Creek's lice-avoidance protocol. Karen could see from the way she and Raoul smiled at each other that a Roundhouse/Creek romance was under way. She hoped something of the same sort might be happening for David, Raoul's twin.

    "This is Nine-ah," said Raoul as he gripped the handle of the soup bucket. "Everyone up-valley will come for their share here; want to sit in the shade a bit?"

    "Yes, please," said Marcee. Approaching full term, she was expecting her child some time in the next month; the sun was a discomfort to her even in her white robe and wide straw hat. Raoul and Nine-ah set the heavy pot on a stump and returned to offer the top-heavy women a hand down. Karen gave a long-handled ladle to Nine-ah. "There are some old plastic bowls and tumblers here; Marcee recommends everyone use those instead of just handing the ladle around."

    "Oh, germs. I've heard about those." Nine-ah laughed. A tinkling sound, though she certainly looked like she could take care of herself.

    As Marcee and then Karen made for the weak shade of a drought-blasted apple tree , a group of workers appeared from near the half-burned barn at Lazar's. As they neared, Karen could see Wilson Wilson among them, and with him came Billee. At Billee's side loped Krall. 

    "Ah, that's where Bee got away to," observed Marcee.

    "But undoubtedly with authorization," smiled Karen. "She has a way of getting herself posted where she wants to be."

    A large black insect approached the black stump on which the bucket had been set down. Karen had never seen one like it. The creature, in shape like a heavy-set wasp, seemed to stab at the stump furiously with its abdomen, then, as if disappointed, flew hopefully toward Nine-ah.

    "Hey! No way!" She swatted at it vigorously with the ladle, hopping in a circle. "Git!" she shouted. The insect almost seemed to shrug, then lazed away toward a still-smoking tree in the direction of the approaching crew. 

    "What was that?" asked Karen.

    "A stump-effer. They hurt like the dickens!" replied the Roundhouser.

    "A what?"

    "It's a horntail," offered Marcee. "They come out after a fire and lay eggs in burnt wood; Mr. Bolo told me about them. They don't have a stinger; it was trying to lay an egg in Nine-ah. They've been a trouble to the firefighters."

    "I can imagine." 

    "And I'm not planning to be a mommy for any bug," said Nine-ah, still waving the ladle.

    This, delivered in the girl's high-pitched voice, somehow struck both of the mothers-to-be as hilarious. Nine-ah and Raoul joined in. Karen was pleased to see that Raoul had mellowed under Nine-ah's influence. She had always found him, along with his twin, a bit forbidding. She sat down heavily next to Marcee.

    Raoul, still laughing, walked to the cart and lifted out an armful of bowls. With his free hand he waved to Wilson's group and pointed to the pot. Nine-ah took a bowl from the stack, lifted off the pot lid and began ladling.

    Billee ran ahead, with Krall loping along beside her, and took the bowl.

    "Bee, aren't you a little fast?" asked Nine-ah.

    "It's not for me, silly." She sniffed at the soup. "Oh, yay, you used the fish we got ya!"

    "Mm-hm," said Karen.

    "And there's ... comfrey?"

    "We've run out of much else; Juanita says the poison's overrated anyway."

    Billee turned toward Wilson as he came up to them.

    "Oh, no you don't," smiled Wilson. "Newcomers first, in honor of Dearie's magnificent efforts." He waved Billee toward Bolo, who arrived next.

    As the crew milled around the soup pot and the water buckets, laughing and talking, another group came into view, walking up the road from the direction the cart had come. These were farmers who had missed the cart's deliveries along the unburnt fields, led by Emilio. With him, among others, were Tomma, Josep, and Marleena. Marleena's hair, Karen noted, was long and dark, and braided like Nine-ah's.

    Karen caught Marcee's eye. "How long is all this hair going to last?" 

    "Until they all start itching, I'd guess. We never have gotten rid of the things. Seems to me they mainly hit us when we all bunched up at Ridge." Marcee's baby kicked, and she placed her hands over her tummy. For a long moment she seemed to be looking inward.

Karen knew the look. A "Braxton-Hicks" contraction was in progress, according a book in Dr. Chaney's possession, from which he had been teaching them both.

    "That one looks serious." 

    "Nahh." Marcee's body relaxed. "I wish we'd had a chance to do quarantine when everyone came over the hill. They've saved us, but they could yet make us sick."

    "Or vice versa."

    "Well, anyway, they didn't bring the lice. Or the rats. I don't think Ridge ever had a rat problem before."

    "You and Avery have been really frantic about that."

    "Well, he's been all about the damage they're doing to what's left of the stored food. I'm thinking more about plague. We don't really have any defenses against that."

    "You keep us busy hunting them down. That's good practice, actually; I've been using the rat hunts to train on tactics." Karen could see a mild state of alarm spread over Marcee's face. "Don't worry; we handle them with sticks."

    "I didn't believe it when I first heard about that, but I'm beginning to see how that works. And it helps! Especially in the absence of cats."

     "I've wanted to ask about that..." Karen did not complete her question. The mood in the air had changed. A bald young woman whom Karen didn't recognize was speaking in a low voice, her words directed at Wilson. Karen looked at Krall. The dog, who had hopped toward Josep to greet him, was pointed directly at the speaker, with her shaggy mane bristling.

And Krall's tail was still.

    Wilson put his hands on his hips. "I really don't think so," he was saying. 

    Karen scrabbled at the tree trunk with her hand. "Marcee, help me stand up," she whispered.

    Marcee reached for Karen's back as she tried, belly and all, to lean forward. As Karen came to her feet, she could see, in the sharp, staccato slow-motion with which she saw at such times, that the stranger's right hand had reached beneath her tunic. Self-preservation had kicked in for most of those standing around Wilson; already they streamed away from him to left and right. Wilson, who seemed paralyzed, was clearly not reaching for the Ruger Army revolver, holstered at his waist. Billee, still holding the bowl, which was slopping soup, was stepping across to get in front of him.

    Karen focused on the woman, clearly a Creeker like herself though unknown to her. The hand had withdrawn from the tunic and was already extending a silvery object toward Wilson. The dog was leaping toward the hand, but would not get there in time.

    There was a dull but unmistakable pop, followed by another.

    Billee, who had lurched across in front of Wilson, had not had time even to shout a warning. But now, she grunted, and fell past him at Karen's feet.

    The woman with the silvery object stepped backward, her right eye blooming red, and fell to the ground as well. Two surprisingly large clouds of dirty gray smoke formed, and hung in the air. Karen lowered the old High Standard revolver, following the stranger with it as she fell.

    But there was no need for a second shot.

 

 

    In times gone by, perhaps the scattering crowd would have given itself over to shouts and screams at this point. But Creekers and Roundhousers had seen much of this kind of thing over time, albeit seldom among themselves. Though the shock was great, everyone immediately sought to be useful.

    "Marcee! Quick!" shouted Emilio, gesturing toward Billee. Karen holstered the revolver and turned, extending her hand toward Marcee, who grabbed hold with both of hers and heaved herself up.

    Emilio himself knelt by the other woman, but, as Karen could have told him, she was beyond help.

    Billee had got herself up on her hands and knees and reached for the inverted bowl, turning it upright with a shaking hand before collapsing again. Wilson knelt and turned her over, producing a knife with which he cut away at the fabric over her collarbone. A purple bruise – no, puncture – came to light, from which dark blood welled up slowly, like pus from a boil.

    Marcee, supported by Karen, sagged to her knees beside Billee's head. "Breathe slowly, honey."

    "Yes'm." Billee bit her lip.

    "It's okay to cry, just breathe as good as you can."

    "Nhn-nh." Billee bit down harder. Her eyes rolled toward Wilson. She began shivering.

    "Can we get underneath here and see if there's an exit wound?" asked Marcie.

    "There is," said Wilson. Dropping his gun belt, he lifted his own

tunic. A red blotch, blackish in its center like Billee's, graced the place where his ribs came together.

    "Oh, Jeeah."

    "S'okay. Bee slowed it up. It's stopped in the bone."

    Marcee looked over toward Emilio. "And how's your patient?" she asked grimly.

    "Gone, doctor."

    "Right. Well, we need some arnica salve, some soldier weed, and some vodka." She looked over at Wilson. "and a good pair of needle nose pliers. Can we get all that from Peacher's? Or Maggie's?"

    "I'll go to Maggie's," said a voice in the back.

    "Please do. Don't want to wait to get them to Chaney's."

    Jorj, who had just arrived, pushed through. "Here ya go." He extended both hands to Marcee. In one hand he held an old-time multitool, unfolded and ready to use as a pliers; in the other, a brown stoppered glass bottle. Marcee nodded and reached for them.

    Karen stepped forward. She stooped and picked up the silvery thing, which she had seen before only in one of her father's magazines. It was heavy for its size; a tiny white-handled pistol with two barrels and no trigger guard, in nickel, covered with engravings. Twenty-two, from the bore size. The stolen round, no doubt. Damn. "Who is this?" 

    Emilio looked up, surprised. "You have not met with her in all this time?"

    "No, I really don't think so."

    "Then she must have somehow avoided you on purpose. She was Mr. Armon's sister, Arda."

    Of course, Huskey's widow. Karen could now vaguely remember having been warned against this person – by whom? And she had tried to recall the conversation at the time of the aborted festival. Now she regretted not having managed to follow up.

    Before either of them could say anything else, Marcee yelped. Everyone turned to her. She was squatting in front of the still kneeling Wilson, with a tiny bullet in the grip of the multitool in her hand, looking down at the ground. Fluid, like water but more viscous, was draining away from her shoes across the impermeable surface of the wagon road. It ran underneath the shivering girl beside her.

    "I, uh ... Mr. Jorj, could you give Billee's shoulder a shot of this?" Marcee handed him back the bottle. "And then ... I've changed my mind; let's get all three of us onto the cart and back to Ridge. Or, no, Chaney's will do. And could someone see if Dr. Chaney could come see to us? And Elsa? ... And maybe Juanita, and you, Karen? Somebody help me up."

    Many willing hands reached forward. Wilson stood up on his own. He looked at Marcee, and she seemed to understand him immediately. "Yeah, Arda too, poor thing. We'll drop her off at Hall." 

    "Will there not be an 'inquiry'?" asked Josep. He looked uphill toward the dead tractor, where Dr. Mary sat disconsolately in her chair by the upraised engine hood. She would have to wait in its shade for her turn to be transported.

    "Of a certainty," said Emilio, standing up. "But babies first."