Cougar
came to the house, where two bodies were laid out in the shade on the
north side, and found Wolf sitting in the doorway on the west,
examining one of the rounds from the old man's Winchester.
"Wolf."
"Coug."
"That last
boy, he's alive yet – just gutshot. Can talk!"
"Well,
they're damned hard to hit from a scope, running like he was; I'm
surprised I hit him at all. Outstandin'; let's have him up here for
some conversation."
"Wolf." Cougar ran off
down toward the river.
Wolf reloaded the round, parked the
carbine against the doorjamb, and looked inside the house. A couple
of his men were going over the kitchen. They'd found the well and the
pantry; there were, believe it or not, some cans of evaporated milk,
and even a large gunny sack with a dozen pounds or so of oats in it.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen grain. His men, none of
them over nineteen, had seen a few pitiful attempts at farming but
winnowed grain was a novelty to them.
The place was situated
in a sunny spot with a mountain at its back, a river full of fish at
its feet, and had been cleverly rebuilt into a small, even cheery,
fort. With a needlepoint hanging on the wall: "Give to God the
glory." A survivalist and his brood. Wolf felt some regret for
their extermination, but with the larger prize across the mountain
going unclaimed as yet, and winter coming on, he'd concluded they had
no time to try to recruit the old man. So he'd opted to invest ammo
in securing a jump-off place.
"Boys, we got a guest
comin'. Could we get this table cleared a bit, to make him comfy?"
"Oh, yeah, Wolf, you bet." They swept the breakfast
dishes onto the floor with a crash.
Wolf winced. "Ah,
now, be a little civilized about it. We might wanta use this
as headquarters for awhile, or have it ta come back to for R 'n R.
Tate, pick up them pieces and what's good, take over to th' sink.
Chuck the rest out th' back away from th' path."
"Yeah,
Wolf. Sorry."
Cougar and three others came to the
stoop, carrying a listless and bloody burden. In shirt and pants,
pre-Undoing style. Some of these loners really knew how to hang onto
the things they had known. Might be a whole stash of nice clothes in
the loft somewhere.
"Right this way, gennumen, lay him
down on th' dinin' room table nice 'n easy."
They did
so, and gently enough, considering.
"Now, if ya please,
bring th' other three and put 'em in the shade of th' house, with
th'old skinnies."
"Three?" asked Cougar,
puzzled.
"Did I or did I not shoot two more boys an' a
dog?"
"Oh, yeah! Dog!" Cougar grinned.
Dog was much preferred to "long pig" – when they could
get it. "Wolf." He touched his forehead and led his
companions out into the sunshine.
Wolf looked over their
find. "Tate, let's put somethin' behind this young man's head
and give 'im a drink of water."
The boy looked about
thirteen. Big, though. These fanatic patriarchs fed their kids well
but didn't always train them well, he'd noted. Obsessed with freedom
for themselves, they gave little of it to their families. Anywhere in
'polite' society, by now this would be a grown man, responsible for
his own fate. One result of such close parenting was the botch this
bunch had made of meeting Wolf's arrival. Let 'emselves get mowed
down like sheep. Sad, no kiddin'.
Ah! Coming around. A
spasm of pain in the region of the bowels made the boy's body arch on
the table; he tried to roll over.
"Easy, now. Yah've
been shot; we're here to take care of ya."
"Where's
my Pa? Where's my Ma?" A tear rolled down the lad's cheek.
"Not much we can do for 'em, I'm afraid. Dead when we got
here."
"How do I know you didn't kill
'em?"
"Ya don't. Might have to trust us. We're not
here to trouble ya's; and I'm sorry to see what has happened. But
we'd like to know a bit about th' folks over th' hill, if ya can tell
us anythin'." Wolf patted his hand.
"Wh-why? N'why
should I talk to you at all?"
"Ah, that's
the spirit. I knew ya had some backbone to ya. But lemme show ya
somethin'." Wolf's men had examined the wound and left the
blood-soaked shirt half unbuttoned. Wolf undid the remaining buttons
and pulled away the shirt, then lifted the boy's head. "See
that? s'an exit wound. Yer shot from behind, I'm sorry ta say. And
this on yah's shirt – see right here? – is not all blood. Yer
folks give ya any idea what this means?"
"Yeah.
Some." He was beginning to shiver uncontrollably.
"Yep.
So ya might's well chat with me, son. I'm all the time yah've got
left."
:::
Mary
Savage, Ph.D., pushed her jeweler's loupe up to her forehead and
rolled away in her high-backed office chair to admire the treadle
machine. It had been found out there somewhere, back when the
Creekers were ransacking the region, in a farmhouse full of antiques.
The young folks, her apprentices, were moderately good at disassembly
and fabrication now, and she'd had them carefully remove the sewing
machine from the platform and set it aside for later use, then mount
a gearbox taken from an old hand-cranked grinder and attach a
weighted hacksaw to it. The saw went lickety-split when the foot
treadle was rocked; just the ticket.
"Nice. Very nice,
thank you much! Now, y'all take five, sip a little home brew, and
let's start making a lathe for this thing as well. See, it's gotta to
run a variety of tools, everything we can think of to do with it; and
it'll give us a leg up on all kinds of productivity."
And we shall certainly need all kinds and then some.
Mary had taught engineering at Georgia Tech. Her specialization was
tensile strength of materials, along with malleability and ductility.
Well-trodden areas, but there had been some new discoveries, some of
them hers, in the properties of carbon nanotubes for example. She was
visiting Oregon State, consulting for Chinese physicists on
cost-control for wire-drawing machines, when all hell had broken
loose. Cities, even this cute little one with its starry-eyed
"Transition Town" groups and gardens up the wazoo, would
soon be disaster areas. Mary had packed up her Tahoe with all she
thought she might need, and left town on small streets and obscure
roads, her route Google mapped and GPS checked.
Both
of which had crashed forever within half an hour of her departure.
A large-bodied woman with a bad back and worse legs, she'd known,
of course, that she wouldn't get far, but giving in to fatalism was
not in her nature. As luck would have it, she'd been pulled over by a
state police car, robbed of everything, and dumped at an intersection
right by a road sign that said "Starvation Creek." And here
she was, chief engineer for a bunch – if it were possible – even
more starry-eyed than the environmentalists back in town.
But so far, so good. They'd fed her for seventeen years.
Good chow, too. Considering.
One of the kids, beer jar in
hand, glanced out the window. "Dr. Mary, we got company coming
up to the house."
"Rogers'?" The farm was
uniquely organized. Two separate households were maintained: Savage
Mary's, as it was called, and Rogers. Rogers' crew farmed the whole
place and a Common farm next door as well. They tested agricultural
equipment from Mary's shop, and tried out other gadgets and schemes
as well. Both houses were exempt from military service at the
borders, as a rule; Mary's was vital industry, and Rogers' was
responsible for Marys' security. To prevent their personnel from
becoming an elite, both houses regularly rotated young people out to
other farms.
"No, it looks like Errol, from Ames, with
the orchard guy." Errol, one of the carpenters, had been one of
Mary's trainees, and his knowledge of smithing, casting and grinding
had come from the shops.
"Well, show some hospitality
and hop to th' door, honey."
Errol and Allyn came in,
cloaked against the fall air outside. "Ma'am."
"What? Ma'am, is it?" she roared cheerfully. "Leave
your Creek manners at th' door, and come out of all that fooferah,
why don't ya?"
"Oh, we couldn't," said
Errol.
Allyn explained. "The bandits are maybe heading
to the upper Creek round the Ridge, and we're sent to greet them if
they do. Lot of crews right behind us."
"Uh huh,
well. And Ames and Jones in the lead. Got the most to lose soonest,
poor things."
"Yes'm. Would you have more
percussion caps ready to go?"
"We do. Box is on
th' table right beside you. They're packed in fluff, nice and secure,
about three hundred."
Allyn gathered it up carefully.
"This will be a big help."
"So I suppose that
girl, she's pledged to Ames now?" she asked Errol.
"Same as. She's never stated her intentions, but she has
integrity and likes us."
"Uh huh. So I got a
feeling she's not coming by to see me right away. Not surprised.
Well, got a minute?" He nodded. "'K, well, come back here
–" she rolled into the next room "– see what else we
have for y'all."
Allyn and Errol followed her dutifully
and looked to the corner indicated. Errol shook his head. "Well.
Shops are busy, I see."
"They are indeed. We've
made up about twenty of these so far." She hefted a short sword
by its hilt. "They're stout enough to cut or crush, light enough
to parry and thrust, and the pommel and cross guards can deliver a
good whack as needed. Makes up for there being so few machetes 'round
here. Not so good for sword and dagger, better with a shield; but
y'all are all archers so never mind shields for now. Shoot till your
arrows are gone, see, then draw this and you have an option when the
bandits get social. Wear 'em in your belts till we can make up some
frogs or scabbards."
They knew few of the terms but
understood the language of her hands. "Never needs reloading,"
she added with a wicked smile.
"Like my axe."
"Mmh. But a little more versatile. You hang on to that axe,
but have this young man stay next to you with one of these. Lacks
symmetry, keeps the bandits guessing. Anybody carrying bush hooks?"
"Yes, a few," said Allyn, hefting a sword with his free
hand. The bush hook, an axe-handled tool with a long thin blade,
hooked at the end, was built in Mary's shops for clearing brush and
maintaining hedges. They'd proved very popular on the farms.
"Same deal. Crews average three fighters, yah? One bush hook,
two swords. Everybody watches everybody else's back. They get inside
your reach, your swordsmen take 'em out. They mess with your
swordsmen, you take 'em out."
"Hmm."
Errol had looked a bit sourly upon the swords, but he was beginning
to see the possibilities. A bright young man, though quiet and hard
to read. She'd always liked him but wished he'd laugh more.
"Hmm, he says. I guess that will have to do." She rolled,
casters squeaking, over to the doorway into the front room. "Hey!
Y'all gather up all these irons down to th' road an' hand 'em out to
whomever'll take 'em as they go by. 'K? – Waitaminnit. Somebody get
me a tall one, then do it."
She turned toward
Errol and touched his sleeve as they went by. "Now, these things
they're bringin' down with you, they take years to learn to
use right, just like bows. But this size makes sense to a good
fighter the minute they pick up one. We'll have to count on that for
now. Who knows – maybe coats of mail some day. And, kid –"
she locked eyes with him. "--do take care of yourself out
there, huh?"
He almost smiled.
'It will
have to do,' she thought, over her glass of home brew, watching
at the window. Our bloody motto. Sure wish we'd had time to teach
these kids to read. And found them some good history books.
:::
Wolf
stepped outside; the bright fall sunshine had given way to high
cirrus clouds and mackerel sky. The wind up the river had slowed, a
sign that sunshine was no longer heating the slopes of the mountains
upstream. Rain again within a day.
The men had already
discovered where the big trout had come from: the geezer's boys had
been on their way to the house from a fish trap in the river, made up
of poles hammered into the river bottom in a jug-shaped pattern. Fish
could be herded into it, then netted. This could be a resource.
They'd also found a smokehouse with two deer carcasses and part of
something else – bear, most likely, judging by the skins hanging
nearby – hung up inside.
The "Luckies" were
enjoying themselves immensely. Having been driven hard across the
game-poor fen lands out in the big valley, the chance to rest, eat,
air out some gear and just hang out had been more than welcome.
Wolf weighed his options. Movement, with superior force, had
brought them this far. Now what? If he hurried his men away from this
idyllic spot into a conflict in the rain again, he might lose some of
his charisma, not to mention men and gear. On the other hand, if he
waited for the food to run out in order to move them (this had worked
before), he would lose the advantage of mobility and surprise, and
the farmers would have time to strengthen their hand against him.
And, nice as this spot was, it would not support his entire crew
through the winter. If it would, that might be even worse; the
geezer's very success here had taken the edge off his vigilance.
The dying boy's information might or might not be valuable. He
hadn't been privy to all the old man's thoughts and information,
clearly; and the old man had obviously conflated conjecture with
observation. There were armed farmers just over the hill – Wolf
knew that; they were all queers, nigs, wops, and commies; he doubted
that.
Most anyone nonwhite, or Jewish, or disabled, or
visibly mentally incompetent, or pacifist, lots of old people, too,
had been pretty much eliminated by the dominionist/white supremacist
militias in the early going, with cheeful assistance from
the remaining elements of government. Wolf's own mentor had been a
leader in some of that. Wolf wasn't sure it hadn't all been a
mistake; it contributed to the current ammo shortage.
There
might be a few holdouts among these people, though. Who knew what
their "principles" might be? Not theocratic, seemingly.
The important thing was, they had crops. That bag of oats was a
strong indicator.
The other bit of information the lad
provided seemed unlikely as well – that there were four hundred of
these farmers. It seemed unlikely such a tiny river valley held such
a large percentage of all the humans alive in Wolf's known world.
He unrolled his brittle road map again. That valley was just too
small; long and narrow, with one dead-end road shown, coming out near
the bridge. The thin blue line of the river – Starvation Creek,
cute name – left the valley, turned the corner of a flat green spot
on the map that would have to be the mountain here, and then
meandered off toward the North-Running River -- "Willamette"
on the map. Maybe a hundred people could hide in there and
work. Maybe a few more. Amazing that they were there at all.
Eff. Numerous, well equipped, in possession of the interior
lines, and observant. They'd be at the back door first. Magee would
say, look for an alternative.
He raised his eyes to
the south slope of the mountain. The map showed it as a tiny plus
sign and an elevation in "feet," 1291. Grass, exposed rock,
some shrubbery, and a few copses of oak trees. He felt watched.
Nothing new; there were watchers on that other hill, and they had
proved enterprising. The top could not be seen from here; meaning the
watchers would have to come part way down to do their business. Hmm.
He turned to his nearest men. "Hey."
"Wolf."
Dill, one of Wolf's sharper-eyed crewmen, stood up from a blazing
firepit he'd made with three or four others. Meat grilled on a spit
above the flames.
"No, sit back down. All of ya's, do
just like ya been doin.' But, Dill, I want ya ta watch that hillside
sharp. But don't look like yah're lookin'. Rocks,
trees, weeds. Anythin' moves, get up lazy like, without starin' up
there, and come find me. 'K?"
Wolf moved back to the
house. The clothing found in the loft (right where he'd thought it
would be) had been distributed, which boded well for in the colder
weather, and a kind of bomb-shelter hideaway had been discovered,
with a clever light source involving a pipe in the house wall, two
mirrors, and a roof vent. Supplies stored in the hideout were being
brought up to the kitchen table and distributed or repacked for later
access – a constant problem for a crew on the move was that they
could take only so much with them.
Cougar and Tate were
sitting at the table, sorting, laughing, and horsing around.
"Gennulmen, please! We've broken enough of this stuff as it
is."
"Sorry, Wolf. Umm, some of this, we don't
know what it is."
"Well, you can usually tell by
th' shape; sometimes a picture. Like, this here is a can, n' it's
heavy, 'n it sloshes. Lots of cans have liquids, but th' picture of
th' cow suggests canned milk."
"Cow?"
Wolf
rolled his eyes.
"Okay, boss, but – what's this
thing?"
"That, Coug, is a hand-cranked radio."
"Radio?"
"Not gonna get technical, but
they useta be a way ta listen ta folks a long ways off."
"Oh, yah? Could we listen to th' farmers?"
"Nah,
knucklehead, not 'n'less they hadda transmitter an' were tryin' ta
reach ya. Hmm. Gimme that."
"Sure thing, Wolf."
Wolf pulled the crank from its niche in the side of the case. He
twirled this about twenty times, to the amusement of his companions,
then extended the antenna and switched on the power. Static erupted
into the dim light of the kitchen.
"What's it doin',
Wolf?" asked Tate.
"It's list'nin."
"Not much to hear."
"No. Not much in a long
time. See these letters by the stripes? This here's FM, which don't
get ya anythin' nowadays; this one's AM; you might get Canadians. Not
in th' daytime, though. Wish it had short wave."
Cougar
and Tate were impressed, but had no idea what Wolf was talking about.
They watched him fiddle with the knob. FM had, as he had opined,
nothing to offer. AM was rackety, with whistles and whines that
seemed to climb and sink as he advanced the knob. Then, faintly at
first, and with some re-pointings of the antenna, Wolf was able to
bring a live voice from the little magic box.
"And some
of you might be trying to believe this adminstration wants to
help you. You might be trying to believe th' so-called
president when he says he's gonna bring back Social Security. I hate
to tell y'all this but naive is naive. You're being taken for
a ride, folks, we're all being taken for a ride. Lemme give ya
some facts and figgers an' you can work it out for yourselves. I
ain't gonna lie to ya, now, am I? Y'all know I'm just about the only
one left that will tell it to you straight, ain't I? 'Course I
am. Now, here's the numbers ... eighty-five trillion ameros ..."
The voice faded slowly away.
"Who the hell is that,
Wolf?" asked Tate, who had stood up, astonished.
"That
is – was – Burt Snow, New Tea Party commentator."
"Was?"
"Yep, died two decades ago, when I was
a kid. This, what we're hearing here – th' voice'll be back in a
bit – comes and goes – is what's called a recordin'. Station runs
on its own power, somehow. Where they found th' workin' electronics,
I dunno. Has all its old programs in storage, as y'might say, and
plays 'em over an' over. Mike Savage, Rush, Whitmire, all of 'em,
goin' back over fifty years."
"Oh. Well, Wolf, c'n
we listen to it some?" Cougar asked.
"Sure, sure.
This thing'll run down in about fifteen minutes. Ya wanta keep it
goin', jus' crank it some more. Before dark, round up some bodies an'
go work that fish trap. I'm thinkin' we take a layover here tonight.
Pass th' word."
"Yeah! Cool, Wolf."
"Coug. Tate."
Wolf stepped outside again. Well,
that was depressin'. KKUV, still on autopilot after all this
time. Only station we were allowed to listen to in that prison. An'
just down th' street, too. Wolf felt there was something about it
he was supposed to remember, but what that might be, he couldn't seem
to recall.
Dill sidled up to him, acting nonchalant.
"Wolf."
"Dill."
"Gotcha
somethin', I think."
:::
Karen
strode along with Emilio and Vernie. She had longer legs than either
of them, so she found it easy enough to do. Tomma was just ahead,
talking with some people from Wilson's, and beyond some plum trees,
on the left, she could see that he was stopping to talk with Errol
and Allyn, who had come down from a cluster of buildings, dominated
by a large white house, on the slope above. With them were several
young people she'd not seen before, and they were all carrying,
awkwardly, armloads of tools.
"Want one?" Allyn
was asking Tomma.
"No, I've got all I can do to keep
track of my rifle. Guess my belt knife will do."
"Me
neither," said a Wilson. "I'm happy with my machete."
The Ames crew stopped by the gate, and Emilio, Kate and Vernie
looked at the pile.
"Two to a crew, so I understand,"
said one of the strangers. She looked at Karen. "Oh, I know who
you are. Dr. Mary wants to talk with you."
"We are
in front of Savage Mary's," explained Emilio.
"The,
you might say, University of Starvation Creek," added Vernie,
who picked up a sword for himself and handed another to Emilio,
smiling.
"Rude," said the Savage Mary's girl.
"Didn't know I even knew the word, didya?"
"May
I come see her when there is a little less going on?" asked
Karen.
"Sure. Everybody's got enough to do. I'm
Ro-eena." Very small yet about Karen's age, with red hair and
green eyes, she offered her hand.
"Karen." They
shook. Karen found the custom strange but felt she had best blend in
as well as she could.
The Beemans' were right behind them.
"Fair day, fair day," one of them shouted.
"Oops,"
said Vernie. "That means get along, we're holding up traffic."
"Fair day?" asked Karen, puzzled, as they resumed their
march.
"You know, milling around like a crowd at an
old-time country fair."
"I've never seen one."
"Neither have we," put in Emilio. "I think may be
it expresses both a sorrow and a hope."