Wolf had realized he would not have time or means to dry the horsemeat and wolf meat properly. The weather was uncooperative, there was no salt, and he'd been concerned about advertising his location with a plume of smoke. So he'd scattered the bones of the horse and stretched the skins and left them to stink themselves dry as best they might, above the reach of most predators, well away from "his" cache. The bulk of the meat he'd sunk in the pool below the waterfall, in case he might have to come back for it.
At
dawn on the third day, he'd struck out vaguely east, toward the
River, wearing a heavy packboard and carrying his bow and the little
rifle on opposite sides of his load. The stiff wolfskin he'd
stretched over the load, for such shelter from the intermittent rains
as it might afford.
His plan, given the weight of
the load, the evanescence of his burden in the cool but not
cold-enough weather, and the relative scarcity of game, was to gorge
himself. Every few hours, he stopped in a likely-looking sheltered
place with good visuals, unshipped the packboard, and set to work
slicing increasingly rank steaks from from his burden. If he bulked
enough, he reasoned, a few days' starvation at the end of this
affluence might not weaken him enough to present a problem – in the
short run.
More of an issue at present was water.
The streams he'd come across were in bad shape, mostly dry washes
with here and there an evilly-slimed puddle. A few dead animals near
some of these – one of which appeared to have thrashed itself to
death in the undergrowth – left him with a distinct impression that
toxins were present.
He'd have to locate a well.
Wolf was not fond of wells in general, because they were found
near houses, and houses had a way of attracting visitors. Nine-tenths
of success in conflict or rather avoiding conflict, he'd begun to
think, consisted in not "being there." But when ya gotta,
ya gotta. Wolf struck an overgrown road as he was thinking on these
matters, and instead of slipping uneasily across, turned and followed
it to the nearest mailbox.
This one had been
painted light green and bore the stenciled legend "Hodgkins
939021." It now lay on its side, partially buried in mud, amid a
riot of vinca, the long-dead spring flowers of which lent an air of
melancholy to the sight. Of more interest to Wolf, there were no
footprints in the mud, which had long ago washed across what would be
the driveway. The house could not be seen from here, meaning that he
could not be seen from the house – a good sign. He'd have a
look-see.
Stashing his packboard in the middle of
a thicket of Scotch broom, Wolf released the rifle and slung it over
his shoulder, removing an old foam earplug from the end of the barrel
as he did so. Next he took in hand his bow and quiver, felt for the
knife handle at his waist, and crawled, agonizingly slowly, at a
distance from and parallel to the driveway, until the outlines of a
house came into view.
Its appearance was
reassuringly nasty. Windows broken out, door hanging half awry, vines
and creepers grown over the roof. Aquamarine-painted aluminum siding
had popped off in several places, exposing shreds of the ubiquitous
stuff hugely labeled "Tyvek," with an underlayment of
sodden pink insulation. An elderberry bush had found its way through
the flooring of the mudroom or living room, whichever it might be,
and was protruding lushly from one of the windows.
Wolf waited, watched, and listened. Patience being a virtue.
And all that.
:::
Karen
stood morosely over the impromptu incubator. She poked a finger at
little Allyn's fuzzy cheek; he twitched, eyes half open, and nuzzled
at her finger, trying to suck. "Is he even getting any
bigger?"
"Sure," said Marleena.
"But it is slow with the preems, you cannot really tell."
She put down the sleeping Arda and came over. "What is it,
you've been staring at him ever since you came in, as though he might
bite you."
She kindly refrained
from mentioning that Karen had arrived with red eyes and a swollen
nose.
"I've hit a rough patch. So it's
nothing; lot rougher patches around here."
"Well, you do look – 'bushed', Dr. Mary would say. Would you
like me to get you something to eat?"
Karen
started. "No!" she replied, more forcefully than she
intended.
Marleena was taken aback, and took
refuge in checking on Arda again – an excuse, as the child was
sleeping soundly, for once.
Karen rubbed her
shoulder where the arm was missing. Sometimes it seemed as if it
ached – the arm that wasn't there. Then she poked again at her
ungainly child, who seemed to wave her off with his tiny hands. "I'm
... I'm sorry, Marleena, I've been told something about myself – my
past. I found it hard to take, that's all."
Marleena sat down in the nearest folding chair and picked up a skein
of wool and began carding. "Do you want to sit down? You have
been standing there a long time."
"No.
It's all right."
"About food, you must
eat to feed the child."
"I know."
Karen rested her chin on the aquarium's back strip. She placed the
back of her hand against Allyn's spine and rubbed him gently. "Just
not yet."
"Is it about food, then?"
"Oh, I wish it wasn't."
"I
think I understand you. Listen, it's all live or die all the time.
Every minute everyone is closer to death."
"Yes."
Marleena tugged away at the
work. "Karen – there is a reason there are Roundhousers at
all, you know. Sometimes, we made choices."
"You too?" Karen rounded upon her. "This is
everywhere?"
"It was. With us, before my
time. Since then we have been more fortunate, but just barely, thank
the Lord."
Deela walked in. "Ah, Karen,
you are here. Marleena." He sat in a chair near Marleena and
peeked into Arda's box, smiling. He then looked up at Karen. "I
have sought you out."
Karen made an effort to
smile, but gave it up. "We're all about the nursery now."
"Dr. M, she quoted something as to that. 'A man, even
when he holds a baby, sees and thinks of the world. A woman, while
she may be one who sees and thinks of the world, when she holds a
baby, sees and thinks only baby.'"
"She's
saying I've lost focus on the Armory."
"I
will be frank. Karen, you have lost focus in – on – the
Armory; but it was very good timing. You have greatly helped the
Creek and we fight at a safer range with your twenty-two primers. And
now I have learned from you, and my shotgun shells are functional. It
is really very right to set aside these things for your child's
sake."
"You're being kind."
"No, I am here to tell you something, and Marleena as
well."
Both women leaned forward
involuntarily.
"Good," said Deela, his
white teeth flashing in his ebonite face. "I have the
attentions. It is like this. Selk and I and several others have been
set to running wiring for explosives. We are putting much of our
remaining powder inside the counter of the Control Room and in the
control panel room of the Reactor Room, fourth level."
"Whatever for?" asked Marleena, standing up. "That
sounds like a plan for mass suicide!"
"Some
suicide, perhaps, yes, as I understand, a last resort should it come
to that. But not so very mass. Karen, I must ask, can the littlest
one travel?"
"I ... we keep him
comfortable as we can, here." She pointed to the glass-walled
contraption. "I suppose I could park him in a sling bag and try.
Certainly we don't want to raise these children next to a couple of
bombs!"
"I would say, yes, think toward
'try'. I have been quietly dispatched by Dr. M. to remind you of a
conversation she says she had with you recently. And to encourage you
to gather as many others as can travel, to begin preparing such
things as they might need."
:::
Seeing,
hearing, and feeling no activity around the house, Wolf approached,
arrow drawn, treading carefully. He negotiated an obstacle course of
large plastic toys that had become brittle over time and covered with
brambles – excellent noise and entanglement traps – and gingerly
stepped in past the half-unhinged storm door. Clearing from room to
room, he eventually satisfied himself he was alone, and began to give
part of his attention to the probable location of the well. There had
to be one, unless there was a town closer than he thought. Noting
there was no pumphouse in the back or side "yards," he
investigated what had clearly been the laundry room, and by following
the exposed PVC pipes, discovered the well in a closed cupboard
beneath shelves full of rat-soiled sheets and towels.
Luck was with him once again. He'd feared the well would hold an
immersion pump – such, built to fit within the well casing, could
block access unless removed – a formidable task. Virtually
impossible with an indoor well. But this pump was of the exposed
variety, sitting next to the wellhead with two rubbery-looking pipes
connecting it to the well cap. The well casing, what he could see of
it, looked to be about twenty centimeters in diameter. The pipes
could be quickly sawn through with his hacksaw blade. Only a single
bolt, through a hole in a kind of clamp wrapped round the well cap,
separated Wolf from access, assuming, of course, the well had not
gone dry in the long drought.
Wolf repaired to
the garage, two rooms away, assessed what tools had not vanished over
time, and returned to the laundry room with a heavy, rust-red pipe
wrench and a small hydraulic jack.
After cutting through the pipes, he tried the bolt with the pipe
wrench, finding it, as expected, rust-frozen. Adjusting the jaws of
the wrench to obtain the tightest possible fit round the hexagonal
head of the bolt, he lifted the jack, laid it on its side, and
cranked its handle to wedge the jack between the cinder-block outer
wall and the end of the wrench handle.
Several
slips and adjustments later, Wolf found the handle's sweet spot and
was able to turn the bolt. He lifted the well cap and sniffed. An
impression of clean dampness – wishful thinking? – wafted from
below. Well, he'd just have to try it out.
Rummaging through the relatively empty structure, he found a tall and
skinny-enough empty orange plastic bottle, labeled Wisk, which he
filled with enough pebbles from outside to sink it, and tied a long
telephone cord to the handle. This he lowered alongside the pipes in
the well till he ran out of telephone cord, and finished off his
well-rope with a length of moldy clothesline from outside. Presently
there came to Wolf's hands a bottle filled with pebbles and cool
water.
Mad with thirst as he was, he dared not
drink this first liter or so – too much soapy residue. Regretfully
he shook the bottle for an agonizingly long time, poured it off, and
repeated his procedure.
Just as the fourth
bottleful of water, hopefully potable, came to light, Wolf
heard movement among the brambles and debris, by the driveway.
Someone was approaching the front of the house!
Not at all cautiously – the confidence of an armed fool. Wolf set
down the precious water and took up his bow and quiver, stringing the
bow and fitting an arrow in one smooth maneuver. He glanced at the
rifle leaning against the wall – no, better to rig for silent
running. No knowing how many others might be nearby.
The footsteps were in the living room. Now came the sounds of a
cursory investigation: items of erstwhile furniture prodded, tipped,
turned out. Whoever it was would be as new here as himself. Wolf
padded into the dark hallway and drew, aiming for the doorway from
the living room.
A man, smaller
than himself, and carrying a rifle with his finger in the trigger
guard, came in from the better lighting of the living room,
momentarily silhouetted from behind. Sensing that something was
wrong, he threw the weapon to his shoulder.
Wolf's
arrow was at full draw. He loosed it into the silhouette and ducked
back into the laundry room, drawing another arrow as he did so. An
explosion of curses filled the hallway, followed by explosions from
the rifle. Semiautomatic! Wolf threw aside the bow and hugged the
floor, scrambling for his carbine.
Amidst the
mind-numbing racket, holes appeared in the wallboard above Wolf's
head, one after another in rapid succession. Gouts of fluff sprayed
him, like a miniature snowstorm, and the gypsum got into his eyes and
nose. One shot – five – twelve? Seventeen? He lost count. If this
was going to be a full size magazine, there could be another row of
holes closer to the floor, for good measure. Time to get out.
Crawling, belly pressed to the floor, Wolf snaked his way
across to the next doorway and practically ran on his knees and
elbows to the kitchen, as the fusillade continued. Bullets were
penetrating the cinderblocks in the far wall – not a good sign.
Racking a three-fifty-seven into the chamber of the carbine, Wolf
reached the doorway to the hall and waited.
The
shooting abruptly stopped, followed by the click of the magazine
being dropped. Such a wasteful shooter must surely have more
magazines – now or never! Wolf kicked the door, found his target
slumped against the wall, fired, pumped, fired again, pumped, and
fired again. The smoking rifle that had hunted him through the walls
fell to the floor, and the arms that had held it sagged, hands
twitching.
Wolf approached the shadowed figure,
judged its fighting capacity permanently impaired, and delivered a
kick to the head just for safe measure. The man, groaning, fell away
toward the rifle, but made no move to reach for it. Wolf squatted,
carefully avoiding the protruding arrow in the stranger's back, and
patted him down for weapons. He removed and tossed into the living
room a gleaming chromed pistol and a black-handled knife. He stood
up, strode over to the rifle, and kicked it into the laundry room.
Stooping for the clothesline rope he'd used down the well, he untied
it from the phone cord, returned to his moaning prisoner, and roughly
tied his hands and feet. The piteous keening rose in volume.
"Oh, shut up."
"Uhh, what,
I'm dead arready, lemme alone." A kid's voice.
"Y'don't sound dead. You lie here nice'n quiet, I got
things t'do."
"Water? Water!"
"I effin' wish. Be quiet or I kick y'again." Wolf
picked up his carbine, racked another round into the chamber, and
cleared first the house, then the yard, trying to catch his ragged
breath. That had been a near thing.
If this gun-happy child had buddies, it could be far from over.
Not until he'd seen an unconcerned crow perch nearby, whetting
its beak on a sagging branch, did Wolf return to the house,
habitually scanning his surroundings as he went.
His first order of business would be to see to the weapons. He came
to the knife – a Buck – and tested the blade. Sharp – no rust –
and oiled! He raised it to his nose. Dust from the wallboard
permeated his nostrils, but he believed he could smell – what? He
sniffed again. Gun oil! The real thing. Jamming the knife into the
wall, Wolf moved to the pistol and picked it up.
It was heavy as a boat anchor, clearly also well oiled, in custom
walnut grips. Some kind of awkwardly-shaped nineteen-eleven. He
checked the engraved inscription. Sure enough, a Coonan!
Three-fifty-seven! These things had been made, in small numbers, as
playthings for rich conservatives. He racked the slide. Empty.
Magazine empty too. The kid had held onto it, hoping against hope to
find ammunition that would fit. And he, Wolf, in the middle of
nowhere, was carrying enough of the right ammunition, in good prime,
to fill that magazine eight times over. Wolf the Lucky!
Something about the Coonan bothered him, though. What was it?
Carrying the pistol, he walked into the dim hallway, stepped
over the prostrate form of the youth, and entered the laundry room.
As he suspected, a variant on an em-sixteen. No, more of an
ay-arr-ten. Shoving the pistol in his rawhide belt, he picked up the
black rifle, surprisingly heavy for its compact size, even with no
magazine attached. He fingered the manufacturer's mark: a rearing,
grinning rattlesnake. Huh. In caliber three-oh-eight! No wonder it
had punched through the cinder blocks. A nice thing to have, with far
more striking distance and penetration than his little Israeli pump
gun. He rolled it over, and disappointment struck him in the gut.
Wolf the Sometimes Not So
Lucky.
He'd apparently shot the weapon out of the
boy's hands, hitting it not once but twice. A ragged hole in the
magazine well and a horrid dent in the receiver told the tale. In all
probability this thing would take too long to fix, with the tools at
hand, to be worth the effort.
Standing the
battered relic against the wall, Wolf felt again the unease with
which he'd examined the pistol. Time for a conference.
He stuck his head into the hallway. "Y'still breathin?"
"Uhhnh."
"Oh, good! Come an'
hang out wi' me a bit." Approaching the youth, Wolf laid hold on
the collar of his well-made shirt, and dragged him into the laundry
room. "I'd sit ya up but y'liable to pass out on me with all
that blood out 'n the hall."
"Water?"
Spying a shallow steel cup tucked by its handle into the young man's
tooled leather pistol belt, Wolf retrieved it. Turning it over, he
found the words "Sierra Club" stamped in the base. What
kind of club outfitted its warriors with fancy, shining,
tippy-looking cups? He poured from the Wisk bottle into the cup,
drank it off, and poured another cupful, holding it to the young
man's lips.
The youth drank greedily.
What a kid! Ponytail, and earrings! Fancy clothes head
to foot! Too bad about all the holes in him. What stories he might
tell. But they had maybe half a hand together before this boy would
depart, or Wolf was no judge of wounds. "Better?" he asked,
in his kindliest manner.
"Yes-s ... more?"
"Sure. But that's it for now; it's hard work bringing
this stuff up an' you're wearin' my well rope."
"Sorry."
"No prob." Wolf
pulled the pistol, dropped the magazine into his palm, turned it
over, and began loading it methodically. The kid, damaged as he was,
eyed the clean ammunition hungrily.
"Y'know,'
Wolf said softly, "if y'd backed out of th'hall an' offered t'
parley, I mighta been inclined thataways. Oh, well. So, tell me.
Where ya from, an' why the eff are ya carryin' items from my
personal gunstore?"
(To be continued)