"All
of them?" Magee seethed inwardly, but kept his exterior calm.
"Yessuh, not a one of th' savages is any where abouts.
De-camped in th' night entire." Jahn grimaced and
spat into the yellow mud at their feet.
"Well,
they being them, and other matters in hand, we'll not pursue. You've
otherwise proved up the command?"
"Suh,
ever'one fed, watered, lectured, jazzed up, geared up, and loaded for
bear."
"You are a jewel, my lad; and
these are all my drivers with you?"
Several
men stepped forward.
"Good morning, boys. We
are going straight in, no more asslin' around. Remember what Jahn
told you; kill all males on sight; incapacitate or capture females.
Stay behind the Cat, tank, and dish truck at all times. We will use
the dish intermittently at a very low setting to upset things on the
battlefield; it will give Mullins and Lockie a headache but I want
th' rest of yah's alert and active.
"Have
your crossbowmen use th' firing ports and stay in th' trucks until
three long blasts on the dish truck horn. Anythin' happens to us in
th' dish truck, so as not to be able to signal, command devolves upon
the Doctor here in truck two; then upon Jahn in truck four."
He met pairs of eyes round the semicircle, one by one. "Much
depends on each of yah's. Oh, do try to dispose of Mullo and Lockie
before making any kind of a withdrawal, please. Personal favor. But
as we have stressed several times since our arrival, nothing really
is awaiting us in Roseburg any more; we brought it all with us and
supplies of that are dwindling. We will invest this place
as we have no viable alternatives." Magee
pointed in the general direction of Starvation Ridge. "That way
lies an endless supply of electricity, of shelter, and, with any
luck, procreation."
He looked into their faces
and found sufficient resolve there; everyone knew the wretched
condition of the lands through which they had passed. The advantages
of a winter spent here, even with little prospect of food, far
outweighed those of any other place they had seen.
Magee
put his thumbs through his red suspenders. "Don't have no better
speech for ya, but plenty of action is on offer in its place.
S'good?"
Several voices replied, with
variations on "S'good, boss!"
"Well,
then, mount up an' fire 'em up! We're just burnin' daylight here!"
:::
The
phone rang. Avery, who'd been asleep in his chair, snapped to
attention and picked up.
"Mmh? Over."
"Sir, s'Bee. They're coming. Over."
"Coming where? To you? Details! Over."
"No sir, to Bridge. We think it's all of
them, crawler, gunship, the dish thingy, and eight more armored
trucks. They are making awfully good time for how mucky it is down
there. Over."
"Copy. Is Emilio down to
Bridge yet? Over."
"Should be by now,
sir, left in the middle of the night. Shall we go down and join the
fight, sir?"
"Bee, I assume you've got
your finger off the button? Over."
"Oh,
sorry, sir, over."
"So, hate
to bug you of all people about this, but, any sign of Wilson?
Over."
A painful pause. "No, sir.
Over."
"Leave Ro-eena by the phone to
coordinate with me, and somebody to watch over her, and bring
everyone else you've got to the battle. Over."
"Y...yes, sir. Over."
"Out."
Avery reached for the doorbell buzzer and rang twice. With any luck,
someone would be by the phone at the rifle pits. There was; with no
delay he heard Emilio's voice on a much cleaner connection than the
line to Ball Butte.
"We're already listening,
Mr. Murchison. Over."
"No less expected,
Mr. Molinero. Is everyone bright eyed and bushy tailed? Over."
"We have made all possible preparations. I have command
on the south side of the road, and Mr. Josep on the north side.
Over."
"We sent you all but a skeleton
crew yesterday, as you know. Karen is pulling together an evacuation;
they will head up the Creek and if these bastards get through
you, don't make for here; go up the Creek. We'll
keep them occupied. Understood? Over."
"I follow you, sir. But ... "
"Leggo that button! Are you there? I repeat: if the fight comes
up here, do not follow it. Over."
After several clicks of the primitive phone system had butted heads,
Emilio's voice came through again. "Understood," he said
resignedly. Obviously he was concerned about Juanita. "Over."
"Good. Now, and this is important, the weapon we all
heard about, it's real, it's running, it's dangerous, it's unwieldy
as all get-out, we will use it, but it can cause
friendly fire casualties; we can only see what we're doing through
Ball Butte. Keep everyone well back from the road for as long as you
can, hopefully until you hear from us again. Copy? Over."
"Copy ... what will be the effects? Over."
"We're not even sure. You won't see a beam, but some
things may get sliced and diced in interesting ways. It will come
from behind Ridge, maybe about a thirty degree angle. There could be,
I dunno, falling trees and shit. Or there could be nothing at all; we
don't know how much juice this thing has left in it, or how robust
the connection. Just stay the eff out of its way if
you can. Over."
"We will do as you
advise. Based on what Mrs. Wilson has said, I will estimate the enemy
will arrive here in about one hand. Or less. Over."
"Well there's a chance they'll huff around to the south
and try to hit us from the homestead again. But I don't think so; I
think this is it. Over."
"It most
assuredly is. I must go now, I think. Over?"
"Yeah. And, uhh, Jeeah be with you. Over and out."
Avery reached for the button again, to try for Ro-eena; but he
felt presence. Looking round, he found Mary, in her chair and Selk,
standing, busying themselves with the console.
Selk turned his owlish eyes upon Avery, smiling grimly. "Ready
when you are, Captain."
:::
Karen
sighed. Too much to do, too many things that ought to be done and no
way to do them. Try as she might to consider herself complete as she
was, she felt the situation slipping out of control. A
left hand would be nice right now.
She pointed to the two Roundhousers –a boy and a girl –
that had been considered too young to fight – which was very young
indeed, as even the Perkins kids were out there somewhere, armed to
the teeth. "You, and you."
"Ma'am?"
said the nearest, putting down a squirming puppy.
"Childhood's over. You just grew up. Get your bows – you do
have bows? Good – your arrows, one blanket, one knife,
any food not nailed down, rain cloak, water skin or bottle, a change
of clothes if you have one, one pair
of spare sandals, any kind of fire starter, sewing kit, and anything
valuable to a winter traveler – sunglasses, say, for snow. Make a
blanket roll. Go to each adult on this level and show them the
contents of your blanket roll and say: 'Karen says we're all going on
a long hard trip. Pack like this. Travel light.' Repeat, please."
"Karen says we're all goin' on a long hard trip. Pack
like this. Travel light." In unison!
"Very
good." Karen admired Roundhouse discipline, not for the first
time.
One of the kids turned toward the puppy who
was scampering away. "What about Dough Go?"
"Dough Go will come with us; dogs are valuable."
At this they brightened; but then the girl's face clouded. "As
food?"
Karen steeled herself and paused to
get the tone right, truth with some empathy.
"All living things are by definition food for other living things. I've had trouble coming to terms with that myself. But with any
luck at all, Dough Go will have a long and happy life
bringing you good
things to eat and watching over you. Now, hop."
Karen moved to the stair well and ran up to the next level. A number
of people were in the refectory, spooning at bowls of thin gruel or
simply raising the bowls to their lips to sip. These were all elders,
Mrs. Lazar and Mrs. Chaney among them, with Juanita presiding
over them from the kitchen door. She locked eyes with Karen and
nodded.
Karen stood on tiptoe in the entrance and cleared
her throat. "My friends all, if I may have your attention."
Bowls were set down and eyes turned her way, some bright, some
rheumy. Behind Juanita, Karen could see Mrs. Josep, carrying Karen's
own tiny baby wrapped in a towel.
"The war is
about to enter its final phase, we think. Almost everyone that can or
should go to Bridge has done so. All the youngs and middles
downstairs are packing up for a winter journey on foot. Should this
take place, it will likely be a long, cold, wet, hard slog.
"Ridge is going to defend itself. Those who don't feel up
to joining the trek should consider whether they can join the defense
here. Travelers are going to assemble by the staircase in about two
hands and make for the sally port. Who wants to go, who wants to
stay?"
"I'll certainly stay, my dear,"
smiled Mrs. Lazar. "My time is about over, and maybe you will
provide me with a trigger to pull."
Mrs.
Chaney looked at Mrs. Lazar as if to say something, then thought
better of it. A few Roundhouse elders nodded, apparently in agreement
with Mrs. Lazar. The rest did what was pretty much left to them in
life: they waited.
Mrs. Chaney made up her mind.
"Ava, I'm sure you and everyone will want to consult with Karen
as to what's left of the Armory. May I have her for a few minutes
first?"
"Of course, dear. We'll be
finishing up our grand repast. And I do
mean
grand, " she added, looking across to Juanita. "I simply
don't know how you do it."
"'The
condemned Creek ate a hearty meal'," Juanita replied. "It's
the very last of the seed wheat, with spices. And, probably, knowing
where it was kept, radioactive."
"Least
of our worries. We do thank you – proceed, Elsa."
Mrs. Chaney swept Karen in to the Infirmary, next door. On a
cot near at hand Tom lay sleeping.
"You will
need a medicine kit. I'd go," Mrs. Chaney attested wistfully,
"and be the 'medicine woman,' as I'm still pretty hale, I think.
But I'm not leaving Tom, of course. You, and probably Juanita and
Marleena, know most of what I know anyway." She opened a
cabinet. "Oh, Jeeah help. There's ... not much here."
"That's all right, Mrs. Chaney."
"No, it's not. Here's needles, sutures – what's this stuff?
Cottonwood infusion. A couple of good pairs of scissors and a
forceps. Some almost pure wood alcohol. Infusion of plantain. Some
powdered goldenseal."
A creak sounded behind
them. They turned to find Tom Chaney trying, and failing, to sit
up.
"Oh, Tom, please, take it easy,"
Elsa remonstrated.
"To what end?" He
rolled his head on the pillow. "Karen, I see, you're going ...
to head out soon. The new Moses."
"Sir."
Karen could think of nothing else to say.
"Quite
appropriate. There is something ... you could do for me – for Elsa
and me, if she will allow it. I know she's unwilling to head for the
hills, and she's right – not ... as strong as she thinks she is ...
for one thing," he chuckled, watching his wife's reaction. "So
I want to be able to ... defend her. Got ... anything I
can manage?"
Karen ransacked her head for the
Armory's dwindling choices. "Yes, sir, I think I do."
"All ... in good time." His breathing came in little
gasps between the words. "Finish your other business there, and
see us if you can before you go."
"Understood, sir." She turned, blinking away her blurring
vision, and focused on Mrs. Chaney. Elsa took a deep breath, and
returned her gaze to the almost emptied cabinet. "Some bandages
are most of what's
here; I should think you'd be better off not burdened with them."
"I see one thing we really should have, ma'am,"
replied Karen.
"What's that?"
"The roll of duct tape."
:::
Lockerby's
teeth – such as he still had – rattled in his head. Like many,
he'd suffered through a number of amateur extractions already.
"Builds character," The Doctor would smile. Somewhere
behind him, he knew, she was riding in relative comfort, with her
vials and syringes – the ultimate enforcer, as terrifying in her
way as the mysterious dish atop the truck Magee was driving.
Bouncing uncomfortably on the seat, Lockerby gave the Cat
three-quarters throttle, keeping the cable taut to the LAV in tow
behind. He held onto both control sticks of the D-8, watching the
road ahead through the relatively tiny slit in the cage's forward
armor. He could see over the raised blade, but barely. His shotgun
rider, a taciturn youth, held on for dear life. The shotgun itself,
Mullins' much beloved Mossberg, clattered to the floor.
Lockerby considered diving for it himself, but realized he had no
chance of changing the game. His foot was chained to the floor. "You
wanna pick that up and get a better grip on it? I know you've already
racked it; that thing could go off and mess us up in here."
"S'sorry." The kid reached for it, still holding on
with his other hand.
Ahead, Lockerby could see the
Creek bridge beyond the intersection;
maybe fifteen seconds away. He wondered idly what "seconds"
once were; Magee had tried to explain it once but finally had fallen
back on a rule of thumb; "just count 'em; say 'one thousand one,
one thousand two,' like that. Close enough."
One
thousand thirteen, one thousand fourteen. "Hard
left; hang on." He slammed the left lever back and tried to
watch ahead and behind at the same time, hoping not to take up too
much slack on the cable at once.
To the rear,
Mullins was already cranking the turret manually in order to commence
file firing. Lockerby shouted to his passenger over the roar of the
diesels. "You got those chewed leaves in your ears like I showed
you?"
"Yeah, why?" the youth asked
sullenly. "Open your mouth wide." Lockerby demonstrated.
"What?"
The thirty-five went off
behind them. Light flashed in the trees ahead, on the left, and there
was a sodden thump of ordnance exploding in wet foliage.
"Ow!"
"Told ya; helps save
yer eardrums." The turret behind them was cranking the
other way. "Again."
"Aaah!"
The kid's shout, half terror, half bravado, would protect his hearing
nicely.
The cannon opened up on the right. No
response from the farmers. Perhaps all the starch had gone out of
them – was this going to be easy, then?
At that
moment an explosion much louder, albeit lower and slower, enveloped
Lockerby's small world. The Cat rose up in mid-air, hung at the top
of its short arc momentarily, and pitched forward onto the base of
its blade. Lockerby held onto the sticks with all his might, but
would have been tossed against the armor plating forward, had not his
foot been locked down. His companion, having no such luck, bounced
forward, caromed off the plates, and fell across Lockerby's lap.
The Cat settled much where it had been before, but in a small
crater. Smoke poured in through the slits and the grated flooring.
Had Mullins somehow shot the D-8 while traversing?
Lockerby strained at his fellow's inert form and lifted him away.
From the corner of his eye he could see the kid's nose was bleeding
profusely. Perhaps his own was as well.
Lockerby's ears rang, but he could
feel the Cat's engine idling. A mine! The road had been mined. If
Mullins hadn't welded extra mine protection beneath the power plant
and cage, no doubt the machine would have been killed, and its two
passengers along with it. He tested the throttle with his foot. A
reassuring rumble answered him. Good; now to see if either track was
in trouble. Sticks forward; up, out, good!
The kid
was moaning. Lockerby swung to the right and shouldered him. "Wake
up! Look alive! Things to do here!"
Grinning
idiotically, the recruit nodded, picked up the Mossberg and peered
out the right-side door slit. "What hit us? What's with the
smoke?"
"Never mind. Watch for
counter-attack!"
The thirty-five banged
again. Lockerby involuntarily braced himself for the rattle of lead
on armor, but none came. Where were the
farmers?
Thunder rolled from somewhere above, and
then a thing occurred which made no sense to Lockerby at all.
A narrow ditch appeared along the roadside to their left,
spouting dirt and duff, as if the ground were being unzipped. Tree
branches fell, smoking, all along the road into the near distance. A
man, missing much of his left side, stepped from the shrubbery into
the road, screamed once, and fell down.
What was that?
Lockerby felt sure Mullins hadn't done it.
No time
to muse on it, however. Lockerby held the sticks forward; the Cat
rumbled over the body in the road, feeling not so much as a bump. The
LAV fired to the left and again, shortly thereafter, to the right,
jerking at the Cat through the cable with each recoil. Not for the
first time, Lockerby wished they had found a way to get the big
Bushmaster to run electrically. Manual was just not up to the task
here.
Peering through the front slit, Lockerby
could see that the "zipper" was coming back. Upper halves
of small trees were falling into the road from the right, and dirt –
or mud – was spouting up from the gravel berm on the left, like
some kind of racing geyser. It would hit the Cat!
It did; but whatever it was seemed to have little penetration. Blobs
of steel gouted from the armored engine cover and a steely
vapor probed at the slits; but whatever it was had not lingered long
enough to cut anything vital. Lockerby held the levers forward; what
else could he do?
"Incoming!" shouted
his seatmate. The Mossberg snapped to the kid's shoulder; he fired
through the starboard gun slit. He racked the smoking red shell out
of the chamber and clicked home another.
"What
was it?"
"Runner with a Molotov. Got
him."
"There'll be one on this side,
then! Climb over me!"
Lockerby leaned
forward. Knees dug painfully into his back, but his ears were
rewarded with another blast from the Mossy. An ejected shell tumbled
at his feet.
"Eff, you were right, that was
close!"
Something pinged on the armor near
the front slit.
"Careful! Stay down!"
But it was too late. The youth sat down, still grinning
idiotically, but a tiny third eye had opened in his forehead. Life
faded from his eyes. Lockerby noted the location of the shotgun, but
kept the Cat roaring forward. The LAV barked again; the Cat shuddered
with the recoil.
The giant zipper swept over the
armored cage and down the road again; branches flailed into the road,
cut cleanly off. A small hole had appeared in the roof; Lockerby
became aware of it when a droplet of molten steel fell onto his arm,
like dripping solder, and steamed its way into his flesh.
"Eff it! Eff!"
Lockerby released the levers, then grabbed up the Mossberg and jammed
it against them with his good hand. The Cat stalled momentarily, then
lumbered forward again. He sucked at the wound on his other forearm
for a bit, then dropped the gun and grasped both levers again before
the Cat could leave the road.
A small bullet
entered the front slit at an angle, then spalled round the interior
before landing, spent, on the seat by Lockerby's side. He fought the
impulse to stop and return fire. Safety, if it lay anywhere, lay
ahead. He peered at the slit.
Branches were
showering down again, but from the left. Lockerby felt sure the
weapon, for it must be one, was being operated blindly. The Cat would
not be hit on this pass. And the end of the woods, open country, lay
ahead, with farmhouses visible.
But
what was that?
Another armored Cat, but much, much smaller, with a wired-up
five-gallon bucket tied to its blade and a smokestack at its rear,
entered the thoroughfare from a side road. The strange machine turned
and advanced, at what was clearly its turtle-like top speed, on the
D-8. A Kamikaze mission! That bucket must surely be another mine.
Lockerby kept on, as if to pass on the right; the other dozer
clearly meant to do the same, probably with the intent of turning
into the LAV and blowing itself up there. Lockerby felt he had the
advantage, however. Just as the Kamikaze came abreast of his blade,
Lockerby would snatch back his left lever, brushing the little Cat
off into the ditch.
The plan almost didn't come
off. At the critical moment, someone (how had they got aboard?)
somehow shoved a spear in through the left slit, narrowly missing
Lockerby's head. He ducked aside and snapped back the left lever.
The blade connected! The little Cat rolled over in the ditch!
Lockerby had no time to exult – that spearman was still out there,
and might shift to another angle at any time. He reached up and
snatched at the haft of the spear.
Apparently
having recovered, someone snatched back, almost cutting Lockerby's
hand. He grabbed up the Mossberg, aimed it at the slit, and fired
blindy along the shaft of the spear, disregarding the pellets that
ricocheted back, stinging like holy hell.
The
spearpoint slowly withdrew. Lockerby racked another shell into the
chamber and aimed along the barrel at the slit. Refocusing, he
discovered his wounded opponent, falling away out of sight past the
tracks.
It was a black woman!
In that moment, Lockerby might have reflected on his career and
wondered, briefly, how he had come to this place and time, and
whether his choices had been good ones. But several things happened
at once.
One was that the giant zipper passed by,
making a brief but spectacular splash of someone's blood. Another was
that yet another farmer had apparently clambered up the other side of
the Cat, and holed him in the back with one of those tiny bullets. He
didn't even hear the report of the rifle. Yet another was that, from
where he was sitting, Lockerby could see the little Cat lying upended
over the roadside ditch, with its upside-down power plant burned off
by the Zipper and now in flames. At the front, apparently unscathed,
hung the bomb, tightly cabled to the inverted blade. In the smashed
cage lay an old man, bald and bearded, smeared with blood, and in his
shaking hand he held what looked an awful lot like some kind of
plunger switch at the end of a length of wire, with the plunger
depressed.
And then the old man lifted his
thumb.
Lockerby instinctively ducked away from the
window, but was still unprepared for the blast wave when it came. The
great Cat rose up and pivoted on its truck-sized blade until it
hovered in the flames in which it had become engulfed, then sat down
again heavily, upright as before but mortally wounded. Lockerby would
have caromed round the interior like a spent bullet, but for the
chain round his leg; as it was he was stretched out almost to the
roof, then crumpled against the wall, then the floor, and dropped
again into his seat. He knew that his nose was bleeding again, and
probably his ears as well. He was pretty sure the chained leg had
snapped. Darkness crept in round his eyes, but he fought off the
tunnel vision long enough to find the shotgun.
There was too much light. Lockerby realized the passenger-side door
had been thrown from its latch. He twisted his agonized body and
squinted. If the day were sunnier, he wouldn't have been able to see
a thing.
Beyond, from what remained of the woods
to the right, a small, round-shouldered man was advancing on
the Cat through steaming, burning shrubbery. An arrow, loosed from
somewhere behind the LAV, missed him; he came on and disappeared to
the left. Probably climbing the hydraulics to get at the cab. In the
near distance, a long, low steel-clad building was in flames from
shells being pumped into it by the chain gun. Above and behind the
building loomed the dark ridge that was the object of Magee's
quest.
It didn't look like much.
Eff
you and your quest, old fart. Come here and let's talk about your
electricity and your "restoring civilization," blah blah
blah,"Boss." And then I'll blow your effing head off and
join these nice folks here, see if I don't ...
Oh!
the blossoms in the pear trees! How old was I when I first discovered
Spring? Seven, maybe. I think I was seven.
Something scraped on the hot steel. Lockerby could imagine the
man's fingers blistering. Singleness of purpose. Perhaps he had
family to protect. A weapon, one of those little rifles, came into
view, tucked into the left shoulder. The man was trying to take
advantage of cover. Nice job! Lockerby had always admired presence of
mind. Now the man heaved into view, taking aim. A Mexican?
They both fired as one.
(To be continued)