Errol
dipped the cloth in the cool water of the washbasin, wrung it out,
and folded it twice before replacing it on his patient's forehead.
The door behind him swung open silently. Feeling the draft, he
turned. It was Elsa Chaney. He looked long; she seemed so frail he
felt he could see through her. How is she going down so
quickly?
Elsa smiled; it was that
uncertain, staccato smile that came when she was trying to think of
too many things at once. "Ready to switch out?"
"Sure."
But he didn't get up to
leave, so she sat down in the spare chair. "GM's over."
"Mmh."
"It was short. There's
so little to decide on these days. It's all been taken out of our
hands really."
"Yes."
"So, how is she?" Mrs. Chaney gestured toward Mrs. Ames,
who lay very still. Considering the effects, until recently of the
Parkinson's, it was almost like looking at a stranger. One side of
Mrs. Ames' face had suddenly sagged, yesterday or the day before, and
her eyes had gone silent. She lay with her nose against the
improvised burlap pillow. Near her mouth, the burlap was wet.
"No change, but the breathing is slower. I think today or
tomorrow, she will go down to Hall for recycling.
Recycling. It was a word, used in this context, that always startled
Elsa, though she supposed she began the tradition herself. Return
everyone to Jeeah. Honor the earth by wasting nothing. Et cetera.
Everyone had gone along with it, but in their hearts and in hers,
death remained a waste; the feeling could not, it seemed, be
shaken off. She reached out and patted Mrs. Ames' hand."What
they said was, every 'non-combatant'" – she spoke the term
wryly – "to Ridge; that would be me. Everyone else to Hall;
that would be you. It's a mobilization."
"They will try to speak with the strangers before making
assumptions, Mrs. Chaney. You do know that?"
"I'm not as naive as even I think, Errol. As
Tom would say, did say in the meeting, nobody would haul
a tank all the way here from Jeeah knows where just
to say hi."
Juanita came in,
followed by Karen, Raoul, and one of the women from Roundhouse.
Karen and Juanita wore the shifts, made from found fabric, common to
women at Ridge; Raoul and the girl, who seemed to Elsa very young,
wore the leather jerkins and trousers meant for farming – and for
warfare. Already they were wearing their swords. Raoul also carried a
finely crafted cruiser's axe, which Elsa recognized as Errol's.
Juanita stepped forward. "Is this a good time?" she
whispered.
"Oh, I think you may speak
normally. If Mrs. Ames is in there somewhere listening, she'll want
to hear everything." Elsa smiled. She offered her hand to the
young woman, who had clearly attached herself to Raoul. "You
must be Nine-ah. I was expecting long braids."
"Ma'am. We're, one by one, giving up on hair."
"We have no idea how we got so – lousy –
here; what you must think of us!"
"We
had more trouble with ticks at our place. Things come out even, I
think."
Juanita stepped to the bed,
beside Errol, who stood up. He offered her the chair. She accepted,
but gestured toward the others. "We cannot stay long."
Errol nodded; his terse smile appeared briefly. "Nor can I, I
expect. My shift here is up, and you're collecting me."
"Yes. I am going to go look for food with Guchi and Marleena,
and you all are going to Hall."
Karen leaned
against the wall. "Except me. I get to go do ordnance with Mary,
Deela, Selk, and Ceel."
Elsa released
Mrs. Ames' hand.
Juanita's hand took the
place of Elsa's, briefly. Juanita leaned down to Mrs. Ames' ear. "Go
with Jeah, Mrs. Ames."
She
rose to go, and Raoul took her place, self-consciously adjusting his
sword and handing the axe to Errol. Taking Mrs. Ames' hand in his,
and looking, to Elsa, suddenly very grown up, he said, "Go with
Jeah, Mrs. Ames."
Raoul stood, and
strode to the door, turning toward Nine-ah, and nodding. Nine-ah
stepped over to the bed, touched Mrs. Ames' face, and said, in a
suddenly small voice, "The Lord be with you." Then she went
to Raoul, and they went out together after Juanita, Errol with
them.
Karen, steadying herself against the
chair back, sat down heavily. She took Mrs. Ames' hand and gave it a
gentle squeeze, but, looking across to Elsa, said nothing at all.
:::
A
damp fog arose from the Creek at sunset. It drifted through the
cottonwoods and into the shabby fields, then hung there, a homeless
ghost. Those working on the rifle pits felt the chill with a shock,
after the hottest summer most of them had yet experienced. It would
be time, after their shift, to go to the remaining farmsteads, or
Hall, or even Ridge, to seek out heavier clothing, and some even
thought about their rain capes.
Tomma rubbed
his head. Hair's getting long, almost enough to comb. Already
finding nits; must get Vernie to shave it. He shifted the
Hawken in his arms and wondered about the dryness of its powder. The
new percussion caps were a concern, too. Deela had run tests and said
they were reliable; but there weren't enough yet to practice and
verify it. Tomma liked verification a lot.
He
stepped from the deep shadows onto the road and peered into the
distance. Yes, whatever had called to his attention was out there;
movement. He reached for his whistle. One long blast would send the
shovelers leaping to their bows – or, as was more often the case
now, to their new twenty-twos.
The movement
resolved into two figures whose gaits he recognized: Emilio and
Josep. Tomma relaxed a little as they passed Bridge; their manner
suggested no known danger following them. Yet he forced himself to
re-focus, to study the limits of sight and hearing. One never knew
whether one's friends might have let down their guard, might have
missed something. Josep halted and turned to watch and listen as well
– a good man. Emilio came on, moving to the side of the road and
clambering through a brushpile as he neared the agreed-upon site of
the punji pits.
The pits were an idea of Jorj's;
he had set the older people building the traps; a wooden box, open at
the top, about two feet square, with sixteen-penny nails driven
through the bottom. A final touch, devised by Maggie, was the
smearing of excrement on the nails. These boxes were be buried in the
road and in various paths approaching the valley, open at the top and
covered with fragile mats of reedy material and enough dirt, moss, or
what-have-you to blend into the terrain. There were none yet in the
road, but Emilio, who had been gone for a couple of days, could not
know that, and his caution both amused and impressed Tomma. He smiled
as Emilio's short legs became entangled in the heaped gorse.
Tomma cupped his hands around his mouth and hailed. "Word?"
Emilio stopped in mid-clamber and nodded, unsmiling. "Itch.
Word?"
"Scratch."
"Am I past the danger here yet, my friend?"
"I'd say so, seeing how we haven't buried traps yet."
Emilio smiled wryly. "Ah, you could perhaps have saved me some
trouble."
"But then I woulda had to
shout louder; don't want our voices to carry too far out here."
"It is true; and so I forgive." Emilio shifted his
twenty-two to his other hand and unshipped his backpack. "Here
comes Mr. Josep; let us all leave the road."
They did so. Ro-eena appeared from the shadows; she and Tomma nodded
to each other and she took his place at the roadside.
Tomma
went to his stash, sat down, and pulled out strips of jerky for the
travelers. "Got news for us?"
Josep
looked for Emilio's assent – Emilio, famished, was busy with his
jerky – and replied. "It is – not good. We did find the
Bledsoe party and they indicated they would not offer hospitality,
though they appreciated our warning and our concern."
Emilio nodded. "We talked for some time with Armon; clearly he
was very sad, and of two minds, but his people were firm with him in
their desire to go north."
Josep took a
swig from a water bottle. "I recommended they at least make for
Roundhouse and watch for a few days before proceeding. Armon said he
would consider it. But I could see the others were not pleased."
"An unhappy crew," Tomma shrugged. "Can't tell if
we're better off without 'em or not."
"We are not 'better off' without anyone; there are far too few
Creekers, even were we not faced with whatever is out there."
Emilio tightened his grip on the little rifle. "But they had
become unreliable, it is to be admitted."
"That's putting it nicely," replied Tomma. "So, any
sign of our visitors?"
Josep and Emilio
looked at each other. "My friend here," said Emlio,
"believes we were seen, and that we were not alone in following
the Bledsoes. I felt something as well, but saw or heard nothing to
confirm this."
Josep stood poking at the
ground with the end of his bow. "They were very, very careful.
We made a long detour coming back, in hopes of uncovering signs of
passage, but there was nothing almost."
"Almost?"
"Deliberately bent
twigs, parallel to the Bledsoes' track, which had then been
straightened again. Perhaps a few depressions in the earth. Extremely
skilled and light passage. I cannot believe this could have been the
same crew as whoever they are that have that enormous bulldozer."
"This is getting complicated."
"Yes." Emilio stood up and reached for his pack. "We
will go, and report. Where do we find Wilson?"
"He'll be at Hall." Tomma stood up as well. "I think
we'll throw a little patrol out past Bridge tonight, and get those
traps buried before morning. Wouldn't want anyone to see us setting
them out."
:::
Wolf
considered his situation. The clothing –and the protein – from
the kid had come in handy; fall was definitely on the way. He
regretted his second victim, however; he'd found the Eastsiders very
likable, and particularly the man who had found him: a silent,
diligent and loyal retainer to that serious-minded chief, Lacey. But
there was no letting him go back to report. So, now, Wolf possessed a
nicely balanced juniper-wood bow, a quiver of arrows, two very handy
knives, two changes of clothing, and – best of all, moccasins that
almost fit. The kid's shoes had proven, as he'd expected, multiple
sizes too small. On the downside, however, Wolf's neck was still
adorned with Mullins' nasty handiwork – the neck shackle, with its
sixty-two links of chain. He wore the chain inside the camouflaged
jumper, to keep it quiet, but the steel next to his skin bugged him –
both as a sign of his recent abject captivity, and as a constant
irritant to his flesh: the links were cold, and sometimes they
pinched.
He turned to his companion and spoke
softly. "And as for you,
I have no idea what to do with ya."
The
big Appaloosa snorted, looked at him from one big brown eye and then
the other, then lowered its head and lipped a few leaves from
whatever green things carpeted the forest floor.
"I ain't got the' time ta learn ridin', fer sure. An' yer leave
too much trail. But we've come this far, an' nobody's botherin' us,
ya might as as well sip one more creek with me." A pair of big
ears flicked; Wolf supposed that might be a reply.
Lightly gripping the reins, Wolf walked down the slope, painfully
conscious of the horse's big feet kicking up duff and dirt as they
went. The tiny valley ahead of them might or might not be occupied;
if so, there could not be many people there; it would not support
them. In days gone by, it had been what Magee had called a "park"
– places where a nation, or state, or some such thing, had declared
that some pretty spot would be left unchanged "in perpetuity."
Then, so that a steady stream of cars might
bring people to look, a parking lot had been built, and remarkably
overbuilt little buildings, with a pit toilet in each one, and then
perhaps a path to some kind of "overlook." This one, which
Wolf had found a long time ago, had something to do with water
falling over a rock face nearby; perhaps fifteen meters. Whatever
made people happy! For Wolf, the attraction had been isolation; the
place was in a box canyon blocked by a mudslide, and a young jungle
had covered the dead-end road.
As he neared
the park, Wolf let go the reins, and watched the horse amble down
toward what was left of what had once been a tiny lawn amid the giant
fir trees. Much brush had grown up, but there was still grass, and,
as the site was in shade much of the day, the dampness from the
nearby creek had kept things relatively green. The horse picked
about, seeking the best fodder, while Wolf, bow at the ready, watched
the surroundings. If anyone had moved in, they'd spot the horse, and
he, Wolf, could spot them.
After a suitable
interval, Wolf felt safe enough to come down from the woods. He tied
the reins to a sapling, in case the horse might try to go home, then
cleared the buildings, one by one. Nothing to speak of in the
toilets. Squatters would surely have used them, and had not done so;
his spirits rose. He moved, pushing aside a thick growth of red alder
and hazel, to the object of his journey: the maintenance
building.
This was a squat concrete
structure, steel-roofed and steel-doored, with a heavy-duty hasp.
Wolf had spent the better part of a day getting the original padlock
off, then found the spare hanging from a hook on the wall, with the
key in. Retracing his steps, Wolf circumambulated the building,
satisfying himself it had not been breached, then walked to a rail
fence near what had been the parking lot. Setting his bow against a
fence post, he hugged the top rail and hauled it back several inches,
dislodging moss and ferns that had grown on it, until the end slipped
from the slotted post. Reaching in, he found his padlock key. He
picked up the bow.
Returning to the shed,
Wolf unlocked the door and swung it wide. The hinges complained, but
not too badly; the grease he'd applied had not all eroded away. He
sniffed the dark interior, took two steps in, and waited for his eyes
to adjust. The air was cool on his skin, but not too damp. Good; the
roof had held. He set the bow against the wall, removed his quiver,
and stepped over to the one closet door. Taking a deep breath, he
flung it open.
Unlike at the gun store
itself, the mother lode, here all was as he had left it. Wolf let out
a long sigh. Mounted on one wall, tools. On another, weapons,
gleaming in cosmoline. At his feet, a steel trunk which he had filled
with waterproof ready boxes of ammunition and chunks of baked
drywall. It was from here that he had outfitted himself with the AK,
Glock and shotgun before recruiting his army. He'd considered coming
back with the men, to arm the lot of them, but ultimately decided
against it. Control forty or fifty new soldiers, each equipped with
the means to off him at a moment's notice? Better to get their
complete loyalty first with a successful campaign.
Except ... the "training" campaign, which had begun well,
had struck a snag – a valley full of cagey tribals intent on
protecting their cabbages. He'd been bested, he had to admit.
And he had to acknowledge their way had a point. The room before him
reflected his own skills, interests and outlook. But there were no
cabbage seeds here; nor was there food of any kind. The strange
people at Starvation Creek had been able to do something he, Wolf,
might well never do. They had settled
down.
Some of the soldiers, and that was what they were, that had besieged
his dwindling crew – had been children.
Ah, well.
Wolf reached to the pegboard where a hacksaw –treasures of
treasures! awaited him, then hesitated. Sawing off that effing chain
would take time. Making these greased battle rifles, pistols and riot
guns usable would take time, too. And he was vulnerable while doing
either. Better hit the trunk first.
Raising
the lid, Wolf feasted his eyes. Thousands of rounds of, he hoped,
useful ammunition lay in the boxes – but on top of the heap,
lightly buried in crumbled, roasted drywall, lay an item he had left at the
ready, loaded, against need upon a more sudden return: a stainless
pump-action rifle in three-fifty-seven caliber. This item alone, he
knew, was worth a warlord's ransom in this world. Rich again! He
reached for the burnished walnut stock protruding from its Kydex
scabbard.
A commotion outside added sudden urgency
to Wolf's gesture. Snatching the rifle from the scabbard, Wolf
checked the chamber quickly and ran to the door. A high-pitched
scream wafted up the creek – the horse! Broken loose? And now
where? Around the bend. And there were other animals – or was that
shouting? No, more like snarling. Checking perimeter first, Wolf left
the building at an easy trot, dodging saplings and brush, bursting
through to first one small clearing and then another.
The horse was in the middle of the second clearing, trembling, breathing
stertorously, and bleeding copiously. Around it, circling cautiously,
were five – seven? nine? large dogs, ranging in color from cream to
gray. The biggest sprang toward the horse, almost playfully, from the
front, and the Appaloosa reared, its front feet windmilling. As the
feet came down, sinking with an audible thump into the grassy sand,
the biggest gray fastened its teeth into the horse's nose.
Wolf, well knowing the dangers of advertising one's possession of a
firearm in the avaricious wilderness, for once threw caution to the
wind. He fitted the gun to his shoulder and fired. Though he knew the
report of the pistol caliber would be relatively subdued in a rifle
barrel, the sound temporarily stunned him, as it did the animals. The
leader fell to the ground, then got up and ran away, following the
others. As Wolf pumped the next round into the chamber, he had the
satisfaction of seeing the animal he'd shot fall to the ground
again, and go into its death throes. Another, the cream-colored one,
stopped to look at it, then gazed for a moment at Wolf accusingly.
Reluctantly, it sprang away into the underbrush.
Wolf watched as the creature's struggles diminished, and listened for
any return of the others. All was still, except for the labored
breathing of his big companion. Wolf half-turned to it. "Be back
in a second." He walked over to the pack leader, who now lay
still, and prodded it with the rifle barrel. It looked like it was
six feet long, though probably not. Long tail, thick mane. Oh.
Wolves! He had never seen them before. He'd also never heard of
wolves going after horses, but, he reflected, things might have
changed since old times. He had to admit these animals had not been a
common topic in the prison, despite his own name.
Time to look at the horse. Wolf retraced his steps. The Appaloosa
stood, or rather ran in place, going nowhere and everywhere at once,
as if unable to make up its mind what to do and also unable to do it.
The spotted hindquarters quivered continually. There was damage to
the back of the back leg on this side, and to the nose and lower
jaw.
Still trotting in place, the terrified
animal swung round. There it was – a bit of the guts exposed and
gnawed. To his surprise, Wolf felt his knees and elbows go cold. With
a shaking hand, he reached out and patted the big animal's shoulder.
"Aw, shit, big fella. They've screwed you up good."
The Appaloosa stopped trotting in place, and stood looking
past Wolf's shoulder. He had seen that look before –
incomprehension beyond pain – but mostly in the faces of humans.
And he had not much minded putting them out of their misery.
For once, as Wolf stepped back and settled the rifle's stock against
his shoulder, unaccustomed regret followed the curl of his finger
round the trigger.
(To be continued)