Starvation Ridge

2012-01-25T20:59:00.000-08:00

S T A R V A T I O N R I D G E

Prologue

SHE CAME to the river after sunset.
Much of the water was foaming white here, where she'd come down from the woods, but she could see that the pool upstream, just above where the riffles began, was shallow enough to cross.

Gripping her staff, a straight, polished length of young willow, she turned upstream, placing her feet carefully, carefully as ever. She had never met a doctor or seen a working hospital.

Everything always depended on knowing where your feet were.
As she came to the still water, she looked long upstream and down, and surveyed the opposite, boulder-strewn bank meticulously. Not that one could tell much among so many rocks, the racket of the little rapids, and the gathering darkness, but any movement, any sound, any appearance of disturbed soil might be a matter for investigation -- or flight.

She sat down to unlace her boots. She had made them herself, rubber-tire soles, leather uppers, and knew, from the many hours she had put into them, their value.
Briefly she looked down into the water. A stern, narrow face, past childhood, framed in a coarse halo of brown, almost black hair, stared back at her. Wide mouth, brown eyes, light caramel skin.

If there were more light, one might discover freckles round her nose.
Had she any basis for comparison, she would know that she was tall. She'd met fewer than fifty people in her lifetime, all but one in the last two years.
She could see caddis larvae among the round rocks: good. Sign of a clean stream. She'd learned to avoid dead areas.
Pulling off the boots and a pair of socks which had been made from the sleeves of a sweatshirt, she rolled up her trouser legs, stuffed the socks into her boots and hung the pair round her neck.
Can't travel in wet shoes, her father had said. Cross wet, dry off, travel dry. Wet feet blister. Wet shoes lose their shape. Too much can go wrong then. Wet shoes will squeak, too. You need everything on your side, sight, sound, smell, touch, and time. Everything.
In forty mindful steps, using her staff to steady her against the numbing, insistent currents, she was across.
Watching the opposite riverbank from which she'd come, she dried her feet with her bandanna (cut from the same sweatshirt), then got into her socks and boots. Tie your laces like this, he'd said. Over once and then over a second time, then pull. Twice holds better than once and that can matter when you have to run.
She took inventory without thought, touching her staff, her right front pocket (twice), belt, sheath knife, backpack, bedroll, bow, and her four precious arrows, three broadheads and a blunt, which were clipped to the right side of her pack, fletches down. The lids were tight on her water bottles in their pockets low on the pack. The bow, an ancient recurved "youth" fiberglass model, was clipped to the left side. Her father had designed the clips, spring-loaded. He'd had a lot of tools and stuff in his little underground shop. She patted her breast pockets. Bowstring, right. Spare bowstring, left. All go.
Old-fashioned gear, he'd said. Can't go to the stores anymore anyhow, so it doesn't matter. But I used that pack for thirty-five years, so you know it has some staying power. Too bad it's not camo, but it's all a good green, nothing shiny. Shiny is not good. Here, let's break up its outline a bit with this old shoe polish.
Keeping everything close, she eased down to the water as night raised a mist on the pool. Looking left and right once more, she dipped her hand between two stones. She sipped, looked round once more, and retreated into shadow.
She'd need to go at least fifty meters from the bank, she thought. Large animals like to work along streams, or along slopes, halfway up to the ridge tops. Right in between, she could bed down, perhaps beneath the long green hands of a cedar. They kept a body dry. With enough care, and enough cedars, she wouldn't need a fire until fall. It meant eating a lot of things raw, but that she was used to by now.
Good night, Karen, he had said. I'll see you in the morning.

Those had been his last words to her.

______________________________

Notes

We're jumping into the middle of the story here for the Prologue to set the tone, describe Karen, hint that she's already survived a lot, describe some of her routines and observations, give some idea of the sights and sounds of the Oregon Cascades in early fall, and leave the reader with the appropriate sense of foreboding concerning Chapter One of These Will I Bring, Book I of Starvation Ridge, which is the backstory and takes place two years before the Prologue. Yes, there's almost no dialogue in the the Prologue or first chapter -- so much scene-setting! It's a weakness, but there you have it. Karen has relatively little character to explore at this point, anyway. All she has done in her sixteen years is study, train, survive. Her experiences have been so constrained that she's very withdrawn -- though she has no way to know that.

We've changed little here from the first edition. There's an embarrassing typo in the current iteration of the published editions, right on the front page! -- "met met." I know of many others, here and in print, and we'll try to clean them up. I've also added an important (to me) phrase which will be echoed at the end of the epilogue. This derives from my admiration for Snow Falling on Cedars.

I'll admit I'm not widely read in recent science fiction and fantasy, and influences here are, by today's standards, ancient. Expect echoes of The Postman (obviously), The Mote in God's Eye, Lord of the Rings (ambitious isn't she), A Canticle for Liebowitz, and Earth Abides. I did not see the films "The Road" and "Hanna" until well after I had begun writing, and so the similarities are convergent, not imitative.

Now available in ebook format -- low price!

2011-11-06T00:19:00.000-07:00

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Karen Rutledge had grown up in seclusion from a devastated world. But now she was alone in the open to face the unknown. Would she find a place among those seeking to rebuild civilization? This edition contains the novels These Will I Bring, Abide the Fire, and Bright in the Skies in one volume.

PDF edition

2011-11-05T18:55:00.000-07:00

Print and epub have been available for some time. This is just to let everyone know the PDF is now available, 598 pages of post-apocalyptica for only $2.99!

Starvation Ridge by Risa Bear in Science Fiction & Fantasy

Karen Rutledge had grown up in seclusion from a devastated world. But now she was alone in the open to face the unknown. Would she find a place among those seeking to rebuild civilization? This edition contains the novels These Will I Bring, Abide the Fire, and Bright in the Skies in one volume.

Starvation Ridge now in print

2011-10-04T08:28:00.000-07:00

Starvation Ridge

By Risa Bear

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Karen Rutledge had grown up in seclusion from a devastated world. But now she was alone in the open to face the unknown. Would she find a place among those seeking to rebuild civilization? This second edition contains the novels These Will I Bring, Abide the Fire, and Bright in the Skies in one volume.

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For those interested, Risa is currently working on a memoir of Northwest tree planting in the 1970s, called iron buddhas.

Bright in the Skies in inexpensive EPUB format

2011-09-13T18:10:00.000-07:00

By Risa Bear

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Book III of Starvation Ridge. The people of the valley must fight a war for survival in the midst of fire, drought, and famine. Will they be able to stay, or must they join the ranks of the ragged Pilgrims?

Book III in print

2011-09-05T11:26:00.000-07:00

Bright in the Skies

By risa bear

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Epilogue

2011-09-03T21:45:00.000-07:00

Epilogue

KAREN SHOOK herself awake -- literally. One cannot carry enough blankets in a wet winter to make up for near-starvation. The fat from the wild pig had been a help -- though she had decided not to tell the others that pigs accumulate more radionuclides than other animals. We all have worries enough as it is.
The clouds had broken for now, though. She could see that, beyond the edge of the tarp and the cedar branches. Leaving Allyn nesting in his cradleboard -- a design that Errol had come up with that had but one shoulder strap -- Karen slung her revolver and knife at her hip and crawled out to pee. At least now there were no mosquitoes.
Griff, wrapped in an animal hide she hadn't seen before, stood up across the clearing and waggled the all-clear with his bow. His frosted breath hung in the air.
Her morning business finished, Karen sought him out beneath his own cedar tree.
She fondled the light gray fur. "What's that you're wearing?"
"I dunno -- dogskin, maybe? I found it lying on a log. It's really warm."
"It's wolfskin. Where was it?" Alarm prickled at her neck and shoulder.
"Next clearing over -- the way we're going."
"Show me. And draw your bow." Karen unholstered the Sentinel.
Griff, wondering what he could have done wrong, led the way.
The light in the next clearing was bright enough to hurt Karen's eyes. Snow had fallen in the night on the mountains to their east, and these glowed with unaccustomed sunrise. Griff, arrow at the ready, surveyed the clearing as they both listened for any non-forest sounds, then gingerly stepped forward and stood upright, scanning ahead. He quickly withdrew and settled beside Karen, who had cocked her hammer.
"There's meat on the log now -- right where I found the coat."
"Shhh."
For several minutes more, they listened. Nothing but a winter wren disturbed the morning.
Karen whispered. "What kind of meat?"
"Deer. Hind leg!"
An offering of some kind? "Go back absolutely quietly and get everyone up and armed. Defensive perimeter. Hop!" Her own whisper sounded like thunder in Karen's ears. Or was it her heart beating?
Griff slipped quietly away. Water dripped from bracken down the back of Karen's neck. She should, of course, have gone with the boy. But the thought of venison! She hadn't tasted venison in too many days.
Could Wilson have done this? They were the next valley over, so far as she knew. Couldn't be Josep's group, traveling along the Great River on the other side of Wilson. No, any Creeker would have whistled. This was a stranger -- or perhaps an army, such as from Port Land, of whom the Roundhousers had warned. So many ways this could be a trap or a provocation.
"Hey."
The voice -- a man's -- came from the mountain alder copse across the clearing! Whoever it was had not moved since she and Griff had come -- had perhaps watched them -- might have her in his sights. Damn it! She was at a disadvantage in all the ways she could think of.
"S'okay," said the voice, in a conversational tone. "I know ya got yer hammer back, I hear pretty good. How's 'bout ya get behind better cover, if it suits ya, and when ya're ready, I'll stand up empty-handed?"
"Let me see hands first, then just stand up already." She eased her indexed finger inside the trigger guard.
A tall man, bald, bearded, and tattooed, wearing a horsehide cloak, arose perhaps twenty meters away, among the leafless alders. He looked familiar -- where could Karen have seen this man before? He was none of that sorry lot that had trooped south from Starvation Creek half a moon ago.
"Five steps forward, then stop," Karen barked. If there were weapons at his feet, this would move him precious seconds away from them.
The man complied, evidently quite relaxed. Karen held her front sight squarely in the groove of her rear sight, centered on the man's chest. Her finger rested lightly on the trigger. She drew a long, deep breath and exhaled, to slow the effect of her hammering heart on the sights. "Alone?"
"Well, yeah, but don't take my word for it."
"Wouldn't. What do you want here?" With an effort, she scanned all around for sounds and movement. Peripheral vision, her father had said, is almost everything. See without looking.
Someone was moving through brush, but she could tell who it was. Armon came heavily up to the right of her, bow at the ready. Errol, more quietly, appeared to her left.
The man smiled and nodded." A little parley. Got some thoughts about yer line of travel."
"Are you armed?" Karen asked.
"Now you ask me. Well, back a ways where I can't get to 'em quick an' you can't find 'em, there's a pistol, a carbine, a bow, a quiver with nine arrows, and a knife. I do hope you'll regard the haunch as a gift, but will not seek to relieve me of my toys."
"What's your parley?"
"Well, yer three lil' tribes now, all goin' north. A while back I had a good talk with a dyin' kid from Port Land. He indicated things was hell here, hell there, and extra-special-hell north of there. If yer goin' Pilgrim, I c'n tell ya, cain't get to Canuck Land from here."
"What's 'extra hell' about north of Port Land?" asked Karen.
"There was stuff back in th' day, place called Hanford."
"Heard of it."
"Cooked off. Bad. Ruint ever'thin from th' sea half way to Chicago. And if you think Hanford was bad --"
"Can this guy be on th' level?" whispered Armon.
Still not taking her eyes off her sights, Karen replied, "Yes. I remember the maps."
"... Chicago actually glows. Kinda like the top of Starvation Ridge."
"What do you know about Ridge?"
"Well, I'll tell ya. I lit it off, like yer boy Mr. Avery Murchison told me to, may he rest in eternal peace."
"You were there?"
"Yes'm, had business with Old Magee, may he rest in eternal hell."
"How did he die?"
"Three-fifty-seven to the face, actually, ma'am."
"That's good to know."
"Yes, ma'am, that it is."
"And how did Avery die?"
"Ma'am, Magee messed him up and he chose to go down with th' ship, as it were."
"Damn it!" Karen had known this in her stomach, but to hear it was another thing, she realized. At Roundhouse, she'd told of the demise of the elders; everyone had felt this same momentary despair.
"Sorry, ma'am."
"Wait! I know you!"
The stranger seemed hesitant. "Where would we have met? You aren't ... I mean, don't look familiar to me."
"You're the man who ran away -- after your army was defeated." She twitched her left side toward him for emphasis. "I believe you did this."
"Oh, were you in that fight by th' orchard? You're good. Well, yeah, they was all good as dead by then. I saw a way to live, so I had a go. But, uhh, yeah, it bothers me. Kinda why I'm here, maybe."
"I don't see the connection."
"Well, that's kinda my business. As I useta say, 'only th' livin' deserve ta live.' Man said, put th' ray gun on home plate an' go, I offered t'bring him out, but he was set on stayin' -- dyin' anyways. He said if I had anythin' ta say, say it to a one-armed girl."
To me? "You ... why would Avery even talk to you? Did he know who you are?"
The big man's rough features softened even more. "Well, enough to guess, but he c'd see I meant to change my ways some."
"We'll ... we'll take that into consideration. So, you've ... "
The man's body relaxed.
"Stand up straight! I might just shoot you yet."
"Why, yes, ma'am."
"Well ... so, you've, you've warned us off going Pilgrim, do you ... do you have a recommendation?"
"Me, I'd go East. Cross over, head south. Ask around for Prineville. I think yer man there, th' big one, has got folks there."
"They'd be alive, then?" asked Armon, incredulous.
"Yeah, th' Prinevilles'r not big on eatin' folks any more, they're gettin' good at runnin'cows. Th' chief man, Mr. Lacey, he's a man of his word, so they are in service, an' good service as such things go." The man spread his hands. "Arms gettin' tired; answer y'other question holdin' onto a coupla trees?"
Karen's arm was getting tired, too. The sights were wobbling again. "What other question? Umm, yes, you may."
The long hands grasped two small alders. "Thanks. 'What's in it fer you?' Nothin's in fer me fer th' time bein. Y'all had it rough, I had it rough. But I thought maybe I'd head East too."
"Not with us."
"Didn't ask, did I? So, I'd like go away from here fer now. I'll move real slow. Rest of that doe is by th' creek down behind me."
"We'll leave and count to one hundred. Then we'll come back and clear the area. Take the meat. We'll leave the wolf skin here, too, when we pack up."
"No, seriously, you need th' meat; skin too. Gonna snow. Hard. Oh! Uh, in th' mountain, didya meet a suit?"
"What?"
"Sort of suit of old Army 'future warrior' armor, lotta Kevlar, big old shotgun."
"The woman? Yes."
"She get away?"
"She's dead."
"From th' sound of it, you got her. That so makes my day. I thank you from th' bottom of my heart."
Karen did not know what to make of this. "We ... we're going now."
"'K. I'll be gone when ya get back. Try th' meat on yer puppy, then you'll know it's okay." A disconcerting smile spread over his features.
Karen retreated, lowering the twenty-two's hammer with her thumb. Her arm ached. Armon and Errol covered her, backing into the brown bracken slowly.

:::

Griff met Karen at the edge of camp, bow drawn, watching the woods. "So, I'm sorry about the skin and all. Wasn't thinking."
Karen holstered the revolver. One of Griff's sisters still sat under the tarp, and was holding little Allyn. Was he crying? A good sign was just what Karen needed just now. If only Billee, Juanita, and Marleena could share in this! But they were with Wilson and Josep, of course. Soon enough, if he proved to be up to it, she'd have to train the child to be silent on command, perhaps. And to be many other things: stealthy, resilient, resourceful, aware. She started in the direction of the cry.
"So, can I keep it?" Griff spoke behind her.
She turned. "Yes. Yes, I think that will be fine. Errol and Armon will bring in the meat. In future, you find anything like that -- and ... and I think you will -- just report it right away, all right?"
"Right!"
The sky began to darken. They looked up.
One snowflake, then another, and then another, drifted down from the featureless clouds and settled, infinitesimal diamonds, on the long green hands of the cedar.

Perhaps

2011-08-29T22:55:00.000-07:00

Chapter Sixty-Seven

KAREN UNHOOKED the baby from her nipple and tossed him gently onto her right shoulder, holding him in place with the palm of her hand and squeezing. A tiny burp issued forth. Mothering was for two-handed women, she'd long ago decided; she got more exercise moving Allyn from bag to breast to shoulder and back to the bag, after finding moss to line it with, than almost anything else she did these days. Except fighting that monster.
Marleena, with a gurgling Arda in her arms, sat down beside Karen. "How is he doing?"
"Hungry as ever, but never a peep out of him."
In the late-night quarter-moonlight, with thickening clouds, Marleena's expression could not be fully read, but Karen could see that there was a question and a worry in the set of her shoulders. "That's never really changed; he seems happy and he has grown some but there's something not right. He could be deaf and mute, for all I know."
"Does he blink at loud noises? There were a lot of them yesterday."
"Oh! Yes, so maybe that's not it."
"It 's not like you to go fuzzy on a problem."
"Where he's concerned, I do. I must be shielding myself in some way."
"Well give the two of you time. He was born so early; there must be a lot of catching up for him to do."
"How is Juanita?"
They both looked away toward the trees. Movement, in the moonshadow of one, had gone on for some time.
Marleena's silhouetted face swivelled back to Karen. "She's been digging since we found him. She won't accept help."
"He asked her to do it herself. I think his idea was that it would help her, having a hard task to do, so as not to go crazy with the grief."
"It's not your way, here on the Creek, burial -- is it?"
"No, but in such times -- so many bodies. And I don't think we'll be needing the composting any more."
Guchi appeared from behind them carrying the heavy shotgun, with Errol, who was hobbling with a spear for an improvised crutch. "May we report?" asked Guchi.
"Sit, guys," replied Karen, "But keep it low." She gestured with her head toward Juanita.
"Oh -- yeah." Errrol sat heavily on a log. Guchi set down the weapon and slowly settled himself down beside his friend, looking ill at ease.
For a few moments no one spoke. Karen broke the spell by touching Guchi's knee with hers.
"Oh," said Guchi again. "Well, I went up and had a look. Enough fire came out of Ridge that the trucks and the "tank" thing are just trashed. Nobody around. Up top, it was all flying rocks and smoke or steam, or both, and I couldn't get any closer, and then all of a sudden it stopped."
"Stopped?"
"Whatever was causing all the rocks burning, it was just over. I tried to get a look in the hole, but ... I started feeling not so good. So I came down."
"What's 'not so good?'"
"Uhh ... nausea? Ringing in my ears? Mouth tastes like metal. Um. Fingertips feel funny."
"Can you stand up suddenly?"
"Funny you should ask, I hid behind some stuff on the way down, checking out the terrain for unfriendlies, and when I got up I fainted."
"Let us know if your nose starts bleeding. I'm sorry, Guchi; I realize now I shouldn't have let you go."
"Well, I'm glad I did. I think I can say with confidence we're not leaving anybody behind that we could have helped."
"I think you're right, Guchi. Won't you go lie down and rest a bit? There's some water and a few blankets we've got here."
"I'll do that." Yamaguchi pointed to the supergun. "Too heavy -- give it away." He stood up again, and wobbled. He caught himself by grasping Errol's spear, then shook his head and walked in the direction of the abandoned trucks.
Errol watched him go, then turned his attention to Karen. "What's up?"
"I think the containment of the thorium battery's been breached. The fuel's been aerosolized and the top of Ridge is dangerously radioactive now."
Marleena held Arda closer. "What about here?"
"There hasn't been much wind, but I think most of the plume -- so far -- will have gone down toward the Calapooia. That will change by mid-morning. And it's going to rain, which can't be good."
"Can we get away?"
"We'll have to. The Creek is finished." Karen looked at Errol. "How are you holding up?"
"No more bleeding. We've been inventorying the trucks and the bulldozer. They're all damaged enough not to be useful for transport, not if we have to leave soon. I have the young people making Molotovs with some of the fuel, in case we meet the former owners."
"I don't know, it's awfully quiet up the Road."
"I was thinking the same. Meanwhile, there will be enough of that vacuum-packed food for everyone to have a stout breakfast."
Young Griff came running from the trucks. "Someone's coming, and there's no password. What do we do?"
"Say hello. If it's someone you know, call them over to your perimeter and do a visual by torchlight, but not out in the open. If it isn't, tell them to stay put, and keep listening for activity. If they don't stay put, shoot them and then keep listening for activity."
"Gotcha!" He ran off, clearly delighted to be a warrior with a commission.
Karen returned her attention to Errol. "Were there any weapons at the trucks? Any more people around?"
"There was a substantial fight here. We've found four of our people dead, besides Mr. Molinero alive -- at first -- and two of theirs. In the woods there was one of them, he'd been trying to get away and broke his leg in one of these wierd ditches -- someone caught up with him and finished the job, I think. No, they took all their stuff except a Bowie knife someone dropped and a few crossbow bolts."
Griff returned, bringing Raoul and Ceel, who were laden with bows, quivers, and belt knives. They dumped their loads, winded, and smiled at Karen and Errol in the growing light.
"Is that my axe on your belt?" Errol asked Raoul.
"Yes; want it back?"
"No, looks good on you. What brings you here?"
"We're heading to Bridge to make a cache." Raoul reached for an unattended water bottle.
"Whatever for?" asked Karen.
"It's over. The bandits have surrendered. They're pretty sure the folks that brought them here are all dead, and they want to go home, which they say is as bad as here, but at least it's not here. Josep and Wilson gave them safe-conduct --"
"Wilson is alive?" Karen's heart leaped for Billee's sake, as well as for what remained of the Creek.
"Josep is alive?" shouted Marleena at the same time, standing up and almost spilling a wide-eyed Arda.
"Yes -- Armon, too -- to go to Bridge and pick up this stuff for hunting purposes. Everything else, they've turned in and they are being escorted this way."
Errol made an impatient gesture. "Right through us?"
"We didn't know you were here. How did you get out, anyway?"
"Never mind," said Karen. "We'll have to get off the Road right away and form a new perimeter, just in case. But you two, I think, should hand over your jobs to Griff -- and one of his friends -- and stay with us."
"Why?"
"Raoul, your mom is going to need you in a little bit."
The smile faded. "What? No, wait, I think I know. Wilson acted kinda funny." Raoul, who had arrived full of vitality, seemed to shrink visibly.
Ceel looked at Karen, then at Raoul, then at Karen again. "Me, too?" she asked, in a small voice.
Karen felt upon herself the great weight of the terrible messenger. "Errol, everybody away from the trucks, perimeter in the woods. We'll join you. Griff, this stuff to Bridge, hop! Raoul, I'm deeply sorry, your mom's over there near the Creek, see that tree? Go to her. Ceel ... come with me."

:::

Jahn ambled along his short column, ostensibly checking the stretcher cases, but really looking for signs of insubordination. One wrong move on this march, he knew, and they would all die quickly. In the lead at some distance, well out of reach on either hand, and bringing up the distant rear, men and women watched and walked, rifles, shotguns and bows at the ready. Nerves were stretched taut in both parties. Fire in the mountain had reached some kind of ammunition, and the cooking-off brought a similitude of killing to all ears.
"Sir?" a sullen youth whispered as he passed.
"Don't y'even think it."
"We could rush 'em, you'd give us a sign."
"You in insub-ordy-nation right now, boy; want 'em ta see me kill ya bare-handed?"
"Nossir."
"Good, I'll overlook this f'now an' we'll discuss th' quality of yer trainin' if we ever get t'Roseburg. Look me up an' ask f'help wi'y' prroblem, then, hey?"
"Yessir."
Jahn finished his tour of the line and worked his way back to the front. He could see, in the near distance, the old D-9 sitting in the middle of a blackened patch of earth. Behind it, a stricken MRAP still emitted smoke.
"Spread out a little bit, please," ordered the man he'd overheard called Joseph, or some such. "Pass the machines on the left, hands on top of your heads, all eyes front."
Jahn could see, as they neared, that all bodies had been cleared away somewhere, and the vehicles thoroughly canvassed. Foil wrappers had been gathered up and rolled into a ball that someone had not yet carried away. As he suspected, there were more farmers-fighters than just the ones that had followed his little army up the valley.
A half-strangled cry, off to the left, drew everyone's attention. Jahn looked left, though careful not to turn his head by much. A small, black-haired woman, brandishing an axe, was running toward them as fast as her short legs could carry her. A revenge play, then; Jahn was familiar with such. So this was how it would all end; he'd have to try to disarm her to protect those under his command and care, then the Joseph guy or the Wilson fellow would have to kill him. In a few weeks the lady'd be over it; but he, Jahn, after his long travels in hope of a home, would be no more. He braced himself.
Wilson, however, stepped between the woman and the hesitating column and raised his rifle, aiming it at her. Jahn was filled with admiration. Also, a young man, whom he'd seen in the fighting, was now close on the woman's heels and tackling her. They went down in a heap, and Wilson lowered his weapon and went to them.
Jahn, sure that the immediate crisis was in hand, had better prevent another. "Eyes t'th'front!" he shouted at the wobbling line. "For'rard harch!" The lads pulled themselves together and walked on, hands still on their heads.
As they cleared the vehicles, stepping over the detritus of war and the deep cracks all over the road, a new sight presented itself to Jahn's peripheral vision. A one-armed woman and a black child stood, side by side, weapons in hand. There were others in the shadowy wood. At least twice as many farmers were present as he'd thought, many with firearms.
Behind him and on all sides, damp blackness fingered the sky from burnt farmhouses, trucks and tractors. Above, a wierd white vapor, mingled with more blackness, issued from the shambles of the fortified mountain and drifted eastward, merging with the low-hanging clouds.
Ahead, not far from the bridge that had led them here, a flock of geese swung by, yelping.
Yeah, Jahn thought. Ol' Mr. Magee, y'bit off way more'n y'c'd chew. If we-all don't starve this winter, I'm gonna run things hella diff'rent down on th' Umpqua!

:::

Quiet reigned along Starvation Creek.
All day, smoke rose, as it had not in a long time, from the chimney at Tomlinson's. Billee brought Mr. Perkins a cup of hash tea, but he ignored it, staring at the wall. His son and daughter leaned on him from either side. No one asked them to come to the living room, and the same grace was extended to Juanita, her sons, and her new daughter-in-law, who'd stayed on the stoop together.
Billee, with Krall dogging her heels, carried the steaming stock pot into the living room -- one of the biggest rooms left on the Creek. Outside, a cold rain fell, rattling in the downspouts and off the porch roof. Chairs had been brought from throughout the building, along with assorted buckets turned over for seats. Ladling out cups of the mildly soporific tea, she picked up the thread of the conversation.
"...the kale did better than expected; but we need it all now and there's no more seed. Too late to plant anyway," Tomma was saying.
Karen, sitting in the deep chair that had belonged to old Mrs. Tomlinson, played with Allyn's fingers as he he lay in her lap. She looked up. "Won't matter. None of us can stay."
All eyes turned to her.
"Errol and Deela are techies and can confirm that Dr. Mary explained about this -- and, and I used to read about it. Ridge, as we all know, was powered by a kind of small nuke. Most of what's been splashed is thorium-232. It emits alpha particles and turns into radium, and eventually into stable lead. Also there is some gamma."
Vernie twirled the long Kentucky rifle by the edge of its brass buttplate on the floor before him. "So, what's that mean?"
"You see how it is with Guchi; since he looked in the hole he's been throwing up, off and on, all day. He'll get better, but we won't know for how long. Already most of us don't live as long as in the old days. Dust, some of it too small to even see, is going to be coming down on our houses, the land, the Creek, and for many miles around, maybe for years. It will percolate into the soil, and get into the crops, the animals, the roots of trees, and taint the very firewood. As we breathe, drink, and eat, it will become part of our teeth, our bones, and our flesh, and it will make the tiniest bits of our flesh grow awry -- cancer."
"You say it turns into lead." Wilson, sitting on a tall, upended bucket, put his feet out before him and put his hands behind his head. The Doctor's AA-12 lay at his feet. "How long does that take?"
"Half the thorium will turn into lead in fourteen billion years."
Deela, sitting in the hall doorway with half an eye on Bolo, Guchi, and other wounded lying beyond, spoke up. "The sun itself will go out before that."
Josep, on the couch, tightened his arm around Marleena's shoulder. "How long have we before we must go?"
"There's a lot of this kind of thing in the air and water and soil -- and us -- already, from the Great Undoing." Karen tipped Allyn up into a half-sitting position, cupping his back with her hand. "It's why we don't live so long. We all know it's been hard to bring babies to term, and raise children to adulthood. And cancer hunts us all, all the time. It will take many generations to adapt, even if this hadn't happened. And there's other stuff -- it's too hot to our south, and I think that's coming our way. But now that Ridge has been cut open to its heart, yesterday would not be too soon for us to all leave."
"If anyone is pregnant, especially, then?" said Raoul from the front door. He looked into Nine-Ah's face as she came and stood beside him.
"And children, of which there are so few; but this is bad for all of us. Yes, the pregnancies most of all."
Billee missed the cup she was pouring by several inches as she stared; Krall jumped back. "Well, then, what are we waiting for?" Her voice cracked.
Wilson, across the room from her, raised his eyebrows. "Uhh ... Bee?"
"Of course, silly!" She put down the ladle on the arm of the couch and reflexively covered her belly with her hands. "If this place is extra dangerous to babies, we gotta roll!"
Several voices were raised at once. "Where?" asked Tomma over the din. "Where's going to be safer?"
"We can head for Roundhouse for now," replied Josep. "But it sounds like that's not far enough? And there's no food there, any more than here."
"We will need to go hundreds of kilometers at least," said Karen. "And we'll need to separate into smaller groups, so that we can more easily feed everyone on such game and forage as can be expected."
"Yes," agreed Wilson, straightening up and rubbing his chin. "If any one group fails, there are still the others. But if we are all together, failure will be final for everyone."
"Let's all go together to Roundhouse in the morning, then," offered Josep. "It will take about two days, maybe three with our wounded. You can be our guests there; hopefully no one else has found it yet."
Scooping the half-sleeping Allyn to her shoulder, Karen stood up. "Be thinking of what to put in your ponchos and blanket rolls. Some of us will be able to drag a travois -- if anyone doesn't know what that is, we'll show you. We will bundle the kale and carry it on those. Winter is coming and with no certainty of food, it will be a hard one. Take what you will use, not what you'd like to have. Young Griff here knows what we brought from Ridge and can advise -- right?"
The boy grinned. "Right."
Karen looked round the room. "We can never return. But if we're careful how we travel, hopefully we can rendezvous. Perhaps there will be a Creek again!"

This deal

2011-08-20T21:20:00.000-07:00

Chapter Sixty-Six

WOLF SQUATTED on his haunches and rolled the legless man over. Lots of damage to his middle, as might be expected. The air, still blue with the smoke of combat – and execution – stank of the man's burnt tunic.
"You're a mess, fella," said Wolf softly.
"Tell me what I don't know. Want to put me back in my chair?"
Wolf looked over the chair. "Should I check it for surprises?"
"There was a knife right by my hand. Did I reach for it?"
"No."
"Saw you kill that sunnavabitch ... thought we might have a thing or two thing to talk about."
"Maybe." Wolf tested the wheels of the chair with his foot, figured out the brakes and set them, then lifted the man, surprisingly light, into his seat. Blood began to soak into the shredded tunic, but the man didn't seem concerned. Shock and bravado served for anesthetic, apparently. Wolf had seen this many times.
The two regarded each other in silence for a moment. Wolf busied himself reloading the Coonan, one ear cocked for activity from down the stairwell.
His host spoke again. "Aren't those revolver rounds?"
"Yeah. It's kind of a unusual gun."
"All guns are unusual now."
"And seems like every one of 'em came here today."
"So ... are you one of them?"
Wolf glanced at the lifeless suit of armor on the floor. "Was, not too long ago." He looked Mr. Control Room in the eye. "It's kinda over out there, maybe. Th'two sides have fought each other to a standstill for now."
"Got a name?"
"Not one that matters."
"Mine's Avery Murchison."
"Are you the boss man up here?"
"No, kind of a unit commander. Was."
"Who would I talk to about stuff, then?"
Avery cocked his head over. "Got a feeling I don't really know." A fleeting expression crossed his face. "There's a one-armed girl. If she's alive, talk to her."
By damn! He's in love with her. Wolf took in the damaged room, missing little. "What the eff was this all about, anyway?"
Avery, beginning to grow pale, gestured vaguely at the armored corpse. "Was that Magee?"
Wolf raised his eyebrows. "Yeah."
"He ... did you dirty?"
"Yeah, actually. I kinda did him first, but he, ah, upped the ante."
"Well, he was trying to to do the whole world dirty. Or would have, if he'd pulled this off."
"I appreciate your confidence, but are you telling me too much?"
Avery shifted in his seat. Pain was beginning to reach him.
"I don't think so, somehow. Hoping to recruit you for something."
Wolf tucked the Coonan in his belt and reached for his carbine to sling it over his shoulder. "What would that be?"
"Help me destroy this facility."
Wolf smiled. "Yeah, it's potentially a liability, from some things I been told. There's a big bomb downstairs, but I've got no fuses and ain't inclined to cross any wires. Whatcha thinkin'?"
"Got another way. Take you a few moments and plenty of time for you to clear out."
Wolf considered. "You want me to deliver you to anybody? Could maybe do that."
"Jeeah, no. I've been rearranged, I can tell. Been hurt before. And what use would I be, out there, after all this is gone?"
"Got a point, 'm'afraid." Wolf strode over to the control panel and pointed at the dials. "'S'got anythin' to do with these?"
"Yep. We have to knock out a little pin so's it will hit ground zero, then we're good to go."

:::

The remaining trucks had drawn themselves up in a fighting circle. Two were in flames, dissected by the strange weapon that had been digging all the trenches. Its whirlwind of burning debris had gone up to New Ames, set the house on fire, and swept back through the fight, macerating road, trees, fences and friend and foe alike. The Creekers, trying to set up a perimeter and come to grips with the invaders, spread round to the east, north and west of the trucks, but gave the geyser of rocks and burnt soil a wide berth.
Then it moved off.
Everyone watched its path of instant destruction as it tore across the Creek and straight up Ridge, crossing the ridgeline and then turning west. The mountain began to shed glowing debris, some of which flew over the crest and rolled, hissing, down among fire-blackened trees.
Apparently the fire from the skies had found a home. A few shots rang out, and battle was rejoined.
Night fell.

:::

"Hold still, Bolo, while I figure this out."
"I am holding still, Mr. Josep, sir."
Josep winced. Of course he was; Bolo had more resistance to pain than anyone from Roundhouse. Or, not that exactly. Maybe it was that Bolo's body felt as much pain as did any other, but somehow the big man didn't understand pain. This somehow had affected everyone around him; through the years, Bolo's family (which was everyone who knew him) had gone to great lengths to spare him injury or sickness, as if he had always remained a child.
And now here he was with a crossbow bolt in his temple, and he was sitting up and talking and apparently not the worse for it. Across Bolo's lap from Josep squatted Mrs. Wilson. In the dim firelight, Josep could just make out that she was examining Bolo. Krall, the big dog, wrapped herself round Billee's feet and rested her head on Bolo's thigh, sighing.
Billee frowned. "I'm not really good at this. We need Dr. Tom, or Mrs. Cheney, or at least Karen or Juanita."
"Me neither," assented Josep. "Bolo, you've been shot in the side of the head and the bolt twisted as it went in; I don't think we can draw it without some idea which way it turned."
"It's in my ... where I think?" Bolo made a woebegone face.
Josep's voice fell to a whisper."Yes."
"Why am I alive?"
"We don't know. 'The Lord works in mysterious ways' is as good an answer as I've ever heard."
Vernie Watkin, carrying a long old-fashioned flintlock, crawled over. "Jeeah," he said, looking at Bolo, then addressed himself to Josep and Billee. 'They want a parley."
A momentary rage crossed Billee's face. "After all they've done?"
Josep wasn't sure how to answer this. Billee had proved an outstanding tactical leader; but since Wilson's disappearance she seemed to be bent on annihilation. He settled for answering with a question. "Should we have more of our people go through what Bolo's going through, or worse?"
"I'm not too bad," said Bolo. Josep shushed him.
"I know what you mean," replied Billee to Josep, "but I don't have to like it."
"What have they got?" asked Josep of Vernie. "Spokesman? White flag?"
Vernie looked surprised. "Yes to both. Some did not understand the flag thing at first."
"All right, let us go and talk to this man."
Billee did not like being left out of this, but she could see Josep's expectation that she would stay with Bolo. And Bolo certainly looked like he could use the company. So she stayed in her crouch by his side, her knee lodged in Krall's ribs, patting Bolo's hand.
Josep followed Vernie, stepping over the strange tilted ditches, taking advantage of what cover was available, toward the "front." This consisted of a small circle of armored trucks, two of them in shambles and emitting gouts of smoke, lit from in front by the strange fire on top of Ridge, and from behind by the last gutterings of the burnt-out shell of New Ames, on a slightly higher elevation. Creekers and Roundhousers occupied the nearest hedgerows, sporting twenty-twos, bows, spears, and swords. A faint smell of dampened saltpetre, mixed with that of the wounded soil of the fields, hung in the air.
They came to Tomma, who held the sights of the Hawken steadily on a figure sitting on the running board of one of the trucks. Even in the dim light one could see the man was tall, thin, world-weary, cagey, and authoritative. A cottonwood branch rested across his knees with a rosette of white plastic flagging tied to one end. He appeared to be unarmed.
"Bring me up to speed?" asked Josep.
"Nothing new," replied Tomma. "He asked for our leader, and, I guess, right now, right here, you're it."
"No sign of bad faith?" Josep peered into the dismal light ahead.
"None, they've not fired anything since he started waving that stuff, and there's been no sign of anyone manning slits or any movement toward an attack or breakout, that we can see."
"Good job. I guess there's nothing for it but to see what he wants." Josep laid down his weapons and stood halfway up. "Greetings."
If the stranger was startled, he gave no sign. The stick stirred slightly on his knees, and he shifted his weight. "Hey. Yew'd be th' man in charge?"
"Maybe. Some people, if they were to show up, I might defer to. Till then, you have me."
"Y'be fair; I like that." He pronounced "like" as if it were "lack." Where was he from? "Y'see, I'm thinkin'." He pointed a bony finger at the rumbling mountain, behind Josep. "The shits't brought us here, they got to be dead, or that godawful thing'd be sweepin' y'all up by now. If they's dead, that's all to th' good, 'cuz it were more their war than enny of us over here. Boys is tired 'a dyin' 'an I speck y'all feelin' 'bout th' same. Say?"
"I won't pretend it hasn't been rough. We have some people that have lost husbands and wives. Children, even."
"Yeah, figgered. I hate that; purely I do. 'Cuz if one of 'em was to knife me in th' back on my way outta here, I'd say I had it comin'."
A faint rustling caused Josep to check behind him. Bolo, apparently completely ambulatory, was standing in the road, supported on one side by Billee and on the other by none other than Wilson! And was that Armon with them? Josep gaped, but Wilson rolled his forefinger in the air, which Josep took to be a sign to keep the parley going. He returned his attention to the stranger. "What do you propose?"
"T'let us walk. First thing in th' mornin'. We'll leave all our weapons an'y'c'n have these bloody machines, too."
"Surety?"
"Aw, fella, if ya kep' me, what'd stop these kids come back an' fight ya if they had a mind? I ain't nothin' t'them. None of us has much t' watch out for but our own skins. And, y'know – " he chuckled – "I 'speck yer in like case; y'farms look like fried shit t'me."
"You may have a point. Where do you think to go?"
"Back down th' road we made; try t'build a proper tribe down to th' Umpqua."
Wilson stepped up. "Hi, my name's Wilson."
"Oh," said the stranger, "seen you afore. Ain't you th' honcho, then?"
"Yes and no. We're a mixed lot. I happen to know it's a long walk from here to the Umpqua, how do you propose to eat, unarmed?"
"Well, thanky fer yer concern; we thought we'd take our walkin' wounded along, y'know."
Josep winced; he could feel the sly smile in that voice even from this distance.
"If I understand you right, I recommend against what you have thought of," continued Wilson. "You have preserved food in the trucks?"
"Waal, yeh, MREs. Some. Packaged stuff. It's not too bad. Got some smoked venison. No, venison, really."
Wilson turned to Josep. "What say we have each of them, in the morning, take something of that, and a water container. We'll put a cache of hunting weapons – four bows a couple of knives, and say eight arrows – by the Bridge for them to pick up on their way out. That work for you?"
Josep nodded. "That works for me." He turned toward the seated stranger. "You catch all that?"
"Oh, hail, yeah. I hear anything related to my skin."
"We'll be watching."
"Wouldn't expect no less. So, if nobody's trigger finger is any itchier than usual -- " the thin man nodded toward Tomma – "None of my boys here will so much as blink, and I'll gather up our toys, real slow like, and y'all c'n watch me pile 'em up right here in th' open? An' I surely would hate to die of mistakin' y'all on this deal."
Josep looked at Wilson, who nodded. "We're good here," replied the Roundhouse leader. "Our word as Christians, Jeeans, and human beings, which, may it still be true, we are. We will not break 'this deal,' though you must understand we cannot stand down while you proceed."
"That was kinda complicated, but I gotcha; gonna get up real slow now and commence t'gatherin'."
Wilson waved Emilio's little twenty-two vaguely toward the man, with the barrel pointed to the darkened sky. "Please do."
An explosion shook the ground beneath their feet. All eyes turned to the mountain, from which a ball of fire emerged. The flame lit the valley and the hills all around as it rose, then vanished into the lowering clouds. The sky-weapon, apparently under no one's control now, continued its probing of the depths of Ridge.

:::

The band of refugees were washing themselves desperately in the cold waters of the Creek, by the light of the last flames of Hall, when the explosion startled them.
"What was that?" asked one of the Roundhouse children. It was the one with the puppy, standing knee deep.
Karen held her hand protectively over little Allyn's hiding place in the sack at her side. Too damp out here for a baby. She turned back to look at the girl, who, like herself, was still half-covered with Ridge's offal.
"No idea. Ridge is ... gone, I should think."
"Okay," the girl said, holding the squirming puppy at arm's length. "Never liked that place anyway. How come it's so quiet out here?"
"I don't know that either. Your brother will be back soon, and maybe we'll have some better information. Keep washing that poor dog, and do your hair too. And do it twice. At this rate we'll never smell like people again."

Remember Masada

2011-07-31T19:15:00.000-07:00

Chapter Sixty-Five

THE BUCKETS, those that had not cracked from old age and been tossed aside, reeked. The crew handling them had found rags with which to cover their mouths and noses, but it was certainly an onerous task. Bringing up the buckets was slow work; it was more than a hundred meters from the "tunnel's" entrance at Ridge to its exit at Hall Farm.

Karen stood near the doorway. She and the others could hear much of what was going on: the bursting shells from the big gun, the collapse of the sally port door, the brief battle in the antechamber, footsteps on the stairs. Karen drew her revolver, but no one appeared on the landing at the end of the corridor.

"What is happening?" asked Juanita.

"I don't know. It's like they've skipped over us and gone downstairs."

Marleena strode over with a bucket of sewage. "The sinks and shower stalls are full. Where do we put the rest of this?"

Karen didn't hesitate. "Chuck it right out in the hall. Maybe it will slow someone down."

Not twenty buckets later, an echo-laden shout was heard from the bottom of the tunnel. The lower door was open! Little Griff, sounding as if he were kilometers away, gave the all-clear.

Karen, after checking both ways down the corridor, looked into the troubled faces nearest her. "I'm sorry, everyone, we're all going to get ruinously messy. Gather your gear, each of you put your stuff in front of you, climb in, and go. Feet first. Half slide, half creep."

The refectory filled with the rustling of bundles, bows, quivers, backpacks, and bodies. Lining up, one after another of Karen's crew shoved one or more items into the hole, undoubtedly causing distress and discomfort to whomever was below, then sat on the edge and slipped in. Marleena, now carrying Arda, who was wrapped in an old quilt head to foot, kicked a small duffel bag to the side of the hole. Juanita lifted the bag for her and tipped it onto someone in the darkness. Ignoring the aggrieved yelp from below, she turned and helped Marleena sit down with the baby and shove off.

An explosion from somewhere shook the room.

Juanita looked at Karen questioningly.

"They're working up from Four," Karen offered. "Maybe to drive us toward others waiting above. But most likely just 'clearing.' You should go."

"You will come too, will you not?"

"I can't, not right away. They have grenades or something; when they find the garderobe they will drop one right on top of us."

Juanita extended her hands."Then let me take the boy."

Karen looked down at Allyn, sleeping peacefully in his pouch at her left side. "Sure – got a way to wrap him up?"

"But of course. A towel will do, and he will ride between my breasts."

:::

Magee was not pleased to find a steel door, streaked with rust, locked against him. But this was easily remedied. Popping the magazine off his AA-12, he racked the slug out of its chamber and hand-loaded an explosive round from his tool belt. Standing back, he fired point-blank at the doorknob assembly, squinting against the bright flash of the sharp little explosion. As he bent to retrieve his magazine, he became aware the door was swinging open on its hinges faster than he'd anticipated. Through his battle earplugs, he distinctly heard the click of hammers being pulled back, one and then the other. Another shotgun!

Resisting the urge to look up, Magee instinctively braced himself for the impact of slug or shot. The explosion – quite close by and and very loud – shut off the earplugs for a moment, protecting his hearing – but instead of feeling a hit on his suit or helm, he watched his magazine skip away from him. A smart warrior! This was going to be fun.

There would be another shot coming – but, no, whomever it was held their fire. Magee could not risk a peek; he turned away as he stood up, and and reached into his pouch for a spare shell. Buckshot; just what was wanted. This he popped into his chamber and threw his shotgun over his shoulder to fire behind him into the room. Strange sounds – something rolling? – came to him from the general direction of his assailant.

A woman's voice – an old woman's voice – pierced the air. "Watch out, Avery, sunnabitch is armored! Head to toe!"

Two of them at least! And experienced, clearly. Change of plan. Magee scrabbled in the other pouch at his belt for his one flash-bang, hoping it would not prove to be a dud. This would require two hands. He set his shotgun against the wall, and was not surprised to see it immediately shot and knocked to the floor, undoubtedly damaged. He pulled the fuse ring on the bomb, counted to three, and tossed it over his shoulder into the room. A satisfying commotion ensued, followed by a disappointingly dull thump.

Someone had jumped on the bomb and suppressed the blast.

Magee swung round and bounded into the room. A bit old for this sort of thing, but when ya gotta, ya gotta. To his consternation he found himself facing two wheelchairs by a table, one empty. In the other sat a round-shouldered hag, completely focused on re-loading a sawed-off twelve-gauge. In three steps he crossed the room and disarmed her, snapped the gun shut, pulled back the hammers, and was in command of the situation.

On the floor lay a man, already moaning and stirring. Although he had stumps for legs, he looked strong and still dangerous. Even as he'd fallen across the hissing flash-bang, the leader – he had to be the leader – had had the presence of mind to draw a derringer with one hand and a throwing knife with the other. Best neutralize him immediately.

But the old lady apparently didn't know when she was licked; she picked up a heavy old telephone handset and threw it at the shotgun, then some kind of electronic thing in a box, and then, from somewhere, produced, of all things, a short sword, and stood up, all the while uttering colorful curses. Okay, be that way. Magee changed his aim and fired into her. The hag rolled backward a few centimeters and subsided at last, but not without offering Magee a strange and quizzical smile.

What was that smile about?

Instinctively, hackles raised, Magee turned toward the door.

The last person he'd expected to see was standing there, less than two meters away, aiming a large stainless steel pistol right at the eye-slit in Magee's helm.

Magee lifted the sawed-off, ready to trip the trigger again just as soon as he could get its aim onto any part of his target, but he was painfully aware that for the second time in his life, someone had the drop on him.

:::

The Doctor, whose hearing was especially acute, followed the sounds of small-arms combat near and far. Some of this was easily interpreted; her minions were efficiently clearing rooms for her. Other sounds made less sense, and were beginning to concern her. There was action three or more floors above her, which she judged involved Magee; then closer, as though someone had engaged her rear guard at the entrance – that staccato racket was surely the AK, but what was the other? Neither shotgun nor twenty-two. She dispatched an intern to reconnoiter the antechamber and report back. One more floor to clear, and then see for herself what Magee had got himself into.

She climbed the stairs behind her young men and followed them onto the landing.

Imagine! A nuclear battery. She'd verified not only its existence, but its status. From the LEDs and gauges, she'd seen that it would last, at the current rate, a good twenty years. Exactly what The Doctor ordered. But this rat's nest must be cleared, the insurrection of the peasants put down, once and for all, before she could plan her future.

One last level. The young men swung into a room, covering each other. Clear. Another. Clear. Another.

Here they encountered difficulties. Someone was shooting at them! One returned fire with his crossbow and lurched back into the corridor, apparently hit. The other tossed a flash-bang into the room, then, after the explosion, cleared the room himself. The Doctor inspected her damaged soldier.

"Where did they get you?"

"Uhh ... shoulder, ma'am. Not too bad."

"You can still fight?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good." The other returned. She turned to him. "What did you find?"

"Old lady and an old man. Really old. He was already dead. She was shooting at us; then after the bomb we got her."

"You made sure of them?"

"Yes, ma'am, cleared. Here's the weapon. One round left."

The Doctor inspected the tiny green pistol. "Cute. I've heard of these but never seen one. Keep it. Let's get the next room. Load your partner's crossbow for him; he's hit in the arm."

The youths worked the next doorway and then the next.

Here they found a mystery; several old people who had, apparently, committed mass suicide. The oldest corpse, a small wizened woman with white hair in a bun, held a Glock tightly gripped in both hands. One of the young men pried it loose and checked the magazine and the chamber – both empty. "Ma'am, could this be Wolf's sidearm?"

"Why yes, I believe it could. He came back to Roseburg without it. Hang onto that, too. I believe I have some Parabellum back at the truck."

Things had quieted down upstairs; presumably Magee had cleared his objective and was exploring. But why had her scout not returned?

The next room presented a difficulty; raw sewage had been spilled, in quantity, into the hallway, and would have to be negotiated to proceed farther. The stench was indescribable, and the interns showed a disinclination to walk through the stuff to clear the room.

"Now, boys, let's not be fastidious."

"No, ma'am, we're on it."

They stepped into the slick brown stream. Just as they did so, The Doctor's sensitive ears picked up the smallest of sounds behind her – as of someone walking on the balls of bare feet, almost tiptoe. She brought up the AA-12 and swung round to bring it to bear. As she did so, two loud pops, as from a small pistol, resounded in the corridor. From the corner of her eye, The Doctor saw only a heel as whomever it was disappeared into the death-room they had just cleared. She swung back to check on her interns, only to find them both sagging onto the mired floor of the corridor. One was cursing liberally. Both had clearly been shot, on either side of and past her, despite their body armor, and neither looked as if he had any fight left in him.

The Doctor was, quite suddenly, effectively alone. Swinging back to the door, she strode over and slipped in as quickly as her armored suit would permit, covering all the corners with the AA-12. Surely whomever had attacked was not one of these dead old ladies. Was there a closet? There was a door! She realized she'd heard it click shut. Neither of those dolts lying out there in the hallway had mentioned a door. Oh, well. If you want something done right ... she saw that there was no lock in the doorknob, nor a keypad on the wall nearby. Trying the knob, she found that it turned. She opened the door a crack, and threw in her one flash-bang.

After the burst, she entered, shotgun at the ready, but found only some kind of tiny bunkroom with empty steel bunks. There was a door at the other end. She advanced and cracked that one. This led to a well-lit large room with tables and chairs, with a kitchen at the other end. A large serving window, with a stainless-steel counter, offered good cover there; The Doctor would have to clear that kitchen before exploring farther.

As she was about to do so, however, two more pops came from an open doorway to her right. The corridor! Moving as fast as the suit would allow, The Doctor reached the doorway, only to find that her men were lying face down in the muck. Both had been double-tapped! And brown footprints led back once again to the doorway behind which the old women had died. She was being led a merry chase.

This will not do. Thoroughly angry now, The Doctor retraced her steps to the bunkroom, with the shotgun at ready, and approached the doorway to the death chamber. Ah, movement at last within her field of fire! She held down the trigger. The AA-12, on full automatic, roared as it tore apart the person who lurched into the bunkroom.

But something did not seem right. Leaning over to see better though her visor, The Doctor glimpsed her victim. It was the already-dead old lady, the one who'd used the Glock! Quickly The Doctor began to re-assume her defensive posture; but as she did so, something flashed at the edge of her vision.

:::

Karen had expected the dagger, plunged deep within the slit in her strange opponent's helmet, to end the fight, yet the hands that gripped the big shotgun still moved with deadly purpose. She gripped the barrel, gasping as it burned her one hand, and body slammed the jointed Kevlar suit, then put her right foot behind the other's left leg, planted for a split second, then kicked back against the leg. Surprising strength resisted her, but the two toppled together between the rows of bunks. The shotgun fired again and again, right by her ear, almost stunning her. Why had the long knife, still protruding from the helmet's face, not killed? Never mind, focus.

Her enemy abandoned the idea of shooting and tried to hit Karen in the side of the head with the gun barrel. Karen rolled right, and, taking a chance on timing, drew her revolver, put it alongside the hilt of the dagger, and pulled the trigger five times. One shot misfired, but the other four struck home. The heavy armored suit stiffened, and then lay almost still. The arms and legs continued to flex rhythmically, though there seemed to be no longer any purpose in them.

Karen, still lying prone atop her twitching foe, holstered the emptied revolver, retrieved her bloodied knife, wiped it on the corpse's Kevlar for lack of anything better and sheathed it, then yanked the big shotgun away from the strange figure's gloved hands and tossed it as far away as she could.

Before anything else was to be done, she must reload.

Karen, legs wobbly, arose and reeled across the roomful of bodies to an upended chair. She drew the revolver, gripped the still-warm barrel between her knees and pulled at the extractor rod, swinging out the cylinder to shove the shells out. The brass empties, along with one dud, tinkled across the blood-pooled floor. Hand shaking, she fished nine new rounds, one at a time, from her ammunition pouch and shoved them into the chambers of the tiny cylinder, then snapped it shut with her thumb. She watched the armored suit from the corner of her eye as she did so. The heels of its boots were lightly tapping the floor.

She holstered the revolver, then, agonizingly, rose from the chair and returned to the armored fighter. The gloved hands were still slowly grasping at the air. Why had not a knife thrust and four shots through the eye-slit finished this man?

Karen explored the helmet and found and unsnapped its fastenings. Drawing it off the head awkwardly, she found herself looking into what had once been a woman's face. Or was it?

The features, as best Karen could tell -- she had damaged them considerably -- were regular and not unattractive. Ellen Murchison might have resembled this, years ago. Long hair, drawn up into a bun like Mrs. Lazar's. A strong jaw line. The eyes --

One eye had been thoroughly -- shattered was the right word -- by the knife, or the twenty-two, or both. There were orbital muscles -- that would be the superior rectus -- but also fine wires -- platinum? Karen recoiled.

As she did so, the other eye dilated and focused on her. Karen drew her revolver and fired all nine rounds, double action. None misfired.

The woman -- or thing, whatever -- jerked and lay still.

Karen returned to the chair, her breath rasping, and reloaded again. Very little ammunition remained to her. She looked across at the shotgun. No, too big for her. But she could chuck it down the garderobe; someone else could use whatever ammunition it might have left, perhaps.

She listened to her surroundings.

Everything had gone strangely quiet. Though Karen had concentrated on the problem at hand, she now realized there had been fighting in other parts of the facility. Why hadn't the mines gone off? These people -- or this -- must have found and interfered with the detonating system. Briefly she considered checking upstairs, but the people who had gone down the pipe were her current responsibility. Time to go and find them.

Karen stood up, crossed the room, and retrieved the heavy AA-12.

On her way out, she discovered again the abused remains of Mrs. Lazar, with whose body, using all of her strength, Karen had decoyed the armored creature.

The old woman's surprised-looking eyes, which had suffered from cataracts, were open and drying. Karen bent over and drew the eyelids closed. Remember Masada, old friend.

No remedy and little time

2011-07-24T13:33:00.000-07:00

Chapter Sixty-Four

"THIS HERE thing," said Mary disgustedly, "is no more than a gahdam pearl-handled cyanide pill." She unloaded the tiny "gambler's gun," dry-snapped it experimentally in the direction of the entryway, then reloaded it.
"Here; take this one, then." Avery drew the sawed-off and tossed it to her.
"Hey! That's more like it. But what if I'd dropped it?"
"Well, that would have been risky. But you didn't. Here's extra shells, too. Throw me the little one." Avery caught the derringer and turned back to the console. The room shook. Both their wheelchairs transmitted the shock of the explosion to them. "How many do you make that?"
"About fifteen. They'll be comin' in, my lad. The doors are good stuff, but not that good."
Avery glanced at the destruct button. "We may have to pull the plug soon, then. Where's Selk? Are we in business or not?"
"He went to take a peek, I think. Wups -- here he is."
Selk, at the south window, began making gestures. There being no agreed-upon sign language at the Creek, his efforts were randomly understood, but Mary, quicker on the uptake than Avery, undertook to translate.
"The nasties have, he says, divided their forces. Some are still along the road -- out in th' open, and worth goin' after! The scope?" She swung around and looked. "Oh, better. Best signal we're going to get." She gave Selk a thumbs-up.
Selk was clearly about to reply in kind, but instead made a small "o" with his mouth and sank slowly out of sight from the narrow window.
A man whom Mary had never seen before appeared, crossbow in hand, drew a knife, and bent towards Selk's location. Mary, in supreme anger and frustration, pointed the sawed-off at the window, which succeeded in startling the intruder when he stood up. She knew better than to to pull the trigger, however. Nothing that could be fired from a shotgun, let alone "pheasant" loads, was going to reach a foe through nine inches of quartz.
"What's up?" asked Avery over his shoulder, as he reached for the three great dials.
"Sonofabitch effin' got my boy! Now he's standin' right here starin' at me through th' window! Is there a way you can cut him up with that effin' great cheese slicer?"
"No, there's a stop built into the dials, to keep it off our position evidently. I'll just have to hope I can hack up some trucks instead." Avery twiddled the dials minutely. "Sorry about your engineer, Mary," he added softly. "A good man."
The enemy soldier seemed distracted. He backed away from the window, looked down, and withdrew a screwdriver from his abdomen. With his other hand he explored his middle for a moment, then looked at his darkened palm, then again at the screwdriver. He threw it away, obviously cursing, and then walked aimlessly off.
"A damned good man," said Mary, putting her hand against the wall where Selk's poor body must be.

:::

This, thought Magee, is more like it.
He stepped through the stinking air where the cleverly-made (and surprisingly strong) door had been, and found himself in an artificially-lit interior. No sooner than he had taken four laborious strides forward, however, than he was rocked back by a blast from nearby -- buckshot, by the feel of it.
Yet more acrid smoke soured the air.
Huh -- black powder shotshells. More evidence of manufacturing activity. An exciting prospect. A brief image of himself explaining the advantages of a joint venture tickled his imagination, but then the suit took another bruising hit. Even with the blast-protection plugs in his ears, Magee found himself developing a headache. He'd better locate and neutralize the threat, before they thought to aim for his visor.
There -- the sound of another shell being racked into a chamber. A woman near a service area of some kind -- stairwell and elevator shaft. Just like old times. The weapon was still at her shoulder and aimed, as he expected, a little higher than the first two shots. Magee turned away, almost staggering as the balls, still clustered together, pounded his helm. He swung back to return fire, only to see his assailant cut down by a blast from behind him.
"My lord, are you well?" The Doctor, suited up and armed with her own AA-12, stepped through the wreckage of the sally port. To make herself heard without suit radios, she was shouting. Three of her young interns drifted in behind her, armed with crossbows, and a fourth carried Wolf's old AK-47. These were all of the invading force that had made it to the farmers' inner sanctum; but with the two suits and the super-shotguns, Magee felt confident.
"Very well, m'dear, just a mite slow." Magee shook his head inside the helm, trying to clear the ringing from his ears. "It looks like there are a number of floors. Let's clean up this rat's nest quickly. One of you younguns make sure of that casualty and collect her weapon; I'll go upstairs'n the rest of you work from here down, hm?"
"It is good, my lord." The Doctor, shotgun at the ready, glanced round. "A welcoming committee of one. Interesting; perhaps they have concentrated their powers in the valley." She strode heavily toward the descending staircase, then stopped by the elevator door. She reached into a tool bag at her waist and retrieved a pair of wire snips.
"Something good?" asked Magee.
"New wiring, run from floor to floor along the handrails. Perhaps internal communications; more likely they have a bomb rigged to suicide and take us with them." She snipped, then replaced the tool. Rummaging round in the bag, she found and displayed a round object about the size of a baseball. "Boys?"
"Yes, ma'am," replied one of the interns.
"Three of you take these flash-bangs and work your way down with me; make sure there are no nasty surprises, hmm?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Gunner and one other stay here, turn up that table for cover and watch the elevator and the exit."
"Yes, ma'am."
She turned back to Magee, who had already set foot on the first step of the ascending staircase. "My lord, should you go adventuring alone? I worry about you."
"Aww, y'nice, m'dear, but I've always been the luckiest man alive, y'know that."
And most of your luck has been me. "Yes, my lord. Have a good time, and we will clear the rest of the facility and join you as way permits."
Magee's bespectacled eyes, through the slit in the faceplate, smiled.

:::

The great geyser of mud, rocks and steam, which the two men had wondered at, suddenly left the Creek and tore up along the stream's bank at an angle, making off deliberately with a roar and a rumble. In its absence there fell, locally, a remarkable stillness, though in the distance, in several directions, guns popped.
Armon stood up and scanned the smoking scenario, a salvaged crossbow at the ready. "I think everything's gone east from here, including whatever the eff that was."
Wilson, still carrying the broken twenty-two, emerged from the shattered woods. "Agreed; let's inspect this battlefield an' then follow." He walked, gingerly negotiating the slanted, crumbling ditches as he went, toward the cluster of burning vehicles. He quickly found that stepping near the northern edge of the little trenches invited a broken ankle.
The first tractor, he sadly realized from its size and color, had once been Deerie. And the contents of its upended cage of smashed steel plates had likely once been Jorj, poor man. Next to Deerie stood its cousin, similar in shape but bigger than any example Wilson had ever seen. It had evidently burned -- was still smoking. Most of its steel was blackened by soot from, by the smell of it, diesel fuel.
Diesel was not part of the experience of most Creekers, but Wilson had been, years ago, one of a team of small boys assigned to pull fuel tanks and oil pans to get at the last uncollected drops. It had not been pleasant work, largely because so many vehicles had, by then, been overgrown with blackberries and invested by bald-faced hornets and paper wasps. He wrinkled his nose. He then noticed that the roof of the Cat's armored cage had been sliced in parallel to the strange ditches. What ... ? A wrecked truck nearby, he realized, had presented to him a similar puzzle. Was this something to do with Selk's pet project? A new respect for the little scurrier seeped in.
Armon, scanning east and west, worked round to the other side. "Hey, Wilson!"
Wilson winced; the guy could never absorb protocols. "Report; describe."
"Aw, just come see, okay?"
Wilson, checking behind him as he rounded the corner of the tracks, followed Armon's voice to find him standing on the Cat's tracks by a burnt armored door, hanging open.
A man lay half out of the doorway, covered with second-degree burns and soot. He'd been apparently unable to escape the flames, as there was a shackle round one of his legs, chained to something in the interior.
"Jeeah, Wilson, he's still breathin." Armon turned the unconscious man over.
Aside from the extensive burns, he'd also been shot, from close range. Wilson counted the holes. At least nine times, including once to the head. Limitations of the twenty-two.
"So, what do we do?" asked Armon.
"Got that knife?"
"Well, yeah ... "
"So, put him out of his misery."
"Umm?"
"Ever do sheep?"
"Uhh, yeah."
"Same thing." Wilson pointed. "Here to here. Nothin' to it."
A sound nearby drew their attention. Swiveling round with the cocked rifle in one hand, like a long pistol, Wilson spotted the source. Someone sat under a blasted tree, using its trunk as a backrest. A hand waved in the gathering twilight.
Abandoning protocol himself, Wilson ran to the sitter.
"Emilio! What ... ?"
"Please. With me, sit a little. Talk business, yes?"
Emiio's other hand, Wilson could see, covered a pattern of holes at his waist, and was bloody. He reached for the wound.
"No. It is no good. I tried to make sure of that man and collect his weapon, which was immensely foolish of me. And now he has, I think, relieved me of my pancreas."
"Godammit, Emilio ... "
"Shh. Order of business. First: several good people have died here; Mrs. Perkins is one, Mr. Jorj another. But they all have performed well. Second: I have rescued that man's shotgun from the flames. There ... are still two shells. Mr. Armon, I see, has come with you; give him that. It will be ... an improvement over the crossbow. Third; some of the enemy have passed Hall and assaulted Ridge; but they are very few, I think, and the doors are strong. The bulk of them have gone east for some reason and we are fighting them ... I think ... you should go there. Fourth; is that broken rifle loaded, and do you have spare rounds?"
"Yes. And yes."
Armon came up. Wilson handed him the shotgun.
"Fifth, then: With me, trade rifles. But do not waste it as I did -- aim always for the head." Emilio smiled, but very briefly; Wilson would have willingly witnessed almost anything but that smile.
"Emilio ... we can ... "
"We cannot. You may trust me that I have no remedy and little time; be reassured, the bullet is in case any straggler follows you. I cover, yes? Go; go now, Jeeah with you; dark is coming."
"I'll remember you to Mrs. Molinero."
"You will surely do so, my good friend."

Always and everywhere

2011-07-16T19:04:00.000-07:00

Chapter Sixty-Three

THE TWO men had climbed much of the afternoon, almost straight up the trail, which consisted of no more than the judicious removal of enough brush and branches to facilitate assaults on the mountaintop. There were no switchbacks, and it was hard going. Their haste was driven by the rattle and thump of explosions ahead. Though their hands were empty of weapons, they had trained, much of their lives, to run toward the sound of warfare.

As they entered the clearing at the top of the Butte, they stopped and surveyed the scene before them carefully. Smoke wisped from the blackened doorway of the partially caved-in stone lookout, and a body lay, very still, on the ground nearby. There were no signs of current or recent activity.

One gestured to the other, and they advanced to the casualty. The leader knelt and examined the body, while the other scanned round the perimeter of the open ground. "Who is it?" he asked.

"You can't tell? S'Ro-eena, dammit. Effin' flies, leave 'er alone." Wilson futilely fanned the air above her open back. How had it gotten so warm out after all that rain? There were already rows of tiny white eggs around the edges of the gash.

"She must have been running from the building when it blew."

"Yeah."

"Shoulda gone left, 'stead 'a straight away."

"Y'know, Armon, y'tryin' t' turn over a new leaf, maybe don't say things ... like that ... for a while?"

The big man opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it; he had, as he well knew, run straight away. He hung his head.

Wilson looked up. "Man ... get a grip, no time for that either." He pointed to the doorway. "See if you can salvage anything in there; I'll go through her possibles."
Regret welled up in Wilson; his eyes fogged over and he had to dab at them with the back of his knuckles. This woman, with something like what had been called a photographic memory, had been the Creek's archives. All that had gone, along with a stout little heart.

Ro-eena's bag turned up several personal treasures, which he tucked into her tunic. Remaining were a squat jar of cottonwood salve and an old pill bottle containing twelve rounds of Karen's twenty-twos, packed in dried mint. The bag hung from a belt that also held a sheathed knife. The belt would be too short to use. He unlaced it from its paired rings and slid the sheath and the possibles bag onto the thin grass, then patted away some dirt from Ro-eena's red hair. "Go with Jeeah, girl. She likes good soldiers."

Armon returned from the smoldering building. He piled his small inventory next to Wilson. "Almost nothing. The phone's smashed. Binoculars, same thing. Water was in a glass jug; that broke. Some fruit leathers in a basket. N'this." He held out a single-shot twenty-two with a smashed stock.

Wilson took the little rifle and worked the bolt. A round in the chamber. He ejected this into his palm, held the barrel up to his eye, held his fingernail to the breech, and examined the light thrown into the barrel by the nail. Clean and clear; didn't look bent. He reloaded. "This will do. Was there an axe? We always have an axe here. Shovel, too."

"Buried in the cave-in, I think."

"Well ... Let's put her in through th' window and call that burial, for now. If any of us ever gets back here to collect her, things will be goin' better'n I expect."

Standing on either side of the body, which still lay face down, they made a litter of their upturned palms, rolled the stiffened body over, and lifted it. Ro-eena, who had always been slight, was unexpectedly heavy. Did flesh gain weight when spirit fled?

There was no disguising the unceremonious dumping that concluded the action, but both the men seemed to feel they had done something for the dead by putting the body out of sight. Wilson took up the shattered rifle and walked to the southern edge of the Butte; Armon gathered up the other things, after putting the sheathed knife in his sash, and followed.

A small but thriving corner of hell unfolded itself to their wondering eyes.

At their feet, the buildings of Hall, Murchison's, Chaney's, Bledsoe's and Joseph's were in flames. Murchison's was already a burnt-out shell. The smoke from that fire obscured details of the others, drifting slowly up the Creek road to the east. Smoke also rose from innumerable fires along the Road, all the way from Bridge to Hall. Vehicles appeared to to be crawling up the Ridge road, attended by desultory gunfire. How they had gotten that fire was not clear to Wilson, who could see that the bridge at Hall had been collapsed -- how, he had no idea, as the middle appeared from here to have been simply sliced from one side to the other, as if by a bread knife. A geyser of water and steam spouted up from the Creek in front of Bledsoe's, as if a small volcano were erupting there; the steam mixed itself with the smoke from the burning Farms and drew gloweringly away to the east.

Before he could wonder about all the straight and elliptical ditches that had appeared in the Creek road, Wilson's eye was drawn to activity on its surface, half hidden in the smoke. Two or more vehicles were burning, and there was fighting around them; Others had moved off up the road toward New Ames, with what had to be Creekers in pursuit. The enemy's forces had been divided and could be tackled piecemeal; in effect the Creekers, on foot, held the interior lines!

"Armon! We're not whipped yet! There's work to be done down there. Y'ready?"

:::

The Doctor was not entirely happy. Certainly the Ridge was their ultimate objective, as Magee would surely have agreed, in days gone by, but his truck resolutely ground on, chuffing round the switchbacks of the farmers' access road. At least they were now out of the reach of that thing in the sky! But she would have preferred to bring along the rest of the column. No good could come of leaving them among the bedlam that was erupting along that half-dried river below.

Perhaps Magee hoped to gain control of the sky-weapon. Here was a prize indeed, if it proved to have any staying power. Better even than the now-defunct microwave, perhaps. That man had always dreamed of empire.

The problem was, the Doctor reflected, that there was simply not much left of the known world for imperial scope. The Eastsiders were scattered tribals rapidly re-inventing all things Indian, rightly recognizing cowboy culture as ultimately tied to a vanished industrial system. Those who, few in number had adhered to Magee's "Rogue Valley Volunteers" had hit the resource wall and scattered, with about a fourth of them right here in the fight. Who knew what was going on in Port Land? She suspected: not much. They'd displayed surprisingly little reach, which to her meant there must have been problems at Hanford. And from the scorched south, from whence one might have expected a hundred million Pilgrims, no more than two hundred thousand had ever come north, by her count.

That left this shrinking band of idealistic gentleman farmers, which Magee had no hope of befriending (it was not his style) and less of exterminating (they were proving resourceful). Not much future in pacification campaigns here. And without someone's cooperation, the big laser would have no meaningful reach. By pumping one round into that hut across the valley, the Doctor had blinded the monster, apparently.

Trust Magee not to be thinking that far ahead. Other things being equal, now would be the time for the Doctor to head out. East, perhaps. Or West. Find a boat, get south of the Equator. If such a thing were possible for her.

But the Doctor had a problem; she was tied to electricity. Regulated and in sufficient quantity. It had begun to run out in Roseburg, and would run out here if they could not breach this fort. Life, for the Doctor, lay within this mountain. Despite the continual jouncing, she frowned; stupid LAV! Its engine should be running so that she could plug in.

The vehicles suddenly halted; she could feel the tensioned tow cable slackening. Freed suddenly from the need to grip the steering yoke with both hands, she automatically reached for her left wrist and tugged aside the unobtrusive fold of darker skin there. She found the tiny still-green glow of the LED reassuring.

Someone banged on the hull. It would be Magee; they had almost no one with them. The Doctor rose from the driver's seat to a half-crouch, undogged the driver's hatch, lifted it slightly, and peeked out.

Yep, Magee. And he had somehow found time to climb into his armored suit.

Standard Army issue, the suit had once harbored electronic and nanotech wonders, including a power pack for its exoskeleton, but these things had gone the way of history during the Undoing, falling victim to electromagnetic pulses, of whatever origin. With its VR goggles stripped away, the suit was still handy as full-body armor, but debilitatingly heavy. The Doctor marveled that Magee could still manage it; he looked almost like a slow-moving deep-sea diver. In one hand he carried his cumbersome AA-12E. With the other, he waved and pointed to the chain-gun's barrel overhead and then to the rock face nearby. What had he seen to shoot at there?

Magee walked toward the short cliff as the Doctor watched, fascinated. There was a distraction; someone shouted some sort of war cry on the right and threw a Molotov cocktail at Magee, which fell short, bursting and burning with a dull red glow on the road berm. Magee shouldered his weapon nonchalantly and fired one round, observed the effect for a few moments and lumbered on.

Reaching the mountain wall, he turned, made sure the Doctor was still watching, and patted the stone. Yes. There was something of a rectangle there. A door, then. She dropped the hatch and dogged it, then made for the gunner's position. Crank the turret; crank the gun; rack a HESH-T; reach for the duct-taped trigger.

Anyone watching might have wondered why the Doctor did not bother to put on the hearing protector muffs hanging near her left shoulder. Perhaps, if she knew they were watching, she would have. Protective coloring meant much in this game. But the Doctor's needs, though always and everywhere urgent, were few.

:::

Karen, sitting beside Marleena, glanced over and met her eyes, steady and ready. Both the babies had fallen asleep; time to unhook them and pack them up. It would soon be nightfall and time to roll. With an almost silent matched pair of wet "plops," the mothers became individuals again.

As she struggled with her little boy's swaddling, Karen wondered, not for the first time, how she'd drawn this particular billet. The crew she'd assembled consisted of none of her old friends, excepting Juanita. Nearly everyone present was from Roundhouse. A stronger division of labor between the sexes might account for it; these were, except for two small boys, almost all women that had until this war, never held a bow, let alone a rifle. Now they would be carrying, each of them, some weapon; and might have to learn to use it on the run. It was hoped that some of those fighting outside might trail and join them, but the hope carried as much freight as any terror; one look at Juanita's clouded expression told all.

One of the urchins, wearing his bravest face, stood in the doorway. "Beg pardon, ma'am, all heads counted and all things inventoried."

"Right," replied Karen, distracted by a strip of cloth that would insist on covering Allyn's nose and mouth. "How many commons?"

"Two axes, two shovels, two buckets, six tarps. Mr. Errol is up and around, and is showing us where to find things."

"I trust these tarps don't fall apart when handled and are not blue?"

"No ma'am," he grinned. "Never seen daylight, and we painted them brown and green like you said."

"Right, so we'll be right there and all head for the stairwell together."

"Yes'm." He turned to go.

The floor beneath them vibrated. Dust floated free from the ceiling overhead, and a dull thump resounded more in their chest cavities than in their ears. The boy turned to face Karen again, trying to hide his fright.

"You're right," Karen answered his unasked question. "That wasn't up top, that was second level, by the doors."

Another thump. A flourescent tube in one of the ceiling fixtures popped and showered Marleena and Arda with tiny diamonds and white powder. Marleena snatched up the baby and backed away from the spot. Karen practically tossed little Allyn into his bag on her left hip, then drew the revolver whose holster was now part of that bag. Juanita and Marleena took up their bows.

Feet came running down the stairwell; Karen and the young Roundhouser, bow drawn, stepped into the hall to meet them.

It was Guchi, carrying a shotgun and looking grim. He pulled up in front of Karen. "Mrs. Allyn, they're working on the sally port with that gun. You're not going to be able to go." Another, louder thump punctuated his report.

In a way, Karen was relieved. "Well, then ... " She waved the High Standard meaningfully.

Guchi wasn't finished. "But, uhh, follow me?"

Another raucus thump. White dust plastered their hair as Karen followed Yamaguchi to the refectory's "garderobe." He gestured grandly at the toilet seat.

Not intended for human waste disposal only, the chute was a steel-lined tube through the rock of the mountain, slanting away toward Hall. How it had been used before the Great Undoing, no one remembered, but Ridge had appropriated it as the best means of getting everything compostable down to the great heaps of Hall Farm. Only the dead had been spared this indignity, being carried down ceremonially by ox-cart. The pipe diameter was fifty centimeters, so it was a doable route, though steep.

"Really?" Karen wrinkled her nose, though she was not fastidious by nature. Not the best environment for a newborn, surely.

"Well, yucky, yeah. But we last raked it out about a week and a half ago. Not everybody's been living up here since, so I figure an hour's work for one strong kid. Maybe more. Depends on how fast we can bring up the buckets."

"It's latched on the outside -- at Hall Farm -- right?"

"Yes, but that should yield to some dexterity. It's not really a security thing. Though, maybe -- " he shrugged -- "it should have been."

Thump. Dust motes leaped from the walls.

"Umm. Okay." Karen holstered the revolver. She looked round. The youngster she hoped might still be in the doorway, had, it turned out, gone her one better, and was standing by her elbow.

"Ma'am."

"Want to do something particularly awful and be a hero?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am." The kid grinned. "Name's Griff."

"Mmh? Oh, to tell your friends where you ..."

"No, ma'am. To remember me by for all time. I'll get me some rope and a bucket."

Thump.

And with you

2011-07-07T15:43:00.000-07:00

Chapter Sixty-Two

IT WAS definitely time to hit the new driver-accessible headache button. Magee reached for it, but as he did so, the cab of his chariot -- a weaponized 8X8 MRAP -- came undone.

Daylight simply appeared through the roof overhead, from the front of the cab to the back, with molten metal running down onto the bulletproof window. The glass, special though it might be, cracked, fell apart, and cascaded into his lap in thousands of iridescent shards.

What the eff was that?

Something whined past his face and flattened itself on the passenger side window. Magee had been shot at before; he didn't like any more now than he had then.

Mullins and Lockerby were going to have to endure some unconsciousness. Magee reached for the dashboard again, this time twisting the intensity control. Four? Five?

An arrow caromed off the doorpost.

Oh, heck, make it six. Buncha half-dead farmers with some friendly casualties, would be preferable to being overwhelmed. He hit the button.

Nothing!

Another arrow plumed in and lodged itself in the padding around the passenger-side doorpost. What had happened to the microwave?

Ahead of him, Mullins was blazing away at farmhouses and what looked like an old sawmill. He'd better start in on that mountaintop soon ... suddenly there was a ruckus in front of the LAV. Some kind of vehicle being rolled over -- good one, Lockie -- fleeting glimpses of figures assaulting the D9 and the LAV -- the D9 jumping into the air again amidst flames -- Magee's ears ached with the multiple concussions coming in through the broken window -- the D9 burning.

Better check that dish.

He hurriedly swept glass off the windowsill with an oily red rag. Ignoring the possibility of being shot in the back, Magee shimmied out, took a peek, and squirmed back in.

Well! Something had sliced the dish cleanly off the roof. It lay, about as useful as any of the detritus of civilization, reduced to expensive-looking scrap.

What was that weapon?

People were coming toward him, apparently intent on business. He tried to think, but for once felt fresh out of ideas.

Shotgun blasts interrupted Magee's reverie. They seemed to be coming from behind the MRAP. The farmer-warriors fell, one by one. Oh, that would be The Doctor with her AA12-E. He had one himself, of course, in a locker in the back. Last-resort stuff.

She appeared in the window, standing on the running board. "My lord, we must advance. The column will be cut to pieces here."

"What the hell hit my dish?"

"There is a focused beam device, laser or maser, my lord. It seems to be sky-based. Low in the south. If we make for the mountain we will be hull-down from it. Drive!" The Doctor's upper arm began to bleed; she stepped down and fired again into the near distance. She shouted over her shoulder. "You must drive, now!"

"We need the LAV. I'll pull around it; hook me up and tell Mullo to concentrate on that doorway up there." He gripped the wheel and set the truck in motion.

The Doctor shook her head. What was the poor man thinking? Without the dish, in front of the LAV, Magee would be too tempting a target for Mullins. She ran, missed by a crossbow bolt, to the back of the immobilized armored vehicle and rapped one of its back doors with the butt of the AA12, three times, pause, three times.

Mullins' guard, a trusted member of her intern crew, opened out the rust-streaked door.

"Stand aside, please," she smiled. Shouldering the heavy weapon with its round drum full of twelve-gauge slugs, she sent one round though the gunner's seat, climbed in, and dogged the door shut the door behind her. Small-arms fire pinged off the exterior. "Run around that mess to the driver's hatch, climb out, roll down front, and cable this thing up to The Boss's truck, yes? Good lad."

He ran to do her bidding, and she winced at the thought that so much might devolve upon so little. The young man could be shot before completing the task. Or the Clevis could already be too hot to handle -- a whiff of burning D9 had come in through the door with her. Well, first things first. Leaning the AA12 against the crew compartment wall, she brushed her hair out of her eyes, tugged Mullins' surprised-looking corpse down from the Bushmaster, and took his place.

Let's see -- nothing was as it had been when they had first acquired this machine. When the Army ran away, leaving their inexplicably acquired Marine Light-Armored Vehicle behind with so much other stuff, it had been left parked outside the ABC-hardened bunkers.The electro-magnetic pulses, both solar and war-derived, that had so paralyzed the world had made a hash of its electronics. The turret was hand-cranked, the gun bolt-operated, and for a gunsight someone -- Mullins, she supposed, this had been his baby -- had found a way to bore through the hull and install a riflescope, which was all right for point-blank warfare but not much help with elevations. Oh, well.

Encouraging noises rang from up front somewhere. The Doctor cranked the turret round to face the upper reaches of the dark mountain, where a road from the burning mill ended against a nondescript rock face. That would be the spot. She raised the barrel with another crank.

So little ammunition! Mullins had been much too lavish, poor boy. HESH-T's should not be wasted on peasants in shrubbery. There was a round in the chamber. She looked through the scope again, shrugged, and gripped Mullin's makeshift trigger. A near-deafening racket, more of a crack than a boom, filled the narrow space around her. As the shell fell among those at her feet, smoking, she went back to the scope to see a point of light, following a tight spiral, rise against the darkness of the mountain's face and blossom into orange flame. Low and to the right, and not enough punch from here, she could see. Well, her lord was right, as he so often was, though it never failed to surprise her. She'd just have to be towed up the mountain and work from up close.

A strange sizzling sound passed over; tiny holes appeared in the roof, and globules of Kevlar, stinking, dripped into the interior. Someone screamed outside. This was getting to be a near thing! Suddenly the LAV jerked and began rolling forward, yawing to the left. Better get in the driver's seat and grab that yoke! And she was going to have to be her own "power" steering.

:::

"Ro-eena, what have we got? Over!" The heavy old handset, smelling of Bakelite, was slick with Avery's sweat and kept sliding through his hand, away from his ear.

"We're on the road, sir, but moving too fast. We should maybe stay in one spot, let them drive through it? Wait, there goes Mr. Jorj! Oh, eff it! Jeeah help us!"

"Ro-eena! Ro-eena! Are you ..." Avery heard a click; she'd finally lifted her finger from the "send" button. "Ro-eena, focus please. No reporting or evaluation except in relation to the laser. Over!"

"I'm sorry, sir, but it's pertinent; the column has stopped. Inch back to the west and you can start burning them. Over."

One click, two, three on the smallest wheel of control C. "How's that? Over."

An uncomfortable pause. Avery almost pressed "send" again, worrying that there had been an attack on the lookout after all, but Ro-eena responded.

"You've got one! Next to last in line is burning; they're jumping out. One click is good for about two truck lengths, sir. Over. No, wait. Sir, Mr. Jorj --"

Avery hit the doorbell buzzer to interrupt her. It worked. "I'm sorry; moving to the next target. Report effect. Over."

"They're ... they're moving again, sir; five clicks. Oh, stopping; we've overshot them. Come back. They're going to fire on your position, sir. Over."

Selk, who could just overhear the conversation from where he was sitting by the oscilloscope, jumped up, alarmed. Avery ignored him. "Back two. Are we hitting anything? Over."

The concrete floor beneath their feet vibrated. Dust sifted down from overhead onto the counters, the table, and the three of them. Mary covered her eyes and nose with her hand, until the worst of it was past.

"It would take a lot of those to penetrate here, I should think," Avery remarked for Mary's and Selk's benefit. He returned his attention to the phone and the dials. Ro-eena had not responded. "Where do I go next? Over." Click.

Click. "Sir, they're .. uhhhh, gotta go. Over-r-r."

What?

From the corner of his eye, Avery saw a flash of flame. He snatched up the binoculars and focused on Ball Butte.

Smoke was coming from all the stone-framed windows of the lookout. Even as he watched, part of the roof caved in.

Mary spoke for them all. Slapping both her wheelchair arms with her open palms, she looked up at the ceiling, as if in supplication. "Dammit."

Selk looked over at Avery. "Uhh, sir? We're losing signal on our antenna."

"Power or position?"

"I think it's position. That shot we took must have jigged the dish."

"Am I still on?"

"Maybe. Keep diddling those dials, and I'll run out and move things around. Doctor Mary can spot both me and the 'scope till we get it right again."

"We shouldn't be opening the sally port right now."

Mary interposed. "It's all we got, Captain."

Avery looked into both their faces. Selk looked back, for once unblinkingly, with an uncharacteristic set to his jaw. Mary simply smiled. Avery turned back to the board and began twisting dials. "You're both right," he said, over his shoulder. "Have a go, and I'll keep playing my little game here."

Selk departed. Mary rolled to the heavy quartz south window. It had been fouled by the great Fire, but would do for Selk's purposes. Avery's hands hovered over the dials. If only we'd had time to range this thing, fix some co-ordinates! And now he had no idea if it was even working.

South two, swing east to west two at a time, slowly. At a guess, this would straddle and destroy the bridge to Hall Farm and perhaps knock down enough timber to block the convoy.

But if there was anything in the world Avery hated, it was the word guess.

:::

The floor shook beneath them. Karen glanced at the ceiling, but Mrs. Lazar simply stood smiling. Did anything ever faze this old woman? Karen had once prided herself on her detachment; now it seemed the people around her were more comfortable in adversity than she. What had happened to her?

"They're here already. I'm going to have to check the availability of the sally port."

"Yes, dear. Do we have time to get what we came for?"

"Oh! yes." Karen reached into the hidden top of a tall cabinet and retrieved a burlap bag, heavy at one end. She set it on a countertop, and tugged at the cord around its throat, one-handed.

"May I?" Mrs. Lazar leaned forward.

"Of course, ma'am."

The old lady untied the back and retrieved two pistols, one large, one small.

"These ... " Karen began.

But Mrs. Lazar had picked up the Glock, expertly dropped the magazine, racked open the action, and looked into the chamber. "How nice. A Glock and, what, an old Kahr?"

"K-Kel-Tec, ma-am."

"The ammunition is stable, then?"

"It was when last tested, Ma'am. There's ... not much of it."

"Enough to make one's last moments honorable. I see I have surprised you. When I tried to go to Israel, I hoped to join the IDF. You know? So. Very long ago. I joined the Reserve Officer's Training Corps, as preparation. So, about these, I do know a little." Her smile broadened.

Karen found herself smiling back.

Mrs. Lazar tipped her head. "Oh, now, what is this? You have not smiled enough in your life, girl. It looks good on you. I will take the big one, as it is easier for my arthritis. And I will take to Dr. Chaney the little one, yes?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good; go check on your ways and means. The Lord be with you, girl."

Karen moved toward the door. Her hand on the doorknob, she turned and looked back. "And with you, ma'am."

How old was I?

2011-07-01T13:47:00.000-07:00

Chapter Sixty-One

LOCKERBY'S TEETH rattled in his head ... such as he still had. Like many, he'd suffered through a number of amateur extractions already. "Builds character," The Doctor would smile. Somewhere behind him, he knew, she rode in relative comfort, with her vials and syringes -- the ultimate enforcer, as terrifying in her way as the mysterious dish atop the truck The Boss was driving.
Bouncing uncomfortably on the seat, Lockerby gave the Cat three-quarters throttle, keeping the cable taut to the LAV not far behind. He held onto both control sticks of the D-9, 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 throttle. "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.
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?"
BOOM! 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 help his hearing survive nicely.
BOOM! 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 married to the throttle with links of shining steel. 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-9 while traversing?
Lockerby strained at his fellow's inert form and lifted him away. From the corner of his eye 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 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 they?
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 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 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 and fired. He racked the smoking red shell out of the chamber and snapped 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 throaty blast from the Cruiser. 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 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-9. A Kamikaze mission! That bucket 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 spearpoint.
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 spalled 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 Mossberg.
There was too much light. Lockerby realized the passenger-side door had been blown 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, fired 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 -- awkwardly 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.

One thing we really should have

2011-06-25T12:58:00.000-07:00

Chapter Sixty

"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 three."
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 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 rolled over to pick up.
"Mmh? Over."
"Sir, s'Billee. They're coming. Over."
"Coming where? To you? Details! Over."
"No sir, to Bridge. We think it's all of them, crawler, gunship, microwave, and eight 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."
"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 on the death ray thing, 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 north side of the road, and Mr. Josep on the south side. Over."
"We sent you all but a skeleton crew yesterday, as you know. Karen is pulling together an evacuation, along with Mrs. Molinero and others; 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. "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 a lot of friendly fire casualties. 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. "Everything is food; I've had trouble coming to understand 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.
There are more efficient ways to do this; but we're not ready for that. Civilized methods for as long as possible; that's the Creek way. 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 in a cloth.
"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 with Karen in to the Infirmary, next door. On a cot near at hand Tom lay, apparently 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 me 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."

Think toward try

2011-05-29T18:04:00.000-07:00

Chapter Fifty-Nine

WOLF HAD realized he would not have time or means to dry the 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 skin and left to to stink itself dry as best it could, above the reach of most predators, well away from his weapons cache. 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 the pack. The wolfskin he'd stretched taut over the load, for such shelter from the intermittent rains as it might afford.
His plan, given the weight of the packboard, 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 tactical 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 itsef 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 warfare, he'd begun to think, consisted in not being there. But when ya gotta, ya gotta. Wolf stuck 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 melacholy 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 his 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', Mrs. Chaney 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."
"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 mahogany-hued 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 despatched 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 through 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. There would not have been enough rain yet to fix that.
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, nocking an arrow and slinging the quiver over his shoulder. 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 funiture prodded, tipped, turned out. Whover 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, carrying a rifle, smaller than himself, came in from the better lighting of the living room, momentarily silhouetted from behind. 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 as he did so.
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 abruply 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 aproached 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 protuding arrow with its wicked broadhead that reached up to him from his opponent's back, and patted him down for weapons. He removed and tossed into the living room a gleaming chrome-plated 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.
"Don't sound dead. You lie here nice'n quiet, 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 its 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. 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 relict 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 stranger, Wolf laid hold on the collar of his well-made shirt, and dragged the young man 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 strange 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! Beard, 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.
"So, tell me. Where ya from, an' why the eff are ya carryin' items from my personal gunstore?"

Burning a river

2011-05-24T23:30:00.000-07:00

Chapter Fifty-Eight

AVERY GAVE Mary a sharp look. "Was that a correct figure?"
"Computationally? Yes. But garbage in, garbage out. She ate less than that when she was four, more when she was fourteen. Throw in th' odd possum for them both. But a reasonable figure. I don't see any way 'round it."
"Mary, you are so scary sometimes," put in Elsa.
"What, 'scary' is about feelings. Look, there's more. I really admire th' man. You think telling her to lock her door all those years was just about bandits?"
Elsa gasped. But she didn't offer a reply.
Avery and Selk exchanged uncomfortable glances. This was getting into territory of which they knew little.
Avery cleared his throat. "Hnh-hmm. So, should we hear from Selk?"
"Sure," said Dr. Mary, companionably.
Elsa and Mrs. Lazar nodded. Everyone turned to the young technician.
Selk swallowed, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing. "Well ... so ... so, anyway, here is Mr. Angle's valise, which we believe the bandit did not see. The shoebox had been gone through, and they may have had a conversation ... but this was inside the attic floor. I don't think Mr. Angle was supposed to have these." He opened the case and hefted out a pile of papers and silvery plastic squares.
Mary picked up one of the squares, flipped it over, and sardonically admired herself in its refractive surface. Jabba the Hutt Enters the Black Hole. "These are entirely opaque to us these days. Last outpost, indeed."
"I suspected as much," said Avery. "But the printouts may be useful, yes?"
"I think so," replied Selk. "Though my ... my reading comprehension is not up to a lot of it."
"You're better than you think." Mary said. She turned to Avery. "Did we find out how poor Wilbur died? I forget."
"Oh, we talked about that in one of the last General Meetings. Something like an ice-pick to the brain stem."
"Right. The bandit could have just been covering his tracks, but I have the feeling the monster's literate. So, first of all, for the edification of those here, Selk, what do we know was in the shoebox that wasn't in the leather thingy?"
Selk brightened. "The shoebox is all about Wilbur Angle's line, which was the nuclear battery. A ... a Navy nuke techie. This stuff, which was found during the investigation, is about the satellite, which, it turns out, is why Ridge is here."
"Then this persistent siege may be only about the power source, not the weapon?"
"Likely."
"But they could figure out what they've got once they get it?"
"Not likely, without these papers and some education. But not impossible." He reached for an ancient calendar page, which he'd laid on top of the pile of papers, unfolded it, and spread it on the table, blank side up, then waved his hand over a pencil nearby. "May I?"
Avery waved off the politeness. "My pencil, your pencil."
"Thank you." Selk drew a circle in the center of the paper. "There is no suitable illustration among the printouts, so I will draw. This is us."
Avery smiled. "Earth."
"And these three dots would be the DARPA laser array."
"In space."
"Yes, over thirty thousand kilometers out."
"Why three?"
"Best coverage." Selk drew three triangles, intersecting at points equidistant on the circle. "The entire world could be reached in this way very economically. They could have controlled all three from a laptop anywhere, back when there were other satellites and such, for communication. And only three transmission stations would have been required for backup."
"And are there three of them?"
"Don't know; that was planned. There's not much about the other ones here; need-to-know applied."
Elsa raised her hand. "Whatever was it for?"
Mary answered. "World domination. Things had gotten so outta hand, and China'd begun refusing to share its access to Africa and South America. Nuclear was the only other lever left for tryin' to pry them off the pot, but once you go nuclear, all bets are off."
"Which happened anyway." Avery ran his hand over the stubble on his chin. He missed his beard. Damned lice!
"But very fitfully. Accurate news was hard to come by, in the end, fellas, but I have the impression this thing was used. We may very well owe it our lives."
Elsa picked up one of the squares and examined her reflection in its surface. Oh, dear Jeeah, am I that old?
Mary was still orating. "The world almost died of famine, of flood and fire and disease, of heat, of hate, of war, of grief. The hands of power itched to reach for th' last button, the nuclear option. Some did. But then things began happenin' to the weapons, and the communications. Inexplicable things. Precise weapon strikes of a kind unknown to the world at large. But this came too late to save the powerful -- the world's computers were dying of interference: from the sun, from electromagnetic warfare, and from th' general increase in background radiation. The military had computers and communications the longest, but th' chaos caught up with 'em."
"Good," said Elsa emphatically.
"Hence," Mary went on, "the Undoing, which, as we all know was mostly the cooking-off of more than five hundred abandoned nuclear power plants and cooling ponds."
"And so, what do these papers tell us? That we have the remains of the 'precise weapon'?" Avery asked, glancing back at Selk, who was riffling through them reverently.
"Sir, what's left of it, yes. We think. All but the computers and the gee-pee-ess."
Mary rocked herself back and forth by shoving and pulling on her chair wheels. "Young Mr. Selk has convinced me we should have a go at running this thing."
"So you both really do think there's a satellite still out there? After all this time? How?" Avery remembered his dad, Carey Murchison, telling him about the fall of the satellites; their orbits had decayed, one by one, and they had become bright meteors -- the brightest of all being the International Space Station, which had struck the atmosphere somewhere near the Marquesas, wherever that was, seared the skies above Mexico and Missouri, and peppered Iceland and Spitzbergen with firebombs.
Selk smiled, almost patronizingly. He tapped the papers. "It's huge, well shielded and robust, with multiply redundant gyros and attitude thrusters, plenty of fuel, and of course has a nuclear battery, just as we do."
"I'm sure you know what all that means ... and so you know for a fact it hasn't fallen?"
"No; we've been watching it through the spotting scope. Bee and Guchi have the best eyes." Selk tapped his diagram with the pencil. "As we noted, its orbit is what was called geosynchronous -- goes around us every twenty-four hours, above the equator -- so, from our point of view it's always in the same place, more or less -- south of here, parked at ninety degrees west. And here's the good part."
Selk stood up and walked to a locker-style cabinet door on the wall, not far from the room's entrance. He threw open the door. Masses of wires, like multi-colored spaghetti, appeared, which Avery had seen before, but on a shelf above now stood a squat green steel box, with a round screen on its face. Selk flipped a toggle switch beneath the screen, and played with knobs to either side of the switch as the screen slowly came to life. All that appeared there was a sinuous green line that snaked across a gray background against a grid of fainter green lines, then back down again. "This is basically an ancient type of oscilloscope. You may have seen it sitting in one of the storerooms down on the fourth level."
"I have. But I've never seen it lit up like this. So, it's not a television or anything like that?"
"No; it's a just diagnostic tool really; Dr. Mary knows things about it that I don't. But the DARPA people had adapted it, according to those papers on the table, to help the control panel talk to the satellite. In case anything went wrong with the computers. We're linked to the dish outside through the 'scope, and if the dish isn't pointed right, the signal shown here drops in intensity -- toward the wye axis, here. This way we can add or remove a few pebbles under the edge of the dish, and get the strongest link."
"You're beyond me. But I take it you believe you've gained control of the satellite?"
"Well, yes and no. We can't move it around or change its position; that's fixed. But we think we can tell it to aim and fire, though it's now completely blind."
"Have you tried it?"
"Well-l-l ... today's the day, sir, if you like."
"By all means. We need everything we can get. What's the anticipated effect?"
Selk looked at Dr. Mary. Mary shifted her weight in her wheelchair and sighed. "We don't really know. Clearly they thought this was worth doin', but it boggles th' mind. Radiant energy falls away by the inverse square of the distance, and th' distance in this case is immense. The most effect would be at the equator, directly beneath the thing. But from that orbit's viewpoint, that's not really much closer."
"So, what's a guess? Set fire to buildings, shatter glass?" Avery, guiltily, suddenly remembered something ignoble from his childhood concerning insects and a magnifying glass. "Or just burn ants?"
Elsa tipped her head sideways and looked hard at Avery, but Mary simply sighed. "We're just going to have to try it and see."
"I would expect an incendiary effect, yes, maybe a cutting or ablative effect, very very narrow beam," said Selk brightly. "Not visible spectrum. Just a guess."
Avery looked at the two of them. Never, even from Mary, had he heard so much jargon. How much had she poured into this myopic creature's head?
Suddenly Ava Lazar spoke. "And now men see not the light which is bright in the skies; but the wind passeth, and cleanseth them."
Avery turned to her. "More Leviticus?"
"Job."
"Geniuses and living libraries all around me. So what do we do to try out this thing?"
Everyone turned to Selk. His great moment having arrived at last, it proved too much for him, and he began picking at his nose.
Elsa kicked him beneath the table.
"Oh," he said, as his thick glasses slid down on a sudden sheen of perspiration. He pushed them back. "Nothing to it, really. Throw on the toggle switch under that cap left of the dials -- 'A', 'B', and 'C' as that old sign below there says -- and turn the upper dial up to one, the first white notch -- put that right by the white mark on the counter next to the dial, I mean. It goes clockwise."
"What-wise?" Avery had wheeled over to the counter and followed the odd-sounding, to him, directions. "Oh, I see. The wheel. It can't go to the right, so it goes left."
Selk was consulting his papers. "Now, the old computer system used gee-pee-ess, which is long gone, but the backup uses lat-long, so -- "
Avery finally lost patience. "Mr. Selk, could you just tell me what to do? We've got a war to fight out there."
"Sorry, sir. Reach for the second dial, lower left -- "
"This one? It's got three of the wheel things."
"Yes, sir, degrees, minutes, and seconds. I've already set the outer two dials for you, so just work the little one. The big one is set on forty-four, the middle ring is fifty-four."
"What about the wheels on the right?"
"Those are east-west. This one is north-south."
"Now you're saying things I think I understand. Latitude and longitude it is, then?"
"Yes, sir. Now crank the inner dial -- slowly -- till it says seventy-five."
Avery turned the smallest dial, about fifteen centimeters in diameter, gently to the left. "Done. How do we know it's doing anything?"
Mary cut in. "There wouldn't be much to see yet, my lad; we're at some unit, say one thousand watts, of power on site, from forty thousand kilometers away, aimed at a high point in the Coast range. If Mr. Selk's reading these papers properly." She grinned.
Avery glanced at her; these two had obviously gone through this exercise before, and were grandstanding. Well, they had a right; and it was an encouraging sign. He'd play along.
Selk checked the oscilloscope, and seemed to be satisfied with what he saw there. "Next we have to do east-west. Let's move the outer dial to one-twenty-three and the middle one to twenty-one."
"Done."
"Now the inner one to fifty-one."
"Got it. I have a feeling that's around here somewhere; what have you two set me up to see?"
"Wait, sir. Let's go back to the upper dial and power up to fify."
"This is fifty?"
"Yes, the first red notch."
Avery twitched the black dial.
"Now, if you'll come to the window, sir." Selk walked over and retrieved the big binoculars.
Avery rolled along the counter and took the glasses. "Where do I look?"
"Out past the Highway of Death, a little north of due west."
Avery knurled the focus knob, sharpening a glimpse of a familiar sight -- the van of a large truck from the bygone era, with the letters "K', "I", "N" and "S" in stylized black still showing on the faded and peeling paint, over a gleam of everlasting aluminum. Clouds hung low over the surrounding hills, but the view of the valley was unobstructed and the seeing decent. He swept on past the Highway out to the North-Running River.
Nothing. Nothing at all. Disappointment rose in his throat like gorge.
Wait! White smoke? No, steam! A gout of steam rose and floated leisurely away to the south through the autumnal trees. It was as if -- no, it was fact, presented to him by his half-disbelieving eyes. Starvation Ridge was boiling a tiny patch of the river, almost twenty-five kilometers away. And could presumably do the same -- anywhere?
He handed the binoculars to Selk and turned to Mary.
"What's the angle of attack here?"
"Excuse me?"
"How steep is the beam?"
"Oh! In this part of the world, it's always gonna to be twenty nine point five eight degrees."
"So there are things it can hit, and things it can't?"
"It depends on the material on-site," said Mary. "Leave it trained on a mountain long enough, it can bore through to the valley beyond, betcha."
"What is this thing's reach? Japan to Europe?"
"No, there are, or were, three of them. To the satellite the disk of the Earth occupies only seventeen degree of arc. This one is pretty much North and South America, and Hawaii ... Malvinas, South Georgia ... maybe the Azores."
"Some of that means nothing to me. But, say we wanted to hit -- I don't know, Argent --"
"Argentina?"
"Right, thanks -- from here, now, we could do it?"
Mary leaned back in her chair and regarded Avery coolly. "Mm-hmm."
Elsa opened her mouth, then closed it, her face turning ashen.
Avery wheeled round to face Mary's protégé. "Mr. Selk, give everyone a turn with the binoculars and then shut this thing off -- seems wasteful, burning a river." Avery rolled to the table and surveyed the pile of papers. An odor of old, musty leather permeated the air. He drummed his fingers on the table, then teased a printout out of the middle of the pile. Rows of numbers, entirely meaningless to him, marched across the page. He looked up. He'd felt Savage Mary's eyes were boring into him, and he wasn't mistaken. "Dr. Mary, how long has this young man been able to read -- interpret and apply -- this kind of thing?"
"I've been working on him for years," she chuckled.
"What's the top increment on that upper wheel?"
"It's expressed in exponents. We think the top red notch is one hundred thousand."
"And we're boiling off running water at fifty?"
Mary cracked her knuckles. "Yep."
Avery exhaled, placing his hands palm down on the table as he did so. "Let's have Mr. Selk pack away as much of this back into the valise as he doesn't need for present operations, and take it to the Ridge incinerator. With a witness. I want some explosives up here, and also down by the reactor, wired to go, with trigger switches centrally located on every level. If that pack of yahoos out there gets inside this facility and shows the least likelihood of winning, I want every person who attended this meeting, myself included, dead, and any chance of Magee using that space thing permanently interdicted. I think no one here can object to this; we all understand what we're sitting on here."
A slow smile of almost wicked pleasure creased Mary's face. "My thoughts are much like your own, Captain Murchison. If we fail to save the Creek, the least we can do is save the world."

The stronger for it

2011-05-14T11:23:00.000-07:00

Chapter Fifty-Seven

"WHAT ARE they doing now?" asked the young Roundhouse woman standing next to Mrs. Perkins.
    "I have no idea," she replied, "and I'm not sure binoculars would help. The trees down there were not in the Fire, and they're in the way. But it can't be good. It looks like the bandits have been reinforced, and I think they're working on the vehicles. There's also a lot of smoke from what looks to me like cooking fires. Where do they get so much to eat?"
    "You're asking me? What I wouldn't do for two bites of venison right now."
    Mrs. Perkins chewed a fingernail distractedly. "I wish Mr. Molinero would come back up here. He'd be better able to make out whether to send a runner down to report."
    "No, he would not," replied Emilio, stepping into the shelter. "You say they are still in camp, and so that means no change. You would surely send a report if they showed signs of moving toward Bridge or here, and it may be that is no more than I would do."
    "Thank you, Mr. M.; I was just feeling a little twitchy."
    "First command always does that to a soldier."
    "Well, now that you are here, what brought you out of the woods?"
    "Our runner with the initial report has returned and tells us a relief party is right behind him. So I am here to greet them."
    Even as Emilio spoke, a whistle blew in the direction of the path from the Creek valley, signalling the arrival of the new crew.
    They stepped from the stone shelter into welcome sunshine, but halted in surprise at the sight before them.
    A number of fighters entered the clearing, carrying heavy packs or bedrolls, among them Billee with Krall, the dog from Roundhouse, and Ro-eena, who was unrolling wire from a spool as she came on. But what drew their eyes was Wilson, apparently completely unarmed and carrying a length of rope, walking next to the Creek's last remaining horse. On the horse, easy in his seat and armed with a Creek longbow and a handsome Bowie knife, sat a large man Mrs. Perkins had not seen before. He had been good-looking once, perhaps; but his face, from mouth to ear, was a swollen mass of stiches, gleaming with salve. He looked as if part of his jawbone might be missing.
    "Hey, gang," said Wilson. "Ready to get down from here for some of Mrs. M.'s cookin'?"
    Emilio frowned. "What is this, if I may ask?"
    "We're conductin' a little experiment in diplomacy."
    "I do not think I like what this can mean, sir."
    "Well, let's not air out any differences we might have in a public forum, if we can help it. Mr. Lacey, will you excuse us for a conference, please?"
    The big man nodded gravely. Wilson and Emilio walked round the corner of the lookout.
    Billee, with Krall in tow, stepped over to Mrs. Perkins. The girl's face was a study in tragedy, but she addressed herself to business in hand. "Let's go inside, you 'n me."
    "Certainly, honey."
    Inside the now much cleaner and homier little fort, Billee ran her eyes over everything, found it sufficient, threw down her load, and moved to the window. She watched the smoke for a moment, bit her lip, nodded to herself, and turned to Mrs. Perkins.
    "How's everyone?"
    "Tired, cold, wet, and hungry. But it has been quiet up here."
    "We'll give ya a feed before ya go down. What's the disposition of crews?"
    "Four, with four each. One crew here, three on approaches."
    "'K, I can replicate that with crews of three. After ya eat, y'should pack up and go home."
    "Bee, what in Jeeah's name is Captain Wilson up to?"
    "Prisoner exchange."
    "What?"
    "It's a ruse. Get Mr. Eastsider back to his folks so he can tell 'em to go home. Will's going as surety. If Mr. Big comes into the lines with a new horse and a prisoner, he doesn't lose face, y'see."
    "But then we've lost -- you've lost -- oh, no, this just can't be."
    "Well, I said 'ruse', didn't I?" Big man's s'posed to let him go when it's all settled."
    "Sounds awfully iffy if you ask me."
    Billee's face crumpled. "Well, nobody asked me." She began sipping air in short, hard breaths.
    "Are you hyperventilating? You have every right, honey, but why don't you just sit down here, hold onto Krall, and take three deep breaths. Captain would not take such a risk if he didn't have good reason to believe in what he's doing."
    "Um." Billee's eyes were glistening.
    "Sit. And here's a bit of a rag to snuffle in. Come out here as soon as you think you look bossy enough and boss us around some, all right? We need all the brave and self-assured commanders we can get."
    Mrs. Perkins stepped out the door. She found Ro-eena, spool in hands, waiting there round-eyed. "Not yet."
    "Oh, no, ma-am, I have a little bit of sense."
    "You have a lot, and we both know it. She'll be out in a moment." Mrs. Perkins turned and almost collided with Wilson. "She's in here," she smiled.
    "Thanks." Wilson did not smile in return. He stooped to enter.
    Mrs. Perkins walked over to the stranger, who sat alone on the horse. It was clear he was discreetly under guard, as several of Billee's soldiers had not gone far, yet he seemed completely relaxed. She was sure, though, that his broken face could not be comfortable for him.
    "Hello," she said.
    He met her eyes directly but made no reply. Something in his searching look struck her; had he never seen a Black woman?
    "This is a good animal you have here." She patted its neck. The big head swung round, and a huge nose snuffled at her ear.
    The man's eyes softened. "Pardon me for not dismounting. I am injured in both legs. I have not seen this breed before. He would be of greater value to my people if he were not a gelding, but he will be of interest."
    "He's part Percheron. They make good plow horses; farming and heavy cartage."
    "And tall. I was always a little hard on our Appaloosas."
    "Are there still Appys? I'm glad. My dad loved them. But, you know, he might not be a good war horse."
    "I saw that; but I have those. This will make a good ceremonial animal, I think. Something to make the Bend tribe grind their teeth."
    Oh, my goodness, is he trying to smile? Hope he doesn't split his cheek. "Well. Then it should work, shouldn't it?"
    "My men are among the best of my people. They will receive your captain well, and honor themselves before Spirit in returning to him his freedom."
    "I sincerely hope so, for your sake."
    "I understand; the girl with the dog." Again the almost-smile.
    Emilio stepped forward. "Yes. That is his wife; she will track you and hand you your head if he does not come back."

:::

Avery knurled the focusing knob. "It seems a very chummy gathering over there."
    "May I see?" Karen perched herself on one leatherette arm of his chair.
    He handed her the binoculars. "Mind the throwing knife."
    "I'm clear of it," she said, but looked down anyway to be sure.
    "Should you even be up here?"
    "You sent for me. I'm fine, and Junior's as good as he can be in a fishbowl." She put the glasses to her eyes, fiddling the knob one-handed. "Bouncy. What are these, ten-ex?" She turned them over dourly. "Uh huh, there's a hole for a tripod mount. Got one?"
    "A tripod? Not at the moment. With that one all-doing hand of yours, you might try resting the binocs on the window casement."
    "Here, I'll try this." She draped the strap around her elbow and tensioned it against her hand. She stood up, stepped forward, and leaned her elbow against the command console. "Some better."
    "Who taught you that?"
    "My father, of course."
    "Of course. What do you see?"
    "Busy bodies. Who's that on the horse?"
    "That's the wounded guy we had in the brig."
    "I think he's an Eastsider!" Karen spat the word.
    "Good call from this distance. And without his braids, too. You had a run-in with them once, I gather."
    Karen looked at Avery, her eyes hardened to flints.
    "What are you up to?"
    "Nothing you wouldn't try yourself if you're a leader of a people. Feeling ready for the responsibility?" She's about ready to explode. Am I pushing on this too soon?
    "They're eaters; they hunt people."
    "I think that description may fit most nowadays, at least in this part of the world. He's being returned to his tribesmen to persuade them to leave off aiding Magee. Wilson and I have spent a lot of time on him and we think this risk, which is a heavy one, is worth taking under our circumstances."
    "And we just turn him loose? With our last horse?"
    "We're out of hay for this winter anyway. We'd have to eat the poor thing, assuming we're here to do so. You know we've broken into the last of the grains. This gives him something to show his men; bragging rights are important over there."
    "Yes. They are." She returned to her viewing. "I had to kill two of them to keep from being bragging rights myself."
    "And he's not unaccompanied. Wilson will go with him as a surety of our good intentions."
    She whirled round again. "Why? They go, or they stay. We lose our best man to no advantage."
    Avery winced inwardly. Best man. Well, it was probably no more or less than the truth. "They might become our allies instead of Magee's. Now. Or down the line."
    Karen stood staring at him open-mouthed.
    Doctor Mary rolled in from the hall, followed by Mrs. Lazar, Selk, and Elsa Chaney. The latter three found chairs and pulled them up to the table. Selk carried, of all things, a leather-bound attaché case.
    "Oh, ho," said Mary. "From Karen's looks, you've been catching her up on our gambit."
    Karen whirled on her. "They're eaters."
    "Shall I tell her?" Mary addressed herself to Avery.
    "Be my guest; frankly I'm terrified of her."
    "Tell me what? We're cannibals too and I'm the last to know?"
    "No, dear girl," replied Mary, her head tipped to one side. "We've made an effort here -- last outpost of civvy, and all that. So far so good. Unsustainable practice. Humans are highly tainted with cesium nowadays, and there's a kind of a mad-cow liability, too."
    "What, then?"
    Mary looked at Karen for a long moment. "Yer just about to curdle your milk -- think of little Allyn. Tell you what, wontcha sit at th' table."
    Elsa had brought over an extra chair and placed it beside herself. She patted the seat and smiled tentatively. Karen sensed that Elsa was, if anything, nearly as stressed as she. She would, for Elsa's sake, hear them out. She sat.
    Mary rolled round the table to the space they had left for her, and put her hands on the table, fingers interlaced.
    "Karen, my dear, you were brought up on canned food?"
    "Yes; almost entirely, I think."
    "From, say, age four to fouteen. Ten years."
    "Yes."
    "Vegetables, fruit, meat."
     "Yes, ma'am. One can of something for breakfast, two, of two different kinds, for lunch. We had no suppers."
    "Hence your slim figure, which you're getting back, I'm glad to see. So that was, for the two of you, six average-sized cans a day -- say, about a kilo."
    "Yes."
    "Often meat."
     "It was a beef-heavy diet, yes." Karen knitted up her eyebrows. "Where is this going?"
    "Did you always see the cans?"
    "What?"
    "Karen, where in a thoroughly looted city did your dad find twenty-one thousand nine hundred cans?"
    Karen blinked, then sat still, her lips parted. Elsa reached to put her arm around Karen's shoulder, but the young woman shrugged her off. Karen stood up, gulping at the room's suddenly stuffy air. Her chair fell over backward.
   Tears started, for perhaps the third time in her life, from Karen's wide eyes. "Unh. Unh-h-h-h." She grabbed at her tunic, loose where the large belly had been, and ran from the room.
    Mary unlaced her fingers and placed her palms down on the table.
    Avery exhaled. "Well, that went well." He reached out and poked at Selk's attaché case morosely.
    Elsa reached over and patted his hand. "No, actually, I think it did. She'll think this through and be the stronger for it."
    "Yeah, well." said Mary. "We see eye ta eye on this one. Even those who are all about honesty sometimes know when to pull their punches. I think all the more highly of Mr. Rutledge, I really do."

A matter of hoses

2011-05-07T11:14:00.000-07:00

Chapter Fifty-Six

JORJ ALMOST smiled, but the cylinder sleeve did not quite fit. Considering it was handmade, he could not complain. That Mr. Deela was a pleasure to work with; the part was very close to being the real deal. Deerie's other problems he could deal with soon enough; mostly a matter of hoses. He pulled things apart again and reached for the round file. As he did so, David, Nine-ah, and Raoul huffed into the newly illuminated interior of the New Ames barn, pulling a heavily laden hand cart.
    "Where to?" asked Raul, shaking his head to rid his cedar rain hat of excess moisture.
    "What have you fine young people got here?"
    "Plate steel, sir," said Nine-ah, the young Roundhouser who had joined her life with Raul's.
    "Oh, right, right. Are the corners drilled out and all?"
    Raul, putting his arm round Nine-ah's shoulder, replied. "Yes, a hole about every thirty centimeters. And the plates are all cut to the sizes you requested, sir."
    "Well, an old man can't ask for more than that. Lean 'em up to the right-hand side here; don't pinch your fingers though. Uhh ... any idea where Mr. Bolo is?"
    "He was in the line over by Bridge, last two days running, and is resting at Chaney's, sir."
    "Well, I won't bother him right now. But he's awful handy for holding heavy iron in place." Jorj looked at first one and then the other of the boys, imploringly.
    The young men, who had been raised in a family in which requests were made more directly, did not catch on immediately. But after an uncomfortable silence, Nine-ah looked at Raoul and raised an eyebrow, then gestured with her head. Raoul made an "O" with his mouth, then turned to Jorj. "Sir, we're not really on duty right now; could we be of service?"
    Jorj beamed upon them. "Why, perhaps you can, and it's kind of you to ask." He reached for a socket wrench, a ratchet wrench, and a coffee can from his toolbox. "This is a five-eighths socket, see, and these in the can are five-eighths bolts, nuts, and washers, two-and-a-half inch, which the older children have scoured up for me from all the farms round. Some are nine-sixteenths, but they'll do, and here's another socket for those. Umm, you all look a little blank. Seen these before?"
    Raoul took the wrenches. "Yes, sir, a little. What are we making?"
    Jorge waved his hand grandly at Deerie, the wood-fired three-roller crawler tractor. "We are building a tank. Smallest d- ... smallest tank in the history of the world, kids, but a tank all the same."

:::

Vernie reached for the long-barrelled Kentucky rifle. It was surprisingly heavy for such a slim thing. "How does it work?"
    Tomma held up Maggie's powder horn. "Well, it's not that different from th' Hawken. Measure powder into th' barrel, put your patch in, ram with the ramrod that's tucked under the barrel here, add th' ball, ram again, pour a smidgen of powder into the pan, pull th; hammer back, aim and fire. The flint will throw a spark, and with any luck th' spark will touch off the powder, which will burn down the touch-hole and set off th' powder in th' breach."
    "Sounds iffy."
    "T'is. Th' cap was a great invention."
    "I'd almost rather get one of the twenty-twos."
"We're maxed out on those. And everyone's down to about twenty rounds each with them, anyway. You have enough makings here for about thirty-five shots -- if you can keep this thing out of the rain."
    "These little dugouts are damp, but they'll do. How is Maggie?"
    "She's never regained consciousness, and not beating the infection. Another loss we couldn't afford. And something's th' matter with Dr. Tom. It;s like you can't get him interested anymore; Elsa is having to do practically everything, with a little help from Nita and old Mrs. Lazar."
    "We're not doing so hot."
    "No; we're not, but th' consolation is, neither are they." Tomma gestured with his head through the mist toward Bridge. "Wilson thinks they've brought everybody they've got. If we can outlast them, there might not be any war for a long time; give us a chance to pull a food scene together."
    "Sweetie, that's whistling in the dark. You know we've been eating wheat, don't you? Whoa!" This last came in a whisper.
    "What?"
    "Somebody coming." Vernie, not quite ready to practice loading the rifle, reached for his crossbow.
    Tomma aimed his Hawken at the night. "Word?" he called out softly.
    From the nearby hemlocks came a Roundhouse accent: "Whites. Word?"
   "Eyes."
    The visitor turned out to be Josep. He smiled indulgently."Bundling, are we?"
    "Well, Tomma has to show me how to use this thing." Vernie set down the crossbow and hefted the flintlock.
    "And it's warmer w'two, anyway," added Tomma.
    "Agreed and agreed; but once Mr. Vernie has the drill down, if you could return to your own pit, Mr. Tomma, we'll have better coverage."
    "Understood, sir." Tomma grinned.
    Josep moved on, checking the remaining rifle pits.
    "Huh," said Vernie, chagrined.
    "Not to worry; he's good at this. And kindly in his way."
    "Yes. Well." Vernie's hand sought out Tomma's in the gathering darkness. "Just sit with me a little longer."
    Tomma shifted closer. "We've been lucky, you and I."
    "Yes. We've been lucky. You and I."

:::

Mullins had not exactly lost consciousness, but whatever it was, was same as. He could not, by sending anything resembling commands, detect movement in his arms or legs, nor could he turn his head. For the time being, had he recovered the power of speech, he would not have been able to give anyone his name or recent history. As his mind swam up from a gray lake of pain, he found himself sorting through memories from longer ago than he generally cared to visit: his mother, brushing his hair from his eyes and offering him roasted meat. He'd taken it, glad of it in his immense hunger, and had wondered at her turning from him, weeping, as he ate. Or the day she'd been taken away by laughing men as he hid where she'd placed him, not daring to whimper at her not returning.
    Now he remembered joining a band of youths, making his place among them by leaving the one that taunted him bleeding and wrecked against a railyard fence. And working his way up through their ranks to become their leader, through his instinct for mechanics -- one who seemed to understand locks and tools had befriended him. He had led the gang in fairly sophisticated exercises in breaking and entering, specializing in large, faceless warehouses.
    But one of these buildings, it had turned out, was occupied by men in mottled green-and-brown clothing who had raised weapons in the corridor and barked commands. When he'd turned to run, he could see his crew falling down in heaps by the door, and he himself, deafened and going blind, had fallen behind them. And when he'd forced himself to consciousness, he'd been a prisoner of the barking men in their dark glasses. This deadness in his arms and legs -- it was like that then, too.
    It was in prison, which was to become his home for much of his life, that he'd met his final teachers, Magee and the lucky loner, Wolf. Magee had found him fellow convicts with whom to work on machinery, and Wolf had helped him refine his defensive techniques.
    And then the prison guards, the soldiers with their sunglasses, had hastily loaded themselves onto flying machines and simply departed -- where, and why, they certainly did not convey to the prison population, who'd been simply left in lockdown. It was the suddenness of the departure that had been Mullins', and everyone else's, great opportunity, for Mullins, seeking new tools, had taken advantage of the first breakdown in the soldiers' discipline to hide himself away in a bin, while Lockerby sat in their cell, talking to a pile of blankets in Mullins' bed as if he were there. And so it was he, Mullins, that had given second life to Magee's ambitions, by releasing everyone.
    Mullins tried lifting his head. Ohhh, painful. Face down? Had he been shot?
    "A little life returns to a little life, I see."
    Magee? Had Mullins muffed the jailbreak? Perhaps not all the guards had left, with their vicious sleep-inducing sidearms?
    "A splash of water for th' lad, please. Not too much; it's been in short supply here, I find. Young man, set up some rain catchment, will ya? Tarps are in th' third truck back; just ask for 'em."
    "Suh, yes, suh." Jahn's voice.
    Something -- warm, cold? -- blanketed the side of Mullins' head and snaked down his throat. He must be lying on his side, or face down. He blinked. Firelight?
    "Much better. For some reason, my boy, you've outslept your little army. Very sloppy of you."
    Mullins tried commanding his arms again, reflexively, and found that his hands were tied behind his back. "S ... sss ... "
    In the night above, Magee's voice poured down in a soothing purr. "Touching; I believe you are trying to say 'sir.' We'll dispense with that formality for now, as you are my prisoner and I must decide your disposition. As usual, our dear Doctor, who is so very fond of mayhem, insists you must receive the red hypo, and while I agree that is your merit, I'm always open to discussion of salvage operations."
    "Vuh ... vuh ... "
    "Very kind of me, I know. Quite a thick tongue you have there; let's try yes-and-no questions. Did Wolf escape your custody?"
    "Yuh ... ssuh."
    "Exceedingly sloppy. Did you ascertain which direction he went?"
    "Nuh."
    "North? Well, that might mean something. Is he armed?"
    "Dud ... dnn ... "
    "You don't know. And I presume he has made himself scarce."
    Mullins managed a nod.
    "Am I right in presuming that you have persisted in your assignment here in an effort to use the power plant as a means toward achieving some kind of ascendancy over me?"
    "Meh ... nuh ... no, sir."
    "Ah, a most dangerous question produces some coherency. Tell me, if you are ready, what were you thinking?"
    "Sir, if we ... if we were able to complete the mission, we hoped to improve our position -- regain some favor."
    "Seek clemency. And you tried a direct assault on th' right, which was repelled, then prepared to repeat th' effort on the left?"
    "Yes, sir ... our allies had taken the lookout, and we aimed to haul the gun to the summit and rake the valley from there."
    "A not-too-awful plan, stymied however by your disobedience in letting Wolf get away, for your supply of parts dried up forthwith."
    "Sir."
    "Next, an important question. Is the Cat's situation subject to field service?"
    "Sir, it's mostly a matter 'a hoses. Got none."
    "Well, we're good, then. How 'bout that LAV?"
    "Not so good, sir. We are treating it as towed artillery."
    "I have to say, you're not impressing th' tribals much. Well, Mully -- against the Doctor's advice, and let us both remember, she was right in the matter of Wolf and I was wrong -- I believe I will make use of you and not dispose of you. I have brought things to gladden the heart of any good motor mechanic. At first light, you will apply yourself to the regaining for me the use of the Cat."
    Mullins could see, through the rain that dripped into his eyes, booted feet walking away from him past the fire. Someone laughed somewhere.
    What was it about rain, yellow flames, and boots? Mullins blinked away the rain. Oh, yes. It had rained the night those laughing men had pulled his mother away from the fire.

May we learn better

2011-05-01T05:55:00.000-07:00

Chapter Fifty-Five

THE WRENCH slipped and Mullins opened two knuckles on the engine cover. "Eff it! Eff th' whole business!" Standing up on the steeply angled tracks of the disabled D-9, he threw the wrench against the bow of the equally hapless LAV, nearby. He gave vent to a torrent of curses.
    Jahn, hearing the meltdown, went in search of Lockerby. Lockerby had been on the mountain all night, and for his efforts had lost two of his own men and one of Lacey's in exchange for a possible, but unconfirmed, two locals. He received the news with a tired nod. "Thank you. Jahn."
    "Lockerby." Jahn offered half a salute, then sat down, staring off into the trees.
    Lockerby reattached the barrel to the receiver of the Mossberg, which he'd been cleaning, bagged it, slung it over his shoulder, and made his way through the rain to the machines. He found Mullins lying across the Cat seat with his feet on the ceiling of the armored cage and his head down, sourly watching Lockerby's approach upside down. Oily water ran from the tip of his nose.
    "Mullo. Hard times?" asked Lockerby.
    "Lockie. Air compressor hose is gone on th' ACERT. Not enough parts, not enough ways to make parts. About out of hydraulic, about out of lube, low on diesel, an' th' tools keep bitin' me." Mullins sucked first one skinned knuckle, then the other.
    "Yeah, well, I'll see that, and raise you an arrow through the armpit, almost." Lockerby raised his arm and pointed to a hole in his tattered sleeve.
    "Huh. Think they're low on twenty-two?"
    "They might be. We're seeing more arrows and crossbow bolts. They've even been known to throw spears. Along with their enthusiasm for hand-to-hand." He tapped the pommel of a captured sword at his waist.
    "No sign of Lacey or his remains, I suppose."
    "'Without a trace.' And his crew gets a little more dour every day."
    "Yeah, their idea of downtime is to sneak over and watch me with my butt sticking out of this Cat. Seein' how it was supposed to be part of th' deal, I can unnerstan' their concern."
    "Your butt or the Cat?"
    "What?"
    "Part of the deal."
    "What?"
    "Never mind." Lockerby winced inwardly; he needed to be more careful with his commander; the man could not always take -- or get, which could be worse -- a ribbing when things were not going well.
    Mullins pulled himself up suddenly and swung his legs out onto the treads of the Cat. "What th'ells that?"
    "What's what?"
    Mullins cocked his head, straining at the distance in the fading light.
    Jahn and two of the leading Prinevilles came running to the Cat. "Mullins, suh."
    "Jahn."
    "They's 'nother convoy comin'."
    "Yeah. Jahn, you still got that little rifle?"
    "Suh, yes, suh."
    "Lockie, take th' shotgun an' half th' men here an' line out from th' LAV on th' right. Jahn, same thing on th' left. I'll run th' turret. There's no road but this'n, so we'll hit em' as they come round th' bend. Should be a turkey shoot." He looked at the Prinevilles. "They will kill us all if they get a chance; are ya game?"
    "We will fight. But half of us are on the mountain."
    "How 'bout one of ya's go up an' get 'em, th'other round up yer camp an' put 'em on th' line. We'll need everybody for this."

:::

A long, skinny hand, wobbling slightly as the vehicle jounced along, pointed to a dial. "We used to do this with a computer and a joystick, soldier. But what we have here used ta be called analog gear. Now you see these numbers we have painted on this dial, an' you see this arrow on th' board here pointin' at th' zee-ro on th' dial."
    "Yes, sir."
    "This here truck's one 'a my best kept secrets, or I would have trained you before now. I have set this little gizmo humming, but with no power to th' mains yet. So I'm goin' up front with Milady, an' when I shout 'three,' crank it round to this'n, which by th' way is a three. Hold it there till I say 'zee-ro.' Do not go past the three; I need re-habs, not corpses. An' keep that hat on, or you'll likely not hear me say anythin' at all an' wake with a godawful headache. Good?"
    "Understood, sir."
    Magee slid into the passenger seat of the converted MRAP. He picked up and fastened on a bulky helmet. "Hello, my dear."
    The Doctor, already helmeted, kept both hands on the wheel, watching for impediments in the unimproved "road." "Hello, my lord. We have twice passed the bridge shown on the map, and no sign of your fugitives. It does make me nervous to have all this glass in front of me with a rogue LAV out there in the twilight."
    "Well, we got a decoy. Mullins is not likely to wait to shoot th' second vehicle in line. Besides," he smiled, "We don't know th' thing's even operational at this point."
    "It must have been so at some time, my lord, for the shell-holes on the long mountain behind us are fresh."
    "I'd guess this fork in th' road means they are asslin' around out here. Tryin' th' right, then th' left. With no more supplies than they're down to by now, th' locals will have fought 'em to a standstill."
    "Your Mullins is perhaps overextended, my lord."
    Magee turned his thick glasses upon her. "My Mullins, huh."
    "I am sorry my lord, I had of course not meant to cast aspersions." She smiled.
    "He an' Lockie were all I had left that were any way qualified for field command. Wolf's improvisational skills have complicated things, as usual."
    The Doctor smiled again, grimly. "On that, I will be so good as not to repeat myself, my lord."
    The vehicles turned a corner as the ground sloped slightly upward. A flash of light lit up the evening and the lead truck, driven by a prisoner and containing no supplies or other personnel, burst into flames.
    "Looky there, right on schedule. Halt th' column, my dear." Magee leaned back and shouted over his shoulder. "Three!" He reached up to the ceiling and began cranking a small wheel. "Might as well give it a three-sixty."
    "That will take out our own men, my lord."
    Magee continued cranking. "Yep, for at least half an hour, even in th' trucks. But anyone within two klicks will be just as out of it, meanin' no surprises from in front, behind, right, or left, an' no one will bother us while you an' I're zip-tyin' our misbehavin' children up there."
    "I do not think the beam will penetrate the LAV-35 well."
    "It's a risk. But we are likely so heavily outnumbered that we have had to barge right in. My money, whichever of our bad boys fired that thing, 'specially if it's Mullins, will get curious and stick his head out for a look-see. Then he'll sleep like a baby."
    "That will be a relief, my lord."
    "Yeah, that gun's wicked. But so are you, my dear. Thanks ever so for savin' up th' microwave kit."
    "My pleasure, my lord."

:::

Emilio followed Josep into the lookout on Ball Butte. He took in, at a glance, the emptiness of the place, and the ineradicable smell of warmaking and of death. Brass casings, plastic, broken glass, and scraps of leather, some of them scorched, lay about. Over the last two weeks, the place had been fired into and firebombed, and men and women had bled here. Wastes had overflowed the latrine and had perforce been dumped out the doorway and windows. The natural-stone building -- a cave, really -- had become a monument to humanity at its worst. "It is as you say, Mr. Josep. The position has been abandoned."
    Light, resembling lightning in its intensity, arced across the ceiling, flared and faded. Both men ducked. Explosions reverberated around the hills.
    Josep went to the window, as Emilio reflexively covered the door. "Was that even directed at us?" asked the older man.
    Josep studied a pillar of smoke, lit in shades of pink from underneath, rising and drifting away to the west. "I think not. Perhaps there is fighting among our f ..." He dropped his bow and covered his ears with his hands.
    Emilio, in agony, fell to his knees. His rifle dropped from his numbed hands and he leaned against the doorway, nauseated. Focusing on the distance in an effort to maintain control, he could see that several members of their crew were in the same condition as themselves. Then, as quickly as the buzzing, debilitating sensation in his flesh had come, it vanished, leaving behind a massive headache.
    A hand gripped his shoulder, and Emilio turned, painfully. Josep knelt beside him, one hand resting on his shoulder, the palm of the other resting on his own forehead.
    "What in all Jeeah's green earth was that?" asked Emilio, forgetting his resolve to avoid religious language in the presence of his Christian friend.
    "I do not know," replied the Roundhouser. "I have never felt anything like it. And my head is splitting."
    "Mine as well, and I suspect everyone's here. We must establish a defensive posture." Emilio rose on rubbery legs, taking up the tiny rifle as he did so, and stepped outside. His hand shaking, he reached for his whistle, and shrilled to every Creeker and Roundhouser in the vicinity.
    As they came up, some supporting one another weakly, he made signs to them not to congregate in the open, but to take up positions, weapons at the ready, among the nearby boulders. He sensed that Josep had returned to the window. "Mr. Josep, do you see anything that will explain what has occurred?"
    "No -- or yes and no. There are new trucks, I think. They are in the place where we spoke with the Bledsoes, or near. Whatever is burning is in the trees, but I feel sure it is a vehicle. And there is one illuminated by the flames, which has a thing on its roof."
    "A turret?"
    "Not the cannon thing, no. It looks like that apparatus we carried to Ridge for your young engineer with the glasses."
    "Bowl-shaped?"
    "Yes. And it is pointed to the north."
    "Ah, Mr. Josep, if we live through the night, perhaps we will ask Mary or Mr. Selk what you have seen. No doubt it is as you say, a gentlemen's disagreement is in progress below. It cannot bode well, I think."
    Emilio turned to the men and women under his and Josep's command.
    "Is everyone alive, uninjured and accounted for?"
    Mrs. Perkins, a team leader, responded. "We are, but everyone hurts like the dickens."
    Emilio could see that some were still holding their heads. "We do not know what this was, or we would certainly tell you. I think, from overhearing conversation among our science teams in the refectory, that it is a weapon, and that its power diminishes over distance. There may be a disagreement in the valley to our west, in which case we are, as Mr. Avery would say, collateral damage. I am feeling some relief now; is it so for us all?"
    Mrs. Perkins replied again. "It would seem so, sir."
    "It is well. Make four teams of four, as we have discussed. Rifle, shotgun, two bows. Be sure there is at least one firebomb in each team and means of making it burn. Dispose yourselves north, west, and south of the summit, and one team in the fort. Everyone stay within hearing of each team's whistle and designate a watcher for the fore night and another every three hands of the night. I will join the north team and Mr. Josep will stay with the Fort team. If you find means, make walls or holes for cover. Otherwise seek out suitable tree trunks. Make yourselves as comfortable as you can, as it will be a wet night."
    Despite their training and their best intentions, the next few minutes were noisy. Emilio winced. We are a graceful enough people in peace. In war, less so. May we learn better before our enemies do.

Sleeping on the job

2011-04-24T07:40:00.000-07:00

Chapter Fifty-Four

"SO, KAREN, are you going to wake up, or are we going to have to stick you against the wall and prop up your eyelids?"
    It was her boss's voice. Was she sleeping on the job? "Nnnnh."
    "That's the way you've been greeting me for a week. We think we're getting enough broth into you to keep your little shrinking corpse alive, but it would help if you'd give us some feedback."
    Karen tried to sit up, and failed. She opened her eyes. This was her room, near the Armory.
    "That's some better. You want to meet Junior or go back to sleep?"
    The baby! *How is -- he -- still alive, if it's been a week? "Mmh!"
    "We'll take that as a yes. Mrs. Josep, bring over th' incubator?"
    Casters squealing, a contraption, pushed by Marleena, rolled toward the bedside. The thing consisted of an old imitation-walnut TV table with an aquarium tank set atop it, lined with a fleece. A bundle of scrounged felt lay within, with two shaking hands, impossible small, waving from it toward the ceiling. Marleena lifted out the bundle and deposited it by Karen's left side. Karen tried to roll to the left, to better see and to reach with her arm for the hands, but her arm felt like lead.
    "What's the matter with me?"
    "Exhaustion, mostly," Marleena peeled back the felt, showing Karen a small red face, eyes squeezed shut, with a button nose still covered with white flecks. He looked as if he were hoping to make the bright world vanish by holding his breath. "You basically labored yourself into a coma. Bled a lot, too."
    "Can happen with new moms that have such narrow hips as you do," explained Mary. "Here, lemme roll out of Mrs. J's way so ya c'n meet th' kid. We all wanta know, does he have a name?"
    Marleena's strong hands tipped Karen onto her side and propped a pillow behind her. So sore! Karen reached for the little fingers. Could they be any smaller and still be fingers?
    "Mind if I ... call him Allyn?"
    "Hey, it's none of my business whatcha call him." Mary chuckled. "N'less ya get mean, like me."
    "How has he gotten anything to eat?"
    "What we wouldn't give for some working I.V.! Marleena here knows some amazing tricks -- got milk from you, believe it or not, and giving it to him from an eyedropper. Won't give me th' details, and I'm not sure I wanta know. Kinda works, though."
    "'Kinda?'"
    "He skimps on th' bowel movements. Not gainin' a lot of weight."
    "He's not half as big as Arda was."
    "Good thing, with *your* pelvis. Not to take anything away from th' kid but he's a preemie. We actually weren't holding out hope this far."
    "How does he stay warm in there?" Karen gestured with her eyes toward the fish tank.
    "There's an old heating pad underneath. Power cord's coiled up on th' other side from ya. Mr. Selk's idea, actually. He seems to know where every wire in Ridge is located."
    "Does ... Allyn ... open his eyes any?"
    "Some. And he knows you better than you know him. When we peel him to air out, we plonk him right here." Mary had rolled forward again. She leaned forward -- not an easy movement for her -- and tapped Karen's breastbone.
    The fingers of Allyn's hand twitched in Karen's palm. She felt a corresponding urge -- *to spend* of herself -- toward him. If he would only open his eyes! They should be be looking into each other -- making a golden thread.
    Mary looked at Karen quizzically. "I'd thought you'd be more excited. Want we should take him back?"
    "No. I'm sorry if I don't look happy, because I think I am. I'm worrying for him, is all."
    "You should. He has come to a risky place."
    A child cried, but it was not Allyn. Marleena stepped across the room and in one smooth movement lifted Arda from a fleece-lined wooden box, sat down, opened her tunic, and began feeding the girl.
    Tiny Allyn sneezed. Mary chuckled again.
    The impossibly small eyelids, with their astonishing lashes, fluttered. They pulled back, showing a hint of large pupils: wells of mystery. Karen tried to meet them, offering a tentative half-smile. "Hello, you."
    Allyn's head was too heavy for his diminutive neck, but he somehow rearranged his posture, exactly as if he were trying to get a look at her. Karen watched the rapid and shallow breaths dilating his translucent nostrils.
    "So, can I give him a try?"
    "Ya feelin' good enough?"
    "Mnh. Think so." Karen scrunged around on the thin mattress until she was able to brush the infant's lips with what, to him, must be an impossibly large nipple. Perhaps there was a residual odor; the tiny withdrew itself from hers and spasmed, both arms throwing themselves wide and fingers curling. He mouthed at her, but could not latch on. Karen felt a rush, and she began leaking from both sides. A drop ran down Baby Allyn's cheek.
    "Can't see from over here. How ya's doin?" asked Dr. Mary.
    "Like a waterfall. All I'm going to do is drown him."
    Marleena detached herself from Arda, who began complaining immediately, and set her down to hurry over. She swaddled the boy and moved him to the incubator. "Do not be alarmed," said Marleena to Karen's widening eyes. We''ll get you expressed and see if we can't get some into him. Then, if you like, perhaps some practice sitting up."
    In the background Arda wailed, to no avail.
    Karen looked around, but the room offered, as usual, no sign of Time, date, or season. How like the room in which she had grown up!
    "How long was I out?"
    Mary wrinkled her broad nose. "Well, only Dr. Tom was still tracking dates, and his mind is wandering, but I'd guess it's about mid-October."
    "Oh!" said Karen, trying to sit up again. "The bandits! We're all still here; did they go away?"
    "No, they haven't. And who says we're all still here?" Mary looked at her steadily.
    Karen bit her lip, then subsided. "Tell me everything."

:::

Selk and Deela, presided over by Guchi, who was carrying a rifle, wrestled with the big dish.
    "We should have brought more people," panted Selk, who had removed his glasses. In spite of the overcast and light rain, sweat was finding its way into his eyes.
    "They have enough to do. And besides, there are snipers. No point offering a target-rich construction job."
    Standing on either side of the Dish, they angled it to the south and well above the horizon, locking it into place with heaps of fire-blackened stones. Deela looked over Selk's mad project with a mixture of awe and disdain.
    Much of the hardware had been taken away; no stand seemed to be available and no motor was necessary. The Dish was nestled against the mountain itself, facing south. An orange power cord had been hard-wired into the booster; both it and the coaxial cable ran round the mountain to the Sally Port; these they would, hopefully, bury before too long. A hole had been punched through the mesh and an old spotting scope, which Selk had found in a trunk -- he could not have hoped to keep it if Wilson or Avery were aware of its existence -- had been inserted in the hole. The dish could be aimed by adding and subtracting stones; the scope could be aimed by adding and subtracting turns of woven twist-ties. Not elegant engineering; but what was anymore? Other than Karen's primers.
    Guchi had moved down the mountain a bit and was scanning the valley and the tree line to their right. All available eyes were needed for the examination of the surrounding hills and valleys anyway; and danger, if it came to them here at all, would come from the forested west slope of Ridge. Guchi knew there were Creekers in those woods. But an infiltrator might very well choose to snipe from there at Selk and Deela, who were oblivious to the surroundings. Guchi felt his friends were his responsibility.
    Deela whistled and Guchi returned slowly, crabwise, still watching the tree line. "Are we done?" he asked over his shoulder.
    "For now, except for burying wires," said Selk. "We have to come back on the first clear night and begin aiming the Dish. That could take a week, easily, with this setup."
    "I have a lunch. We could go up to the boulders by the command center and eat in the fresh air for once, then bury from there to here. That will last us until tomorrow."
    "Lunch?' asked Deela.
    "Lunch?" asked Selk. "What the eff counts as lunch in this post-food era?"
    "You'll see," replied Guchi, with a mysterious smile.
    "Huh," said both of the young engineers. But they did as Guchi suggested and left for the crest of Ridge, picking up their tools as they went. Guchi, rifle at ready, followed, devoting as much time to standing watch as bending and climbing.
    "I suppose it's too much to hope, clear skies tonight," said Selk, putting on his glasses. They steamed up immediately, and he took them off, wiped them on a stray bit of tunic sleeve, and put them on again.
    Deela watched, mildly amused. "You need to spend more time outdoors."
    "I do. But I'm usally either following wiring or laying out wiring. You've been indoors for the last half year."
    "It's true. But I'm told my people were pastoralists. Perhaps something rubbed off on me."
    "'Pastor-lits?'"
    "Raised sheep, goats. As you know, I grew up at Beeman's, where my mom and dad did sheep. They told me I am partly from Africa; my grandfather came from there and was a student at Oregon State."
    "Whatever. I don't even know where I'm from. I've been at Savage Mary's for as long as I can remember."    Guchi strode near and dropped his rucksack by them. "Dig in; I'll watch a little more; then Deela can relieve me."
    "Not me, huh?" asked Selk.
    "Selk, you're a wonder at some things but you can't really see those trees over there, can you?"
    "Over where?"
    His friends laughed. Guchi climbed a boulder and began looking in all directions.
    Deela reached into the sack and withdrew, one by one, what appeared to be three balls of paper, tied with string. He handed one to Selk, then tore part of the wrapping from his. The scent of the contents astonished him.
    "Guchi, bread? This is wheat?"
    "Wheat. A little for us, today; most of what Juanita and the crew is baking is, for now, for the hungriest people, such as the wounded, the old, and a couple of nursing mothers. Oh, and everyone over at Ball Butte."
    The technicians fell to, and made short work of the fabulous treat. Selk did not think to ask what it meant that such seed had been served as food, though Guchi knew very well, and Deela, observing Guchi's expression, soon realized it.
    Shots echoed from around the hills. Guchi and his friends sprinted for the top of the command center, and listened.
    Guchi pointed out the obvious. " Another contest for the top of Ball Butte. That makes six fights in two weeks. We win, then they do, then we do, then they do. And each time we are fewer."
    "So are they," replied Deela, taking the rifle from Guchi and handing the cook/soldier his meal. "And we are a little better prepared, I think, to care for our wounded."

:::

Avery Murchison sat back in the wheelchair and twisted his torso.

The prisoner, cabled to his bed, smiled, grimly. The smile was lopsided. With no way to truly reconstruct the man's face, Dr. Tom, Elsa, and Mrs. Perkins had concentrated on preventing infection. "Old wounds never really die."

"It's true. And all the people think of me as having a cushy sit-down job."

"Why are you here today?"

"I suppose I want to get to know the man that killed my mother."

"If it were me, I would seek revenge."

"The thought does cross my mind. You don't talk much, but I think you miss your gang. Keeping you cooped up here might just be enough revenge for me for now."

"I love freedom; who does not. But I do not fear death."

"Everyone does. What you mean is that you can discipline yourself. I come here every day in hopes of finding out what we can all do to get from where we are now, an ugly little stalemate in a small corner of the world, to something better. It might be a treaty. Or just an understanding."

"Or information that I accidentally give you that will get all of my men killed."

"That too. If hostilities remain open, I'll use everything I can hear. So will you, if you can get away. What else is new?"

The prisoner remained silent.

"There are two groups of you. Your guys are better fighters than that other crowd, and you have, or use, less technology. I'm guessing there's a treaty. Between you, or maybe a higher mucky-muck that sent you, and a guy named Magee. Am I right?"

The prisoner turned and looked at the wall.

"And you're taking the brunt of the casualties while they camp out and offer advice. Tell me, do you really think Magee will keep up his end of the deal?"

Twisting his still-powerful frame, the man looked at Avery from the corner of his eye.

"Why did you shave my head?"

"Sorry; know we should have asked your permission, but we have had an awful time with lice here."

The man regarded him steadily.

Avery held his gaze.

At length, the man sat up and grasped the edge of the cot frame with both hands. The sight of those hands reminded Avery of why he had not approached closer to the bed.

The big man spoke. "Though it is not a thing we have among ourselves, so that it sounds strange to me to hear myself say these words: your mother was a great warrior. I am sorry not to have known her."

"Thank you; if you like, you can get to know me."

A glint came into the stranger's eye.

Avery had seen that look before. "No, I'm not going to arm wrestle you to prove a point, but, yeah, I did learn some things from my mom and dad." He gestured toward the throwing knives sheathed at the arms of his chair.

"And your legs?"

"A mine. Friendly fire, actually. Fortunes of war."

"I begin to like you a little. Let me think tonight."

Shakespeare, we're not

2011-04-18T07:28:00.000-07:00

Chapter Fifty-Three

"IS EVERYONE here that can be here?" Emilio, who might just have not slept in three days, pinched his nose and rubbed at the inside corners of his eyes. It was a very uncharacteristic gesture, and brought everyone to full attention.
    "I think so, sir," Tomma said softly.
    "Then I think may be we can begin. Do we have the map from Hall?"
    "Yes, sir." Tomma and Vernie Stepped to either side of a table at one end of the long room. They raised up a plywood sheet, with posterboard pasted on it, and leaned it against the wall. Most of their world had been hand-drawn here: a map of Starvation Creek and the surrounding hills, with all the old farms and the specialties listed. The one thing that had been done to bring it up to date was a red line through Ridge, Creek, and Maggie's Hill. Everything to one side of that line had been burned over by the Great Fire, including the Orchard; much of what remained on the other side of the line had had to be abandoned after the depopulation of the New Moon War and the pandemic.
    Those in the room, the very old, the very young, the disabled, and the walking wounded, drew near. Some brought folding chairs, others sat on the floor, forming a semicircle round the table.
    Everyone had had so much to do in the last year that they had most of them passed the map, in its former location on a dimly lit wall of the Mess Hall, many times without giving its relative obsolescence much thought. Seeing it now, with its yellowing paper and faded image, by the harsh light of the halogen lamps on Ridge Three, was sobering.
    Emilio picked up a brass curtain rod from the table and used it as a pointer. "We have before us an army by which, in terms of available fighters in the short term, we are outnumbered. They are of two kinds, perhaps allies. They are armed principally by means of a fighting vehicle with a large gun, as we have all seen, and with bows, crossbows, and an array of edged weapons. We have observed at least one rifle, which appears to be of the kind that was used against us before. But it has not been brought to the battle and is perhaps being held in reserve, or for internal security. Nothing can be assumed, however.
    "Those who have attacked here -- " he pointed at Ball Butte " -- are, we think, Eastsiders. They match descriptions we have on record, confirmed by Mrs. Allyn's account. They may be thought of as cavalry -- horse soldiers. On this army's approach, they were seldom seen, but are more numerous than we thought -- riding horses, they scouted ahead, secured the flanks, and formed the rear guard.
    "They have captured Ball Butte and ..."
    A murmur arose. Hands waved. Mrs. Perkins stood up. "Where are our people that were up there?"
    Emilio leaned back against the table. "The two young men have returned within our lines. One of them was hurt, but not badly."
    "So, Ellen ..."
    "Has not been found. Captain Wilson and Maggie are leading an effort to regain that high ground and to determine the whereabouts of Mrs. Murchison."
    The shock was profound. Silence fell; the crowded semicircle seemed to Emilio to shrink visible, as if everyone sought the strength of shoulders to either side. Billee, who was sitting with her legs out straight, leaned back against a concrete pillar. She took a deep breath and held it, so as not to weep aloud. Krall laid her great head in Billee's lap and whined.
    Emilio addressed the assembly. "This is like the Great Fire; conflict also consumes what it will until it has run its course. Skill and perseverance count for much, but to none of us is there a guarantee of long life and easy days. It may be we will see Mrs. Murchison again. Should that be so, she will wish to hear that we have used our skills well, and that we have persevered. Is that not so, Mr. Murchison?"
    All eyes turned to Avery, Ellen's son.
    "She'd tell you all what she always told me," said Avery, his voice steady. 'Go get some.'"
    "It is so." Emilio pointed to the area between Murchison's farm and the summit of Ball Butte. "A relief crew was on its way to the lookout last night, and we have lost contact with them ... a young man from Gulick's and two from Roundhouse. There are signs of a struggle. We do not know the outcome. These enemies are a very saving people; they retrieve arrows if they can find them. They recover all equipment and bodies, and they habitually cover their tracks."
    A woman from Gulick's stood up, not far from Mrs. Perkins, who had not sat down. "Why are we even doing this? The farms are shot to hell, you tell me my cousin's dead -- "
    "Missing," put in Vernie.
    "Dead, thank you very much! He and I grew up here, it's our home, but for what? We can't grow food and fight all the time! We should just all pack up like the Bledsoes and scatter!"
    "You have a point," said Avery rolling his chair forward, "And it's one that has been discussed every year since the Creek was established. Let's get Emilio's entire report -- and mine -- and then, if you like, we'll call a quorum and see if we have a sense of the Creek on that."
    The woman glared, but subsided. But clearly the mood of the room was with her.
    Emilio, seemingly unperturbed, pointed to Bridge. "As usual, our strongest preparations have been made in this area. For the second time in a row, our assailants have declined to test us here." He tapped the map in the place marked with a farmstead and outbuildings which all present knew to be now occupied by ruins and weeds: Lawson's Freehold.
    "Once again, an attack has been made upon Ridge from this vicinity. We have a full account from Mr. Errol, of New Ames, who is in the infirmary, in reasonable condition, that some twenty to thirty men -- bald like ourselves --" he forced a hollow chuckle "-- again using bows, but mostly crossbows -- made their way up Ridge from this vicinity under cover of fire from the large weapon and engaged those of us who had formed a line there.
    "From speeches overheard during fighting, and from details of clothing and equipment noted on the battlefield, as well as the appearance of bodies which we were able to recover, we feel there is reason to believe these are much the same people as we encountered last year. We think, from blood trails, they also carried away some wounded and some dead. It may be hoped we hurt them much.
    "However, we also have a number of people hurt, including Mr. Errol, and two missing. We have brought in three dead, a young woman from Josephs and two men from Roundhouse. But our line has held and was reinforced and resupplied under cover of darkness."
    Mouths opened. Emilio raised his hand, palm out. "We will best speak fittingly of our dead when we have time to draw a proper breath. Mr. Josep has taken over on the south slope of Ridge; his runner informs us that the attackers have withdrawn across the South River --" Emilio indicated the Calapooya --" and are marching once again." He drew an arc on the map with the tip of the curtain rod toward Bridge. "Why they are shifting we do not know. They do not appear very dispirited; so we may anticipate more activity, at Bridge perhaps, or at Ball Butte.
    "We have the interior lines. As they march, so may we, point for point. Ball Butte is a matter of concern. While they hold that high ground, they command the Creek. We wonder that we have not already been fired upon from there. Hence Captain Wilson's maneuver. Mr. Avery, sir."
    Avery wheeled round to face the audience. "As we all know from our flat and rumbling tummies, it has been a lean stretch and likely to get leaner. When the Department of Defense cleared out this valley and ran, "Jeeah" knows where and to what end, they left an opportunity behind in the form of Carey and Ellen Murchison, Sgts., USMC. The Murchisons were equipped to assess that, due to a trick of the winds, or whatever, we're not as salted with radioactive isotopes, and other problems, as some of the surrounding country. So they were able to pull together a community, enough, they hoped, to farm. It takes more than we ever recruited, or more of a second and third gneration than we were able to produce, to stabilize at a defensible and sustainable population.
    "Think of all the things that didn't go wrong! War held off, cold held off, flood held off, drought and heat held off, fire held off, and crop failure held off, just enough, for twenty-two years, for us to pretend life was some kind of normal. It's not, out there, and not so much in here, either. Even with this --" he gestured at the blazing lights "-- which is a thing almost unheard of nowadays, there's little to go on.
    "The Pilgrims trudged past us all that time, and we did what we could to make Creekers of some of them. They had known terrible privation. Some of their companions fell to diseases, which was why we had strict quarantine. Some had starved. Some had tried to farm, and their crops had made them sick. Some were too radioactive, themselves, for us to recruit. The poison comes from everywhere, mostly in the rain and snow. Savage Mary tells me if we were to show up among the people of Old USA and be tested, they'd have declared us poisonous.
    "It's not that we're afraid of danger here. It's more we have some notion of the likely rate of return on scattering out. Wherever the Bledsoes could have gotten to -- and some of us think they've met our 'friends' outside -- they would likely have found little safe to eat, less safe to drink. Port Land bars the way north toward cooler lands; hostile opportunism on an even greater scale than these bandits and better organized, from what Mr. Josep tells us. Assuming we'd find an alternate route across the West Running River, we would encounter even more radiation -- a desert, really, full of the stuff and getting worse. If we got so far as the Canucks, why would they welcome us? We have heard them explaining, on their radios, how to dispose of any Pilgrims who get that far. And radiation is an issue even for them."
    Avery looked round the room, meeting as many eyes as met his. "The truth is, it's worth hanging on here until it isn't. If we cannot sweep the barbarians from the gate, I'll recommend the Farms pack up and choose their directions. We are too many to all stick together in a wilderness, unprovisioned. If we can defeat them, there's still a crop, of sorts, to get in. We have clean wells and irrigation. The Creek might yet be a gamble we could win." He reached over his shoulder and drew the sawed-off shotgun, indexing his finger along the barrel, and pointed it at the ceiling. "Have a go?"
    "I will," said one of the Roundhousers. "My kin brought me here over my objections, but they were right to do so; though we loved our home it was becoming a death trap. Here there may still be some hope, the Lord willing."
    Billee was on her feet. "Hey, count on me for whatever. Krall too."
    Krall swept her tail at the sound of the name, and the Roundhousers laughed to see the bond between a dog of their people and a woman of the Creekers.
    Vernie held up the Creeks's only known example of a Hawken rifle in his left hand. On his bare arm, the scars of his wounding in the New Moon War gleamed in the light. Tomma, across the map from him, held up the Creek's only Lyman rifle in his right hand. Tomma yelled out. "Yeah, Creek!" Vernie looked across at him quizzically, much as if to say, what, you can't come with anything better than that?
    But it seemed enough for the room. Many stood up and shouted Tomma's words.
    Avery crossed eyes with Emilio. Emilio was not smiling, but he seemed moved. Shakespeare, we're not, thought Avery. But we mean about as much.

:::

Wilson had had misgivings about sending on a scout alone. But Maggie had insisted, and now her crewman had not returned.
    "We'll be sticking together till we know more. I'll go point, you cover me with Bess there --"
    "It is a Kentucky but it has no name," she replied sourly.
    "Yeah, your rifle there. Range about a hundred?"
    "More; I make my own Minie balls, young man. But here in the woods, figure it out."
    "Mm-hm. Everybody on your right and left, and a tail-end Charlie, as Avery says, in case of envelopment."
    "Fancy word. Never mind, we all have your wide ass covered."
    " ... Right. So, up to th' saddle, n'I'll hang a left toward th' lookout."
    "Fine." She gestured with the rifle, giving to it that universal meaning: go ahead, chatterbox.
    Wilson winced inwardly. It had always been thus with Maggie; 'Savage' might have been a better label for her than for Mary, whose acid tongue was equal-opportunity, highlighting her own foibles as well as those of others. Maggie's competence no one doubted, but she did often return the favor.
    Grasping his spear and loosening the Ruger Old Army in its holster, he turned to go, leaving his rain cape open at the front. Everyone was still "geared up" for weather, though the worst of it had passed for now. The Great Fire had not come here, and the vegetation dumped seemingly gallons of ice water at the merest breath. He worked his way up to, over, and around stumps, root wads, windthrown logs, and the occasional boulder. This was a south slope, but it was not open country; and in two hands' travel he despaired, at this cautious pace, of even making the saddle.
    Part of the trouble was the darkness; the clouds that had gathered a week ago had not dissipated, but had thickened by the day. Rain had come at last, and it rained for a day and a night -- not enough to clear the slime from the Creek, but enough to offer hope of ending the drought. The footing underneath was surprisingly -- to him -- firm, which was a blessing. No one likes to break a leg when there are no hospitals.
    He came to an old nurse log covered with young huckleberry bushes. Not a good year for these, dammit -- like everything else. He peered through to the other side. Practically a clearing -- several trees had come down at once, likely. Waiting and listening a bit first, he stepped over the brushy log and onto the next one, taking care not to dislodge the peeling fir bark. Nope; too much exposure. Hunkering down on the downhill side of the log, he shuffled, crouching, round to the tall root wad on the end, and stepped round it.

:::

Lacey shored himself up on a tangle of old roots full of stones and dirt. How long he'd been out, he had no idea. His entire left side, arm too, tingled as if it had been without circulation overnight. What had happened, and why did his head hurt so much?
    He lifted his right hand and probed at his face gingerly. This could not be good. By the feel of it, something had gone through from his left cheekbone to near his right ear, or vice versa. Never one to face away from his enemies, he felt justified in presuming the former. Dried blood, still viscous in the humid air, covered the side of his head, his neck, and his shoulder. He searched his memories, which seemed remarkably unsorted.
    There was a war -- no, that one was with the Southerners, who seemed intent on migrating, with prejudice, through his people to get to the North. No, it was the same war; he'd been detailed, with his tribe and others, to seek out machine weapons to gain parity with the Southerners. A hopeless business, surely. That man -- Magee? -- struck him as an overreacher.
    It must be midday; hard to tell by the sky from here, with such an overcast. Had he simply overslept? No, a wound, a fighting wound and a serious one. He closed his left eye, and then opened it, closing the right. Well, things are working. What this creeping sensation might be though, he had no idea. Craning his neck as much as he dared -- crust crackling on his skin -- he eyed his shoulder. Ants. Ants were having a meal at the expense of his open flesh. Flies, too, were buzzing at him, in spite of the cool, damp air.
    He tried again at memory, his head throbbing. There was a fight on a mountain top. Oh, this mountain. It must be the same place; here were hemlock trees, their whiplike tops gently tasseling in a slight breeze.
    There was a lookout; he and his men had been investing it in the usual way when battle had been joined between them and an unlikely trio -- two boys with not much fight in them, and an older, wiser, warrior.
    That one had been an extraordinary difficulty. He had two firearms, and apparently an endless supply of the flaming ammunition, like a Southerner. Lacey's men had fallen to his left and his right. He had pursued the fighter into the forest. The man had thrown the apparently empty rifle far down the slope and drawn his other weapon. When Lacey's arrow entered him, as he came to the open ground, the warrior had turned and fired one more time.
    And here was Lacey's erstwhile foe, sitting beside him, dead, and fly-blown like himself. So old! One of the oldest -- but it was a woman! Yes, Lacey's own arrow protruded from her chest. Wrinkled and rather wasted, with the swelling belly of the starving. White hair, close-cropped. Dressed in mostly leather, like his own warriors. Who would have thought there had been so much fight in such a creature? She had moved like a soldier. In a night fight one cannot tell, but he felt sure she'd taken out most of his war party single-handed. Six men? Eight? With himself likely to make one more.
    Though he had no memory of it, he must have finished the business with his knife, for it lay near him, bloody. And he had her revolver. Hands shaking with fatigue, he hefted it and examined, with his better eye, the mechanism. He'd seen, and even handled, this sort of thing in his childhood, before the taboo had been enforced. He was not sure how to check the chambers -- there appeared to be no loading gate? No way to see how many shots remained. Nevertheless, Mullins would want it. Firearms were exceedingly precious to Mullins' people.
    Feet scraped at the log, to Lacey's left and rear. Footsteps! Cautious, tentative. Either he was being stalked, or someone, experienced, was patrolling in this direction. Lacey slipped quietly to his right and leaned on his cold companion. He held up the revolver, but did not move the big hammer, remembering that these made considerable noise.
    Another old-woman warrior stood up in the near distance, with a long rifle in her hands! She pressed aside the huckleberries to better see the ground ahead, and her eyes widened as she took in the two bodies by the root wad. She put the rifle to her shoulder and in one smooth swift movement reached for the lock. She appeared to be shouting something -- a warning to the approach footsteps, perhaps.
    Nothing for it, then. Spirit forgive me for the use of this thing.
    Lacey thumbed back the hammer on the long, heavy revolver, aimed, and fired. The gun twisted and seated itself deeper in his hand. Her rifle also roared, but it was pointing at the sky. Perhaps his round had found its mark.
    A large man came round the end of the log, holding in his hand an iron-tipped spear. He was the negotiator from the river bridge. A leader, then! He swiped at the revolver with his spear, but just missed, and the spear point went into Lacey's leg. Lacey thumbed back the hammer again, and dropped it, the weapon's muzzle pointed at the man's chest. There was a resounding 'click,' but no thunder came forth. Both men blinked. Then the man shoved harder on the spear, and Lacey could feel the hot point driving through him into the ground. Though he was already in pain, Lacey felt his consciousness slide toward a numbing indistinctness. The revolver left his hand.
    Other soldiers were arriving. The leader gave orders, and they scattered to form a defensive perimeter. A disciplined people. Two, Lacey could see, were quickly making litters from rain capes and spears.
    "Looks like you are fadin' a bit. Can ya hear me?" asked the spearman.
    Lacey twitched the fingers of his right hand in acknowledgement.
    "I'd dearly love to cut you up real slow, for it appears you have killed two of the best among us here, each worth every one of you and more. But I have been tasked to find me a prisoner, and you are elected. If I have not hit an artery you'll do. I would not risk poking at you so much, but I can't have you ambulatory." With that, he drew his own revolver, cocking it in the same smooth motion, and fired into the calf muscle of Lacey's other leg. The last of Lacey's tenuous hold on daylight slid away.

Until the stars came out

2011-04-14T13:34:00.000-07:00

Chapter Fifty-Two

LOCKERBY CLIMBED out of the driver's hatch and hopped down to the ground. There was a faint illumination provided by the faint beginnings of dawn. Men of the Volunteers were gathered around Mullins, and a row of bodies, by the look of things, lay on the ground. Stretching to ease the stiffness of a night shift in the LAV from his bones, Lockerby ambled over. "What we got?"
    "Not so much." Mullins, scratching at his beard, shook his head. "Jahn, catch Locky up."
    Jahn, a rangy long-jawed fellow with an accent Lockerby couldn't place, stepped over.
    "These folks have workin' rimfire ammunition; they's shooting us up wi' twenty-twos f'm cover."
    "I hoped maybe they'd break and run from the barrage."
    "Naw, they've fought afore."
    "A legacy from Wolf. So, how bad was it?"
    "We had four killed and eight are wounded, n' that's includin' me." Jahn held up his arm, which had been tied with a bloody rag. "We got one man, ain't dead yet but will be, had this stuck through 'im." With his other hand, he held up a small sword.
    "Damn. Well, we can't have that, twelve out of fifty-six. Did we do them any damage?"
    "Hard to tell in th' dark; they hauled away dead 'n wounded as they went along; we didn't find but two."
    "Let's see them."
    Jahn indicated the right end of the line of bodies. Lockerby hunkered down to examine them in the gathering light. One was a large man, the other a woman, both with shaven heads and strange clothing -- homespun-looking stuff, with rain capes of some kind of woven fiber, like basketry. Much like the Eastsiders, but not so given to adornment. The man had been shot with a small caliber weapon; friendly fire? He also had been slashed and cut about the face, arms, and hands. The woman had been hit a glancing blow in the right temple with a bolt or arrow, but had bled profusely from the mouth. Lockerby pulled down the jaw and looked in. "Shot in the roof of the mouth?"
    "Well, she'd been out cold. Came to as we come up on her and -- bam. took 'erself out 'fore we could stop 'er."
    "Refusing to be a captive. Hard core. A waste, she was good looking. They'll come in handy, though. Keep the clothes, maybe we can do a ruse or something with 'em. Got any guns?"
   "Yes, suh. One. Done give it to Mr. Mullins here, suh."
    "Check it out, Lockie." Mullins had leaned it against a tree.
    The rifle was a bolt-action twenty-two el-ar of the tube-fed magazine type; a plinking gun from the previous century, wooden stock and all. Lockerby picked it up, pulled the magazine follower and poured five shiny copper cartridges into his hand. Each one had been sealed around the rim with something lacquer-like. One looked slightly crooked. "Remanufactured?"
    Mullins nodded. "Someone up there knows how to make primer -- and powder. Black, from the smell."
    "We got problems."
    "That's not all. While you were in the LAV playin' wi' th' chain gun, we about run out 'a water from th' trucks. I sent th' reserves down to th' river to get some more, and one of 'em drank some and got sick. Real sick. Don't know if we can use it."
    "Oh, it's that blue slime. Not flushed out yet."
    "No, it's still pretty low."
    "It was a hot summer, Mullo. Think we can find any wells?"
    "That's th' kicker," Jahn put in. "There's a place between here an' th' mountain, out in th' open, that was burnt down not too long ago. We found th' well. It's in th' line of fire but we hoped t' use it at night? ...well, sombody'd throwed in a dead animal of some kind. Good 'n ripe."
    Mullins scowled. "Locky, y' suppose we oughta pull back and fort up a bit? I'm running plumb out of ideas here."
    "Well, sir, we've got to go to water. That river over there where the farmers are is almost dry, bad as here, I expect; they must be on wells in there."
    "Th' big river, then. Send somebody to let th' tribals know, an' we'll backtrack to there."
    "That steel bridge over by the entrance to the valley, we could fortify that. Room for all of us."
    "Well, didn't you say it was bad water there too?"
    "Another week of rain, probably not. We could truck in some water till then."
    "Yeah, but I don't like havin' em upstream from us."
    "True; if I was them I'd dam up and then let go a flood. Well, the map shows a bigger river than either of these, out past the big knob. That's closer than the main stem."
    "Where the Eastsiders went up? I'm guessin' they just may have made their objective. 'K, let's truck in some water real quick, then go north. Send Jahn here to tell the Eastsiders to hold their hill till we get there, maybe four days behind 'im. We'll shoot up th' whole valley till they effin' cry uncle."
     Lockerby turned to Jahn. "Jahn."
    "Lockerby."
    "Got all that?"
    "Yes suh."
   Lockerby reloaded the little rifle. "Take this; it'll maybe hold off anybody you meet on the way there. Don't lose it, though. Right now we've got three guns and a cannon. Who knows what those starving farmers have got?"

:::

Even though Elsa Chaney had consciously chosen to create a scratch religion out of trees, waterfalls and sunsets, personifying it all as Gaia, whom the Creekers had gradually renamed Jeeah, she more than half believed it herself. As Elsa washed a stock pot, she mused: does one pray to Jeeah? Does she answer? She had taught otherwise: honor Jeeah by keeping the earth clean, not by pietistic religiosity. Marleena, she knew, prayed to an Our Father, but that was a remnant of the religion so popular with the people who had built those atricities which were now melting down all over the sad and neglected earth. The same people had made the terrible last great war. God, or Jehovah, or Allah, whatever they called him, she'd had it with him. She'd seen his effects in the religious after-war of the Klux, Those behinfd the massacre in the city of Eugene had invoked him.
    How would one pray to Jeeah? And why? Elsa knew enough of nature to understand that it plays no favorites. One seed grows, another doesn't. This is determined by circumstance, not the caprice of a deity. Hence she did not truly believe in miracles.
    But it would be lovely to have one now.
    That ragtag army ranging around out there seemed likely to finish off the little world of the Creek, if famine did not do so first.
    She looked over at Tom, asleep on a cot against the wall. He had become very frail. His mind was wandering; no doubt hers was too. But he had a specific excuse; he'd self-diagnosed himself with cancer.
    "Likely it began in my bones," he'd told her. "And I think has lodged in the brain, and elsewhere. As we both know, and so do Mary and Ellen, the principal value of this place is that it has a low click rate on the Geiger counter, for whatever reason. A trick of the winds in days gone by. But our generation, and many of the young, are from elsewhere. We have in us enough cesium, strontium, uranium, and even plutonium to explain many kinds of cancer and leukemia, as well as mutations and deformities, all of which we have seen."
    She had wept. He had held her. Smiling, he'd added: "I have lived about as long as one does, now, and it's been, on the whole, a good life. And I have lived it with you."
    Billee came in, with Krall at her heels, breathless and flushed. "Where is Doctor Tom?"
    Elsa resisted the impluse to shush her. He'd resent the protection, she knew. She gestured toward the cot, where he stirred at the sound of his name.
    Billee bit her lip, but Elsa could see that great need had brought her. "Come over and we'll ask him." Elsa set the pot on the counter and accompanied Billee and Krall to the far wall. Tom, moving very slowly, had raised himself up and was feeling for the floor with his feet. Elsa knelt and helped into his slippers.
    "Doctor Chaney?" Billee began, but, seeing his condition, stood in momentary confusion, wringing a blood-soaked cloth in her sooty hands.
    Tom lifted his eyes to her face, then dropped them to note the red rag. "So, our next little war has begun."
    Billee nodded.
    "Mangled bodies and what not. I might not be able to do much, myself, but if you can get me to wherever everyone is, maybe I can kibitz a bit. You're not hurt yourself?"
    Billee, still biting her lip, shook her head.
    "I am glad; a blithe spirit should not be blotted out. Help me up, and I'll shuffle along on your arm. Coming with us, my dear?"
    "I am, love. I'll get your other elbow."
    They proceeded slowly toward the corridor. People ran past the doorway. Tom turned his head toward Billee. "Are the enemies within the gates?"
    "No, sir. We've been pushed off Ball Butte for now, I think, but the attack on Ridge seems to have -- 'petered' out, as Captain Wilson would say."
    "'Captain,' now. Good title for him."
    Billee blushed. "Yes, sir."
    Elsa noticed the blush. Even in times like these! Youth is irrepressible.
    They came to the elevator, which appeared to be in use. They waited their turn. Krall, still at Billee's side, sat on her haunches.
    "What time is it, about?" asked the Doctor.
    "About a hand past sunrise, sir," replied the girl.
    "Mmh. How is Karen, do we know?"
    "Juanita and Marleena decided to go ahead and break her waters, because the contractions haven't stopped."
    "Is she still strong?"
    "So far so good, sir, and she's about three fingers open now, sir."
    "I had hoped it was not labor. Too soon. We don't have much to offer a preemie."
    "No, sir."
    The door opened. Emilio stood in the elevator with two pale youths -- Elberd and the Perkins boy. Elsa remembered vividly Karen's sewing up of Elberd's right cheek in the New Moon War; and here he was with a taped-up wound in his left cheek. It would need attending to; she could see that. "May we join you?" she asked.
    Emilio made room. "Yes, please. We are all going to the same place."
    As Emilio pushed the button for the third level, Elsa turned to Elberd. "I bet you were in the thick of it this time."
    "Yes, ma'am. Or, yes, we have been, but I got this one stupidly too."
    "War is stupid, young man."
    "Yes, ma'am, but, I mean -- I was on guard and somebody got behind me in the dark to cut my throat -- and I never heard 'em -- and I was licking my rifle barrel and the knife slipped on it -- and that's how I got cut up here." This outpouring ended in a small sob.
    "The fact that you got out of that alive speaks for itself."
    "Um, yes'm."
    Something in the young man's expression made the back of Elsa's neck grow cold. "Where's Ellen?" she asked, her throat closing behind the words.
    Both of the young men burst into tears.

:::

Karen felt she knew what it must be to be at the bottom of a well. Voices, when they came, seemed far above her, and echoed. What was that again?
    "Too much effort in your face. Your face cannot push." That would be Juanita. A hand patted her ribs, below her breasts. "Push here. Push like you are on the potty bucket, but hard."
    Dry mouth. "Trying."
    "Trying is nothing. You must move the whole world. Rest a bit. Breathe. Breathe again. Breathe again. See, they're coming closer together. One more breath. let a bit out. Now, squeeze. Relax the face, relax the arm. Do it with everything below!
    "Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmh!"
    "You are a funny girl. Rest a bit."
    "Not funny."
    "Okay, not funny. But strong, strong! So here you are again. Muscle, you are one big muscle. Move the world. Relax the arms. Pu-u-u-u-ush!"
     "Mmmmmmmmmmh!" Gasping for breath. "Gonna tear?"
     "What is that? No big thing, we sew you up. You will just push. Once more, I think; rest. Breathe. Breathe again. Breathe again. Strong!"
     Why did she keep saying, "strong?" Surely a weaker person never lived. These storms, she was completely in their power. No way out. Now way out. "I think I bit my tongue."
    "See, too much face," Juanita chided. "You wrinkle it up and turn red, like a dried tomato. Here is a damp cloth. Sip a little, then bite down. Here you go. Marleena has your hand. I am seeing a lovely head. Breathe. Let out a little bit. You will push now with everything, from from the ribs down. You are an upside down bottle. Pour yourself out to the earth."
    "To Jeeah. Out to Jeeah."
    "Yes... " said Marleena. "... give yourself."
    Karen pushed until the stars came out behind her eyes.

The best hands

2011-04-02T21:06:00.000-07:00

Chapter Fifty-One

THE ROCKS piled in front of Minnie-Min, which she had been touching from time to time to reassure herself they were still there, were slowly becoming visible. Moonrise; if the bad people were coming this way, there would be a chance of seeing them coming. She'd been afraid she'd have to depend on her hearing, which she knew was not the best. And in rain, there was little one could discern against the white noise of the raindrops. This worked even against animals; earlier, a doe had walked across right in front of their position, and Bobbo had somehow put a bolt through it and tossed it, still struggling, over his shoulder to deliver to Ridge for the desperate cooks.
    There was no keeping the unaccustomed cold out, even in her rain cloak. She shifted her weight time and again, feeling acutely the stobs of burnt brush and the small stones beneath her. The stones, she had to remind herself, were her friends; without them this would all be a slickery slope of ash-fouled mud, perfect for breaking an arm or a leg in a fall. Such injuries had always been a serious matter at Starvation Creek; it would be doubly true now.
    There was a clatter off to the left; tremulously she gripped her twenty-two and called out. "Word?"
    "Stock." It was Bobbo, returning. "Word?"
    "Soup."
    Errol, also to the left, spoke up. "Bobbo, you're coming down way left of your hole; let Minnie guide you over."
    "Thanks; I got it. Min, just grunt a couple times an' I'll go right by ya."
     Suddenly the sky lit up, as if by lightning. Bobbo flattened himself, rolling a few more stones down onto Minnie, who crouched lower, wondering at the brightness. A weapon, a big one by the sound of it, cracked in the valley below -- perhaps on the opposite side of the river -- and the bright light arced across their position and disappeared over Ridge. "What ... ?"
    "Shhh!" Bobbo began scrambling as soon as the darkness came. "Watch and listen! And stay down!"
    Another light came streaking toward the mountain. This time there was a burst of flame, accompanied by a shower of big sparks, just over the swell of the ridge to the left. The ground trembled; this was followed by an explosion, not like anything Minnie had ever heard.
    Here it came again! This one, she could see, would come closer. Instinctively she nestled into her rockpile, knocking her rain hat askew. The bright flying object shrieked as it came near, then clanged into the hillside, near Errol, she thought. Sparks rose into the rain, guttering out as they arced away from the point of impact, and one larger spark bounded into the air, illuminating the whole hillside as it hummed off over Ridge. What were these things?
    Another sharp crack in the valley told her another of the lights was coming; she closed her eyes, then opened them -- one must be ready for anything; and was she not a lifelong soldier of Ridge? This time there was a terrifying crash to her right, and bright blobs sputtered off overhead. Something pinged, like an arrow, off the boulder on her left and clattered into her hole. She might have reached for it, curious, but a strange smell, like and yet unlike the black powder with which she was familiar, wafted to her nostrils. Oh! it would be hot. Of course; these exploding things had metal casings. If she were out in the open when one burst, she could be cut down, as if with a bullet.
    Two more of the things flung themselves at the hill, off to her right. And now -- was that someone slipping in the mud, somewhere in front of her rockpile?
    "Word?" That was Errol, to her left.
    The unmistakable sound of a crossbow replied, quickly followed by the sound of a bolt caroming off rock.
    Minnie could not see, over the rim of the boulder, who had fired, but she presumed there would be more than one intruder; if she stood up to shoot she might take flanking fire. Better to leave Errol's adversary to Errol for the moment. Sure enough, through the night came the unimposing "thwack" of his own twenty-two being fired. Someone, in front of her and downslope, grunted and swore. Minnie took this moment to shift onto her haunches and peer ahead, trying to see in three directions at once.
    The big gun cracked again, and as the tracer arced across the valley, she could see three men -- she'd heard there were no women among them -- silhouetted against the light. They were sheltering from Errol, but had, apparently, not yet found her. She could feel her pulse racing in her neck as she aimed at the nearest and squeezed the trigger.
    Nothing. Nothing, Jeeah!
    Oh, the safety! She tried to remember what Bee had taught her. Push along receiver with right thumb -- yes! She aimed again. This time the hammer fell with a click that came to her through her hands, but nothing else happened. Eject! They were noticing her now, and crabbing around on the slope to avoid her shot and perhaps get off a few arrows. Minnie worked the bolt frantically, and shouldered her weapon again. The ground rumbled beneath her as a shell from the big gun struck well away to the right somewhere. At the same time she fired. Someone else did so, as well -- Bobbo?
    "Get up! Get up there. Get 'em!" shouted someone. One of the opponents?
    "I'm shot!"
    "Can you move?"
    "Yeah."
    "Well, if you ain't dead yet, go effin' get 'em!"
    Though she did not care to be discussed as someone to "get," these people did not sound any better organized than Creekers to Minnie. She worked the bolt again.
    Errol, Bobbo and Minnie fired almost as one. The twenty-twos were beginning to have an effect. Instead of rushing, the invaders were scrabbling away down the slope. It was this easy?
    An arrow or bolt clattered off the rock right in front of her; Minnie ducked, shifted to her right, and slowly peeked over the rim again. She'd wait for the next cannon blast to work the bolt action; no point advertising her exact position.
    But the big gun seemed to think it had done enough for now. She strained at the deep gray night with her eyes and ears. Something was going on well to the left, where several of the Roundhousers were; more small rifles were popping, someone was shouting, and there were clubbing noises. She ached to go help, but realized she might well do more harm than good anywhere but here. At least in this spot she had some chance of distinguishing friend from foe.
    Now something was happening on her right; a wrestling match on the mountainside. A body or bodies rolled away below her, grunting. A man screamed. Someone was running or climbing toward her. Minnie worked the bolt. A shadow rose up in front of her. She fired.
    "Unh!" said the shadow as it fell away.
    Was that Bobbo's voice?
    She'd better risk checking.
    "Word?" she croaked.
    "Uhh ... uhh, soup? Stock, stock!"
    "Oh Jeeah, Bobbo, did I effing shoot you?"
    "Unh. Nemmind. They're right here. Keep shootin'!"
    Numb, yet obedient, Minnie loaded the chamber and stood up. Vaguely, before her, lay two bodies, both twisting in agony. One was clearly Bobbo. The other had something protruding from his abdomen. Approaching from below were two men she felt sure were armed with bows. The cannon spoke again, and she knew for the first time the terrible nakedness of the illuminated target.
    Aim, fire. Load. Aim, fire.
    Something caromed off Minnie's temple and her eyes filled, briefly, with red and blue sparks. Was she falling? Yes, she supposed she was.

:::

"Karen, let's get off this level for awhile." Avery scooped the remaining shotgun shells into his lap and wheeled around the table. "Now!"
Karen stood, stunned at the brilliance of the moving light. What was that?

    Avery was speaking again. "Move it; they're ranging on us with a chain gun; it can hole us here. You take the stairs; I'll take the elevator."
    Karen shuffled, so as not to trip over any of Selk's gear, and exited the command center into the lit hallway. Grasping the strange coolness of the stairwell's tubular handrail, she made her way cautiously down to the landing, turned, and followed the rail down onto the main level of Ridge. The elevator door opened next to her as she reached the corridor; Avery rolled out, loading shells into the sawed-off.
    There was an unaccountable odor of blood and shit in the air.
    Drawing her revolver, Karen began clearing rooms. As she came to the refectory, she discovered the cause of the odor. Juanita and Guchi, aided by Marleena, were gutting a freshly killed deer.
    Guchi was facing her. His eyes widened a little at the sight of the revolver; she holstered it. "Sorry -- didn't know it was a deer."
    "We'll run the fans. Bobbo brought it."
    "Isn't he on the south line?"
    "Yeah, he just couldn't pass up bringing in food. Lotta hungry people downstairs."
    Avery rolled up to the door. "Makes sense. No eat, no fight." To Karen he said, "Stay here and watch the south stairwell. I'll go back and hang out by the north stairs. Anybody from below, send them back down. Anybody from above, shoot."
    "Understood." Karen leaned against the doorpost. She drew again and indexed her trigger finger along the Sentinel's frame, pointing it at the floor. From time to time she glanced at her friends, but mostly she watched the far doorway and the empty stairwell beyond.
    Vibrations, no doubt from distant explosions, came from the concrete floor. The food crew paused in their task, looking at one another anxiously, and then, as there was nothing else they could do, fell to work again.
    Juanita, though easily the smallest person present, was the busiest. She drew the intestines and gave them to Guchi in a mixing bowl. He went with it into the kitchen.
    Juanita picked up a skinning knife. She made quick work of the hide, as Marleena, also no slouch in the deer-dismantling business, turned the body this way and that for her, holding up the front legs at one point and the back legs at another. She took away the hide to another table and rolled it up.
    Juanita cleaned and stropped the knife, set it aside, and picked up a crosscut handsaw. "We will put everything but the hide into stock pots. Guchi is washing out the colons, and so we will put that in as well. Later, when the hide has been scraped, we will make yet another soup with that."
    "Of course," replied Marleena.
    At the sound of her voice, a cardboard box set against the wall wobbled. The wail of a hungry baby filled the room. Marleena smiled and crossed the room to the box. She stooped and lifted out Marcee's orphaned Arda, who had grown more than Karen expected. Karen tore her eyes away from the infant and watched the stairwell. When she thought her duty could risk another peek, she found Marleena sitting in a nearby chair, her smock open, with the baby at her breast.
    Karen couldn't believe what she was seeing. "Is that ... do you ..."
    Marleena smiled again. "It happens sometimes. When there is great need."
    Arda let the nipple slip for a moment with a smack, cooed to it, and went back to work.
    Karen's baby kicked. Hard. And again. The child seemed to be trying to scramble around in a circle. Karen felt a wave of -- not so much pain, something more like strength. The wave seized her, beginning at her waist and rolling down. Her knees felt like water, and she briefly experienced tunnel vision.
    Better holster the gun and get a grip on this door! Oh, for two hands!
    Karen took several deep breaths, as Dr. Marcee had taught her. As her vision cleared, she found Juanita and Marleena both observing her closely. Then they looked at each other. Marleena nodded. Juanita had been sawing away at the doe's backbone. She left the saw where it was, dipped her hands in the water bowl at the end of the table, and, wiping her hands on her apron, hurried over to Karen.
    "Would you like to sit down?"
    "No, I ... I'm on watch."
    "Nonsense. Mr. Yamaguchi!"
    Guchi popped his head in from the kitchen. "Almost done!"
    "Never mind that; clean your hands and come in here; we need you to spell Karen in the hallway."
    "Understood. Right away!"
    Guchi shortly came into the refectory, doffed his apron, and gathered up his bow and sword. Juanita guided Karen toward a chair.
    "Nita," asked Karen, "Mind if I don't sit? I want to be on my knees and sort of rest my head on the chair seat, I think."
    "Sensible girl," said Marleena, who now had Arda over her shoulder and was thumping her gently on the back.
    Juanita helped Karen kneel. "But of course. Our Karen is a sensible girl."
    "I think there's going to be another one. And I feel like I'm going to throw up." Even as she said this, Karen could feel the distant explosions, less frequently now, rumbling in the bones of the mountain beneath her hand and knees.
    "Let's get you out of all this war gear. You will not need it for awhile, I think. Here is a bowl. And a wet towel. And now you just rest, Karen. You are in the best hands on Starvation Creek, yes?"

Horizon to horizon

2011-03-19T20:01:00.000-07:00

Chapter Fifty

AVERY MURCHISON drummed his fingers on the chart table, staring at the hole that had been drilled for the Osborne fire finder, which had been put away. Savage Mary was running late, as usual. Of course, she had long ago adopted Creek time, only more so, coming and going much as she pleased. He looked round the room. Coils of wire were stacked in corners, and all the sheet metal panels had been dismounted from the control consoles, making wheelchair navigation hazardous. Selk burning the midnight oil again, of course. Couldn't Mary reign the guy in and keep him focused on something useful?
    Karen, more gangly than ever despite the now quite respectable bulge in her middle, came in through the doorway, dangling a long gunny sack in her hand. "Good morning, sir; have you had breakfast?"
    "No, actually. Is there such a thing any more?"
    She hefted the sack onto the table, then reached into it. Avery saw, with approval, that she'd found a way to wear her gun belt again; a padded strap hung over her good shoulder and was clipped, front and back, to a wide belt that rode high, between her small breasts and large stomach. The little revolver and knife both rested on her left side, cross-draw, and, in the absence of a left arm, out of the way. The rig looked like a cross between a shoulder holster and an ALICE. Always thinking, this girl.
    Karen drew a burnished steel bottle from the sack. "I can open this for you, but it takes time, so you can do your own honors." She drew out an oversized white mug, decorated with Santa Claus faces and Christmas trees, and set it before him.
    Avery unscrewed the plastic lid and sniffed the contents. He wrinkled his nose. "Good grief."
    "Sorry about that; it's beaver tail soup. Krall found a colony up the creek and Mr. Bolo and Mr. Josep brought home the lot of them."
    "Oh, it beats nothing, and thank you. Having to spread the solids so thin worries me, though. This is more bouillion than soup; we can't really go through the winter on a liquid diet."
    "No, we can't. But there it is; few crops and few animals this year."
    "I have one trick left up my sleeve, but it will grieve me. Stick around for when your boss gets here, and you'll hear it. Want to sit down?"
    "Oh. Not yet; I have something for you." She reached for the sack, then paused. "Mr. Wilson still has your Ruger, right?"
    Avery sipped from the hideous mug. Hmh! This stuff could grow on you, especially if you've skipped supper. "Sleeps with it, I think. Why?"
    "Well -- " she rummaged in the sack and produced a leather bandolier, filled with black and red shotgun shells. "These are twelve gauge; we've stuffed the black ones with buckshot and the red ones with turkey loads. So, if you're clearing one of the hallways down below, you'll want black. There are five of them. For room defense, go with red You get seven of those for now." She handed it over.
    Avery spread the bandolier along the right arm of his chair. It would be perfect, mounted right there. "Wonderful. And these things are functional? How'd you solve the primers?"
"Well ... we wasted time trying to use some of our twenty-two casings, mounted in the bases, but found they weren't happy with the firing pins. But we've been remanufacturing the percussion caps for the BP guns, and Deela hit upon putting those in, instead. You might not not have more than three misfires in the whole batch."
    "I'll be damned. But, uh, what do I shoot them out of?"
    Karen's hand was already back in the sack. She withdrew what Avery realized at once been the coach gun with which his mother, and others, had been shot in the New Moon War. The barrels were much reduced in length, and the stock had been cut off at the pistol grip, then rounded off and even varnished. Karen thumbed the break, popped open the gun, checked the chambers, and then snapped her hand upward, closing the action with a flourish. She tossed it in the air, reversing it, and proffered it to him stock first.
    "Wonderful and and wonderful," said Avery, taking the sawed-off from her. "All it needs now is a scabbard, and I'll be able to cross-draw just like you."
    "As it happens," replied Karen, reaching into the sack. But a sound at the door captured her attention as well as Avery's.
    Mary wheeled herself in. "Ugh. That must be the beaver fat I just heard about."
    Avery smiled and took a sip. "The big man from Roundhouse -- New Ames' now, am I right?" Karen nodded "-- along with Bee, went to some risk to get it for us, so I for one will not knock it. Now that I've had some," he added, as Karen's eyebrow went up. "But you're here on a related matter."
    "I am?"
    "Mmm-hmm." Avery retrieved from the table a key on a ring. "I know Mrs. Molinero and Mr. Guchi are getting frantic, and just looking at Karen here, who is supposed to be eating for two, should give us cause for alarm. I've kept this on a hook in my quarters for years."
    "Is that what I think it is?"
    "Yes; the seed vault, bottom level."
    Mary threw her hands in the air. "Damn it, kid. Damn it. word gets out, there goes th' Creek."
    "There goes the Creek anyway, Dr. M. We have no means of surviving into next year unless we break into that store; it's wall-to-wall empty barrels on level three, and everyone already knows that; no one's talking about it, but they know. If we're to have the strength to get through this visit from the Rogue Valley Volunteers, we must eat." He pushed the key across to Mary. "Room 484, about 100 feet from the reactor."
    "Uh, huh," said Mary, picking up the keyring and looking at it absently. "And how come this is being handed to me; shouldn't it just go straight to Juanita?"
    "No one better than you to explain to her the problem inherent here. This seed cache is viable but it has had some exposure to air ionized by beta particles. It could be construed to be radioactive food. We don't want to pretend otherwise, even though most of us here would have no idea what that means. So there's an educational component to breaking this stuff out."
    "Sure. I tell her, 'look, here's your wheat. If y'all eat it, you might start glowing in ten years' time; but for sure you will starve to death next year, so it won't matter.'"
    "Something like that, yes. At any rate, you know the details much better than I."
    "Right." Mary folded the keyring into her palm and dropped it in her bosom. As she turned to wheel away, she noticed the shotgun and bandolier on the table. "Good Lord, is that a twelve?"
    "Yes'm," Karen nodded.
    "You've really shrunk it down. Won't it have too much recoil?"
    "It's black powder, reduced charge, ma'am. It's not too bad. Has to be cleaned up after, though." Karen pulled the scabbard from the sack and placed it before Avery, who broke the action, snapped the barrels back in place, and sighted down the room.
    "I think I'm a mite jealous," remarked Mary.
   "And here's yours. With two rounds of twenty-two." Karen fished out the final item in the sack, the ill-fated Derringer from Bledsoes with the ivory grips.
    Mary accepted it, with a wry expression. "Hmh. Still jealous."
    Avery put away the shotgun in its scabbard and held it up to Karen. "Do the honors?"
    "Uhh, sure." Karen walked round behind his chair and, holding the scabbard in place with her knee, laced it onto the top bar and tucked it behind the little backpack that hung there. As she worked, a shy smile crept across her face. Mary noticed, and gave Avery a sidelong glance.
    He was smiling too.
    Hmh. "Well, I'm outta here, catch you two later." Mary wheeled away toward the corridor.
    Karen stepped back. "How is it?"
    Avery reached over his left shoulder and drew and aimed. "I'm in business."
    "Good." Karen felt the room darken perceptibly. She drifted over to the window, her hand on her tummy. "Oh."
"What?"
    "It's raining."

:::

Neel's nose was running, and he'd begun to shiver.The cave-like stone lookout was all right in summer, but as the days became shorter, he could feel the heat being drawn from his body. More, and better clothing would help. More, and better, food would help. Fire would help; but Mrs. Murchison had nixed fire. He gripped the rifle between his knees and tucked his hands in his armpits.
    Across the room in the near-darkness, he could glimpse Elberd, in much the same condition ans he was himself. Mrs. M had said for one of them to get some sleep while the other watched, but neither felt like sleeping and what was there to watch? The clouds had settled on the hill, and the moon would not rise until well past midnight. One might as well cake mud on one's eyes and watch that.
    Wait! Sound. Someone approaching the entrance. Stiffly, Neel unwound himself and found the stock, grip, and trigger of his weapon. He sense Elberd doing the same.
    "Word?" croaked Elberd, nearest the door.
    "Tree," replied Mrs. M's voice, the one they wanted most in all the world to hear. Neel, in obedience to his training, removed his finger from the trigger and indexed it along the stock. "Word?" asked Mrs. M, near the entrance in the rain.
    "Branch. Oh, Sergeant, we're ... "
    "Shhhh!" She came in, her rain gear rustling, and made for the telephone table. "Elberd, go outside and if anything moves, challenge and be prepared to shoot. Neel, go over by the entrance and back him up. Quietly, quietly!" Thank you both."
    They moved quickly and as silently as possible, as she had trained them. Neel settled, just out of the rain, within the stone doorway, and watched the blackness, which gave him no more clues than before. He could hear Mrs. M. working the doorbell buzzer and the handset.
    "Avery? Wilson? Oh, Karen. Is there an Avery nearby? Over. Yes, expedite! Thank you. Over. Who's this? Over. Hello, Guchi. Is Wilson in? Never mind, then, yes, bring Minnie downstairs, please, she'll do. Over. Oh, Avery. Yes, there's something going on here. Where are the people you sent? Over. Well, they're a good three hours overdue, so I think that makes our position here untenable, to say the least. Over ... Well, I'm thinking they've cut us off about halfway up the hill -- what? No, we've heard no shots, that's the hell of it. With all the toys we've seen them waving around, and then seeing them march off ostentatiously around to your left, I'm thinking they've divided their forces and the long-haired ones have doubled back. Over. Yes, it could be a diversion, but that doesn't mean they don't want this hill. They could see your every move from here. Over."
    Her rain gear rustled. "Neel, are you paying attention to Elberd?"
    He hadn't been. "Yes'm."
    "Step outside; he's wet, you might as well be."
    "Yes'm." Neel took one long step forward; his straw hat began sagging right away, but it provided him some protection. Any other time, he might try to locate the other young man by calling out to him, but it seemed a good idea, this time, not to. Instead, he strained at the soft whisper of the night with all the might of both ears, till he located him by a shifting of weight on a wet boulder. Except that the sound did not seem quite right.
    Neel eased the rifle forward and lightly touched the trigger with his finger. Barely above a whisper, he called out. "Word?"
    Something popped against his thigh, like a wet towel being snapped.Neel shouldered and fired. There was no muzzle flash to speak of. Neel could hear someone running toward him, then falling down in the mud right at his feet. In what little light was available, the blade of a knife flashed out toward his legs. He leaped to avoid the knife, and aimed and squeezed the trigger of his twenty-two. But nothing came of that. He fell back against the stone wall of the lookout, frantically working at the bolt. Who was there? Another one?
    With a much louder blast, the sergeant's revolver exploded right by his ear, and he felt himself jerked into the shelter. Neel sprawled on the floor, and saw, upside down, the flash of another blast from her gun. He heard his rifle, which he had somehow dropped, drag itself across the floor and land on his chest. The revolver tore another hole in the night, with an accompanying muzzle flash and lazily tumbling sparks. Were there shouts?
    A twenty-two popped once, twice. Neel felt faint; his ears rang. He forced himself to work the bolt of his weapon, until the dud round fell out and another replaced it. He sat up, trying to see, trying to be of use. His right leg suddenly pained him. The thought of standing up struck him as unlikely.
    Now all was quiet. Was he alone? No, there was ragged breathing.
    The sergeant's voice rang out from quite nearby. "Elberd!"
    "Ma'am!" Alive!
    "Get in here!"
    "Yes'm, where's here?"
    "Eff. Neel, are you with us?"
    "Yes'm."
    "Is that thing working yet?"
    "I think so, ma'am."
    "Give me."
    Neel held the rifle up and felt it snatched away. It banged once, up into the rain, and footsteps came running. Too many footsteps! The revolver lit up the night once more, and suddenly Elberd flung himself down beside Neel, wheezing.
    A fierce whisper came from the darkness above. "Crawl around to the right, both of you! Hand me my rifle!" Neel complied; Mrs. M grasped it, worked the bolt action, and moved toward the doorway.
    "Cover the entrance. Ask for the word from anyone coming in; if it's not me, shoot."
    Neel propped himself up against the table and worked to catch his breath. He tried to ease the rifle down across his lap, but his right thigh bothered him too much. He set the butt down on the floor, with his hand on the grip, shifted his weight, and, reaching across with his left hand, explored his leg. There was an arrow shaft there!
    It had almost missed him, but not quite. He tugged at the shaft experimentally, and quickly gave up that idea. Perhaps it could be pulled through from the other side. We'll wait on that a bit.
The crack of Mrs. M's more powerful rifle lit the night briefly. Immediately following, they could hear the bolt action opening and closing. She must not be far away.
    Then the sky suddenly lit, to Neel's dark-accustomed eyes, horizon-to-horizon. The sky-light moved, and the shadow of the stone hut's doorway crawled across the floor. Neel glanced at Elberd, and saw that Elberd's right cheek lay open, an almost perfect match to the long scar on his left cheek. Elberd's eyes were wide open with fright and wonder.
    The excruciating brightness crossed the doorway and windows from right to left, and then, if anything, flared, silhouetting the forests of Maggie's Hill. And, as suddenly as the illumination had come, it ended, though a phosphorescence hung in the clouds.
    A sound not unlike the summer's thunder came through the packed-earth floor into their cold bones.
    "Dubya-tee-eff?" asked Elberd, whispering hoarsely.
    "I'm not sure I even want to know," replied Neel, gripping his weapon and re-focusing on the doorway. "I'll watch here; you get some salve on your face and pull it together with some duct tape; then you turn around and watch the windows."

So young, too

2011-03-12T20:01:00.000-08:00

Chapter Forty-Nine

MULLINS STRODE along beside Lacy. "These things do check out. There are definitely people in that list'nin post up there; been watchin' us for days. An' the burnt-out tower matches Wolf's description."
    Lacey did not break his stride, nor did his taciturn expression change. "Yes."
    Mullins looked him over appraisingly. "Why do I get th' feelin' you're holdin' stuff out on me? You guys saddle up, ride around, gone overnight, come back, throw us a sack of venison, we ask for a report, you shrug and say "this is the place."
    "We cannot go very near without giving away too much concerning ourselves. We have approached them at night, and we have seen they are vigilant. This can be a dangerous venture."
    "Well, and here y'are, walking right at 'em with me, unarmed, with a white rag on a stick. Y'don't look worried."
    "They have much at stake. They are on their own ground and have, we think, prepared positions. They could have attacked my scouts, and have not done so. They will parley. Will you?"
    "Well, sure, fer starters. Might learn somethin. Hell, maybe we could get ourselves invited in."
"This is the bridge. We are now being watched. If we stay here, I think, no one will come out. But if we go forward, you will be hailed."
    "Well, okay, let's do that and see."
    They moved along what was now clearly a road that had been kept open. Mullins was not an experienced woodsman; nevertheless he began to sense, as Lacey had for some time, watchfulness. As they neared a heap of brush cuttings, sure enough, a man stood out from a copse of hemlocks in the near distance.
    "Stop right there, please."
    Mullins studied him. Tall, broad-shouldered, apparently short hair and beard; hard to tell as his face was shadowed by a wide-brimmed coolie hat of some kind. Dressed in leather, it looked like; with a broad belt. And was that a sword tucked in the belt? What were these people playing at around here?
    The stranger said nothing more, but waited, in a posture both alert and relaxed.
    Mullins spoke, keeping his voice low and his eyes on the man. "Whaddya think of him?"
    "Wave the flag."
    "Oh, yeah." Mullins did so. The local made no sign or move.
    "This man is experienced and confident. There are others with him, and they will be armed. We are already within range. They have done this before."
    "Tell me stuff I don't already know."
    "They are hungry. Things have not gone well with them. This man has been losing weight for some time. He may also, I think, be recovering from a wound or injury."
    "Well, that's information."
    Clearly, the stranger was willing to stand in the early fall sunlight all day without speaking.
    Mullins cleared his throat. "We, we come in peace for all mankind."
    The tall man cocked his head. "Heard that one before somewhere. Y'all got a lotta nice gear out there in th' woods. Not much of it's peace-y lookin."
    "Travel is unsafe, y'know. We're the, we're the Yew Ess Army an' we're puttin' th' country back together. Goin' up an' down makin' folks aware the government's back in operation."
    "That's nice."
Mullins waited for more, perhaps a rebuttal, but the man just kept right on standing there.
    "Well, uh, can we parley, get some communications set up, explain th' laws an' get a representative an' all that? You c'n be your own county."
    The man smiled briefly, then appeared to be studying the sky.
    "Uh, tell ya what." Mullins set the end of his sapling flagpole on the ground. "We got food. Meals Ready to Eat. Salt. We got salt. If yeh've fallen on hard times, could bring th' trucks in, give ever'body a square meal. Show ever'body we're on th' level, an' all. What say?"
    The man studied the ground, then the sky again, and then looked at Lacey for moment, then Mullins. "Your friend there got a tongue?"
    "I speak for myself, yes," said Lacey, stepping forward.
    "You two are from different outfits. Your pal there, I've seen his kind before. How come y'all are doing his dirty work, sniffin' around us all night?"
    "It is good to know something of one's surroundings."
    "Yeah-h-h, guess it is. Listen --" he returned his attention to Mullins. "-- best thing to do, pass on by an' act like y'never been here. Get your government set up, build some towns, do some agriculture. We'll talk some more in a couple years, 'k?" He turned to go.
    "Well, hey, wait up!" But Mullins could see the interview was over. The stranger did not break stride, but disappeared behind the hemlocks.
    Lacey turned to Mullins. "There is nothing to do here at this time."
    "Y'think maybe I shoulda asked him direct 'bout th' power plant?"
    "No." Lacey turned away and began walking back past the bridge.
    Mullins, perforce, joined him. "Do y'suppose they even have one?"
    "Yes."
    "How do you know?"
    Lacey stopped and regarded him. "One of my men may have overheard a conversation."
    "Overh --" but Lacey had moved on again. Mullins trotted after him. "You are holding something back."
    Lockerby appeared in the middle distance, rising from a patch of horsetails near the small river, with the Ay-Kay in hand.
    "How'd it go, Mullo?" he called out softly.
    "Tell ya in a bit." Mullins addressed himself to the striding tribal leader. "Look, do we got a deal or don't we?"
    "The Prinevilles carry out their agreements. I will tell you what I have heard but not how I heard it; as that is not in the agreement. There are not as many people as we were told. They are, however, clever in matters of farming, manufacture, defense. Yes, they have power. Yes, it is 'nuclear.' For many years they did not even know it was there. No, they will not negotiate; they believe they know who you are; it is only a guess, but in part they have guessed correctly, and they will not believe a cover story. They will resist any move on our part to occupy the mountain." He gestured toward Starvation Ridge.
    By this time they had reached Lockerby.
    Mullins turned toward Lacey again. "All right; ya don't wanna divulge your sources. Why'd ya go through that charade with me?"
    "I wished to see this man. I believed he would show himself. He will be a worthy adversary for us; and his name is Wilson."
    "His name is Wilson. Well, Mr. Walkin' Incylepeedya Lacey, I'm not sure I trust ya now as far as I can throw ya; but I'm glad ya said us and I hope I c'n hold ya to it. Lockie!"
    "Mullo."
    "How long till the Cat could get up here?"
    "To right here? Be about three hours."
    "From where they are now, can the cannon hit this area?" Mullin's gesture took in the woods around the rusted steel bridge.
    "Mmm, yeah, an' the hilltops too; not much further. An' there's no target we c'n be sure of hittin' from way out there, or even from here; 'cept that." Lockerby pointed to the lookout on Ball Butte.
    "Yeah, 'n it's a low-trajectory gun. I knew we'd rather be havin' a howitzer out here, or mortars. We can either bust through here to where th' LAV can see what it's doin', or take it up onto high ground. Mr. Lacey?"
    "Yes?" The chief regarded Mullins impassively.
    "You fellas have clearly looked -- and listened -- a lot; c'n the Cat get up there?" He pointed to Ball Butte.
    "It is steep, except from the back."
    Lockerby squinted at the hill. "They can see anything we do from there; if we could haul the LAV up there we can cover the whole valley. But they'll have thought of that. I like the other one better." He indicated Starvation Ridge.
    "Ah, hell, Lockie, that one's just as bad."
    "Only from here. We could drive up on it from the south, pretty easy."
    "An' fight ever' inch of th' way. Mr. Lacey, th' man said "keep goin', didn't he? How about we all pass 'em by, in full view, 'n let 'em watch us do it, then come back and hit that lookout at dawn -- from th' north. Give 'em time to relax -- say, about a week."
    Lacey considered. "It seems good. But they would want to confirm our departure, and their scouts would trail the column. My men could make sure they would not return to report, but this will alert their people. Also, there would be no cover of darkness. In one week, there will be a full moon." He pointed to the half moon, already hanging in the late afternoon sky above the ridge.
    "Well, then, whaddya suggest?"
    "Let us divide our forces. Take the column south, in full view. Turn back on the third night and assault the Starvation Ridge. Darkness will fall about four hands before daylight. By sunrise, you can be well up the mountain, and your weapon will be able to cover you effectively there."
"Uh huh, and what will your crowd be up to?"
    "At midnight, we will take the lookout and make fire and noise. This will be to draw the attention of all the farmers, giving you time to make your ascent."
    "A feint. I like it, Mr. Lacey, except what's to keep you from giving us the slip?" Mullins made a sign behind his back, and Lockerby stepped away, as if to pick a horsetail from the sand.
    "We are a people of our word." Lacy braced himself, perhaps to leap upon Mullins and shield himself from Lockerby, but it was clearly too late; Mullins, too, was stepping away. The muzzle of the rifle came up and pointed itself toward the Eastsider's broad chest.
    "Well, Mr. Lacey, we are a people of guarantees. I do like your suggestion, but I will amend it. You'll tell your folks to have a go at th' little mountain behind us, on schedule. But you yourself will go with us."

:::

Wilson strode up from Hall bridge to the Mess Hall, giving the password to the young sentry as he came on. In his haste he forgot the counter word, and the child, one of the "grenadiers" who had served with Emilio Molinero in the New Moon War, was much too much in awe of Wilson to remind him.
    Though it was already late in the day, Wilson had to pause for a moment as he entered Hall; the contrast in light, even in what must surely be September, was striking. Hall had been a sawmill or planing mill at one time, and had relied in those days upon powerful incandescent light bulbs for its workers to see by. Wilson wondered that it had occurred to no one to hook up the building, which was in constant use, to the power from Ridge; as it was, two groups were clustered around windows. One crew was washing sunchokes from a largish pile in a washtub, gossiping among themselves; the other was clustered around Bee, who was putting them through dry-snap exercises with an array of antique twenty-twos. Dud, or dummy, rounds that had somehow been painted blue were scattered on the table.
     "Hi, Cap'n," said one. Billee looked up and, spying him, beamed.
    "Y'all go right ahead with what you're doing there," said Wilson, forcing an expansive smile. "Gonna make a phone call." He continued on toward the cellar door.
    Billee delegated the class to a relatively experienced young woman to her left -- another of the grenadiers -- and followed him.
    In the command post, Wilson found Selk kneeling before the telephone desk, working by lamplight. "Good afternoon, Mr. Selk," he boomed, giving himself the guilty pleasure of watching the hunched figure jump. "I do hope your presence here does not mean that communications are down."
    Selk tucked his chin into his shoulder and peered round over the top of his glasses. "N-no, Mr. Wilson, I've hooked in here -- " he held up the ends of two wires " -- and we'll run a line out to Bridge; we're giving them your handset, though, so you'll have to make do for now with these." He set down the wires and held up a pair of headphones in one hand. In the other, he displayed what looked like a brass disk with two tiny, toothy long-snouted clips attached.
    Wilson reached out and took them, gingerly. "What the hell?"
    "Here, sit down, let me. These go over your ears, like this, and you hold this -- When you want to talk, clip one of these on the lead, here, like this." He demonstrated. "Then, you want to listen, unclip. See?"
    "I don't see. Does the doorbell still work the same?"
    "It does, but never mind that; they're already talking."
    "I don't hear anythin'."
    Selk compressed his lips. "Sorry, impedance doesn't match. But some sound does carry if you're quiet."
    "Yeah, yeah. Hush up yourself, then."
    Billee, who had come in right behind Wilson, grabbed a cup, poured some water into it from a jug, added vodka from a spare lamp, and set it before Wilson, who picked it up without missing a beat.
    Billee gave Selk an accusing look. "You were eavesdropping," she whispered.
"Wouldn't you?" he whispered back. "I'm out of here; got wires to spool out." True to his word, Selk picked up a small wooden spool table mounted on a broomstick, and walked backwards out of the room, unreeling spliced lamp cord.

:::

Ellen Murchison held the handset away from her ear and winced, then pressed the button. Click. "Wilson, are you there? We're hearing the awfullest clicking and sputtering. Over." Click.
    Static, then, "Yeah, s'me. Uh, th'techie has made a mess down here. Can you hear me? Uh, over." Scratch.
    Click. "Yes, but why are you shouting? Over." Click.
    Screech. "Sorry, the things on my ears, I can hardly hear ya, this other thing must work better." Hiss.
    Click. "We'll take that line noise to mean 'over.' So, what happened out at Bridge? Over." Click.
    Click. "I'm here, too, Wilson." Avery's voice. "Over." Click.
    Crackle. "How much did y'all see? Uh, over." Buzz.
    Click. "From here, everything," said Ellen. "Still lots to see. And we're relaying it all to Avery, of course. Over." Click.
    Sizz. "Well, th' short guy is in charge, but he doesn't answer to th' description of th' guy that was here before. I think he's th' expedition'ry leader. Th' tall guy with th' pigtails is interestin'. I'd say he knows more what he's about, but is deferring to th' little one like he's on contract to 'im. Can't see 'em gettin' along. ... Oh. Uh-h-h, over." Bzzt.
    Ellen held the handset away from her head. "Neel, how's it look?"
    Neel, one of her young charges, pulled himself away from the spotting telescope. It had arrived that morning, and he had been joyfully glued to it all day.
"Still headed for the trucks, ma'am."
    Click. "Wilson, after you left, they went back beyond bridge and another short man with a rifle joined them. I'd swear it was an AK, like before. There was what looked like an amicable conference, then suddenly they took the tall man prisoner and away they all went, with the rifle at his back. Over." Click.
Pause. Another crackle, then Wilson whistling. "Wow, com-pli-cat-ed." Another pause. "So, anyway. This tall guy, I think he looked at me like you do when you've seen somebody before." Pause. "Oh, over, arready." Fzzt.
    Avery clicked in. "From these tidbits, I think we're looking at two groups that barely get along. It's a treaty of some kind. The LAV, the trucks and things, that's the Volunteers. And the guy they're holding is probably the leader of an auxiliary force. He's insurance. Sure you haven't seen horses? Over." Click.
    Hsst. "No, but that doesn't mean they don't have them. That look that guy gave me? I think he's got the Bledsoes."
    "Damn," said Ellen to the stone walls. Neel swung round from the scope, and Elberd looked up from his own business, a half-plucked blackbird he had netted. She looked at their cheerful, hopeful faces. Damn. So young, too.

Unaccustomed regret

2011-03-05T20:54:00.000-08:00

Chapter Forty-Eight

A DAMP fog arose from the Creek at sunset. It drifted through the cottonwoods and into the shabby fields, then hung there like 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 with them 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, to be lightly covered by 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 any 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 very 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 handyknives, 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 and 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 twenty feet. Whatever made people happy! For Wolf, the attraction had been the isolation; the place was in a box canyon blocked by a mudslide and a young jungle that 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 one 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 them, 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 drywall, lay an item he had left at the ready, loaded, against need upon a more sudden return: a stainless Timberwolf pump-action rifle in .357 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 grey. 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 grey 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, snapped 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 one 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! His namesake. Wolf 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.
    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.

Nothing at all

2011-02-27T20:45:00.000-08:00

Chapter Forty-Seven

"I AM depressed as all get-out," said Magee, stirring his coffee with a silver spoon.
    "I am sorry, to hear that, my lord," replied The Doctor demurely. She reached for the creamer.
    Magee peered at her over his glasses. Still nice hair, after all these years. Wonder what she dyes it with. "Nothing ever gets under your skin, does it?"
    "'There are many sharks in the water,' my lord, as one of my professors once told me, 'and if you choose one to worry over, another will bite you.'"
    "Ah, that's th' stuff. Well, even so, everthin's bitin' me today. First, I got th' inventory from the orchards-keeper; th' weather this summer has ruined th' pears. With the diesel I lent 'em, they couldn't pump enough river to save more than about three hundred acres total. An' th' rivers-keeper chimed in with record-heat this an' record-low that; upshot is, not enough fish comin' up th' Rogue or Umpqua, either one, to do any good. Meats-keeper, same diffy, th' herds from th' wild animal park are goin' t' predators an' bad pasture an' too many mouths t' feed. So everybody's come here an' lookin' t' me t' feed 'em out 'a th' bunkers."
    "I have looked into that, my lord; there are twenty-four pallets of MRE remaining untouched, plus a partial. With so many coming here to seek assistance, we are good for about two months." She reached him a steaming bowl. "Have some 'beef teriyaki'; you've barely touched it."
    Magee waved it off. "'Twenty-five year shelf life' my ass. That batch started going off two years ago early; don't care for it."
    "You may watch me; my lord," smiled the Doctor, as she spooned a portion onto her plate. "If I 'keel over,' you will know it is truly past date."
    "Ah-h-h." Magee gestured impatiently. "Worst is, th' last runner came in whining about somebody had raided that damned gun store Wolf was so effin' proud of -- assuming it was ever there. And then -- suddenly no runners! Why am I not surprised? I have cut off all shipments to Mullins till I hear anythin' good from up around there."
    "That is the right thing to do, my lord. For a start." The Doctor sipped at her coffee and dipped her fork into the teriyaki.
    "Whatcha thinkin', my dear? If I may ask."
    "'There are many ways.' First, let us assume the weapons were there. Mullins has them, and begins to appreciate his apparent new-found power. He may think well of his chances of not only capturing the power plant, but of deposing you."
    "Thought of that; but wouldn't he keep sending runners to keep me happy and stupid?"
    "They might think they could do such; but a fabricated story comes unraveled under much scrutiny. My young men take care to make an extended visit with each runner, and they are, in effect, cross-examined."
    "As always, love your thoroughness, Doc."
    "Second, let us assume the weapons are, as described, gone. Mullins may have encountered those who took them and been defeated; or is perhaps engaged with them."
    "But, my dear Doctor, wouldn't someone have been dispatched to ask for reinforcements?"
    "Of a certainty, my lord, though perhaps they would have been intercepted. There is almost no way to here from there without using the route we have ourselves constructed."
    "The eternal problem of long and unguarded lines of communication." Magee rubbed his stubbled chin thoughtfully. Huh. Out of razor blades. Oh, well. "Yeah; but I dunno. Those nomads are good at givin' anybody th' slip. Got a third?"
    "But of course, my lord. The tribals may have chosen to turn upon Mullins, either to obtain the weapons, or in the instance of the empty gun store, to end the alliance due to a perception that the campaign is lost."
    "That's good thinking, my dearie, but I deprecate it on two counts. They are sincere in their dislike of machinery to th' point where th' thought of handling an assault rifle makes 'em bug-eyed. Seen that myself. And in t'other case, I think Lacey would see things through."
    "He is indeed the 'noble savage,' my lord." The Doctor reached for a paper napkin. "And now, fourth."
    "Yes-s-s? Y'always save th' best for last." Magee narrowed his eyes and tipped back his head, watching her through the thick lenses.
    The Doctor smiled. "It is my sense of drama. Your man, Wolf, who in my humble opinion should have died or remained imprisoned here, rather than in your most important vehicle, has escaped."
    "I think that most likely, Doctor, an' it has occurred t'me. In any event I have relied upon Mullins at a distance, and your shark has bit me."
The Doctor smiled her widest smile. "There are possibilities. Wolf may once again return here; if so, he is unlikely to use the road we have made. Or he may choose to take an interest in Mullins' army; or he may seek his stolen armory. Mullins and Lockerby will have thought about these matters, meanwhile. They know you cannot be happy with them; and without the provisions you have been sending, they have insufficient scope to return and defend themselves by attacking you. They may await you in a defensive posture, or they may run away, or they may seek some form of leverage."
    "Mmm-hmm. If I was Mullins, I'd go after the power plant for myself, use it as a bargaining chip with me. Yep. Th' war is still on, I bet. Only, for th' moment, it ain't my war." Magee reached for the teriyaki. "I see th' stuff hasn't killed ya, so I'll just hold my nose an' have a go." He emptied the bowl onto his plate. "Huh. 'Morsels, Regurgitated, Eviscerated.' S'why this stuff stayed behind when the Yew Ess Army left. And now ... what do ya recommend, O all-knowin' one?"

:::

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 Cheney. 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. Cheney 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 itself 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. Cheney. 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 multi-patched 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 work in the Creek valley -- 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.

In Spirit we await you

2011-02-19T15:50:00.000-08:00

Bright in the Skies

Book III of Starvation Ridge

And now men see not the light which is bright in the skies; but the wind passeth, and cleanseth them. Job 37:21

Chapter Forty-Six

MARY SAVAGE, Ph.D., sighed. On the one hand, the strange old underground DARPA hideout held distinct advantages for her. It was relatively cool in summer and warm in winter, had flat, smooth floors, and a working elevator. She, a chairbound invalid with RA, heart issues and, probably, lupus, could particularly appreciate the surroundings. Anywhere but the Creek, she'd be long dead. At the Creek, she'd still be dead after that hellacious summer, had there been no such retreat. On the other hand, the facility had not been built with her in mind. The doors were all solid-core steel, and they all swung shut with an authoritative click. Anytime she wanted to go anywhere alone meant a good deal of rolling, thumping, grunting and stick-wedging. If the chair had been an electric, she might have found a less strenuous protocol for the doors. The weight of the batteries would have counted for much. Time was, she'd have ordered up a battery-powered chair and Deela and Selk and Ro-eena would have produced it for her. Somehow. They'd all be too busy now at other tasks, most of which she herself had set them.
    Time for a drink. That last door had about done her in.
    She paused at the refectory door, which, some luck at last, was propped open into the hallway. It was downright odd to see no light on in here; weeks and weeks of full occupancy by most of the Creekers had kept this room constantly buzzing. But now everyone was trying to scatter back to the farms -- or those farms whose buildings remained after that all-consuming forest fire. Well, electricity -- the good old-fashioned one-ten-volts-on-demand kind with which she had grown up -- was one of Ridge's charms. She reached up and flipped the switch.
    Three tables away, someone had been sitting in the dark, head and arm on the table. Unwinding stiffly, the figure sat up and blinked. It was Karen, long and lean except in the middle -- she was great with child, a rarity in itself -- and looking leaner because of the shortened and seamed sleeve of her tunic, where her left arm should have been. As always, Mary's heart -- and this too, with Mary's avowed objectivism, was a rarity -- went out to her.
    "Whoa, kiddo. Flashin' light in your eyes. Sorry 'bout that. Catchin' forty?"
    "Ma'am? Umm, yes, ma'am. Couldn't sleep lying down." Karen stretched, a cat-like gesture, waving her hand overhead. "What shift?"
    "It's mid-afternoon outside, if you're asking the time. I thought I would come in and snoop around, see about happy hour. Make one of Wilson's nasty cocktails if nothing else."
    "Oh. Well, then, we have a surprise for you. Guchi showed it to me. Hang on."
    The ungainly child -- woman,of course, but she's more than half still a child to me -- lumbered out to the kitchen and returned with a pint-sized Mason jar, lidded and ringed.
    "Here you go, ma'am."
    "Oh, glory. Is that what I think it is?"
    "Yes'm, it's your last beer. If Guchi hadn't hid it, Juanita would have poured it into the soup." Karen handed the precious jar to her teacher.
    "And she would have been right. I say that myself, even though all my life I've been all about 'I, me, and mine.'" Mary untwisted the ring and, finding the lid unsealed, flipped it onto the table.
    "That sounds like a quote."
    "Good ear. Ayn Rand. She was where I got my ideas, when I was all of your age, about reason and enlightened self-interest, and so on." She sipped. "Ahh. Not much fizz, but ah anyways."
    "I think I've read about her somewhere. And so you became a physicist?"
    "Lots of reasons why people did that. But, sure, I sure didn't see any point going into Comp Lit or MFA. Whole different crowd." Mary could see that the terms confused Karen. "Computers. I should've done computers. Ayn Rand didn't live long enough -- if she'd had, say, 'structured query language' to play with when she was young, I dare say she'd have disappeared into Systems at some university, like any good Aspie, and never gone into fiction." Much of this was going over, or maybe under, Karen's head, she could tell, but Mary plowed on. "But I like hands-on. Shapes, textures, properties. So do you."
    "I do, ma'am."
    "And the Creekers found me sitting by the roadside out at Bridge -- there was a sign there, then: 'Pepsi-cola; Brownsville Rockhound Emporium; seven miles' -- I bet I'd stared at that sign for three hours. And they said -- the Murchisons and Elsa -- 'y'wanna come live with a buncha folks?' -- and they didn't ask me what I could do, just did I wanna move in? Well, I thought it beat sitting out there with more and more flies on me, and the buzzards watching." She took a pull at the home brew. "Oh, yeah, that was that last batch. Triple hopped, with the last of the hops, fresh. Have a sip? It won't hurt th' kid."
    "No, ma'am, you just enjoy it, ma'am."
    "Ma'am, ma'am, ma'am. All right, I will." She fingered the raised designs on the glass. On one side, the word "Ball" in stylized script; on the other, what was clearly supposed to be the Liberty Bell. Sigh. "Bottoms up. So they took me in, which I found mortifying on the one hand, and a relief on the other, and after while I made myself useful, just like almost everyone else around here. And on the one hand I justified myself to myself with she that shall not work, shall not eat --"
    "Like me."
    "-- We're alike in a lot of ways kiddo -- but on the other hand knowing that not everybody here could work, like Mr. Angle or Mrs. Lazar, much, and we were, y'know taking care of them, like they had taken care of me in th' beginning. So maybe I had a commie streak after all."
    Karen put on her thoughtful look, which to Mary always seemed as if she were trying to stare through the wall. "I think, if a group of people is together, there's some strength in sharing. Because each of us takes turns being the strong one, the able one, and you can't always know if someone will go weak at one time and then be strong again, just when you need them. So -- so, a, a mechanism for that is needed, and it's why we have the councils and the general meetings. It evens out the strengths for everyone."
    "Yes, the empathy argument. Hence government, bureaucracy and the whole nine yards. Even taxation, Rand help me."
    "Well, stockpiling the food here has pulled us through -- so far." Karen pointed to Mary's half-finished jar.
   "Hmph. And when this is done, 'there's an end on't.'" Mary swirled the jar. "So, kid -- what can you tell me about th' second law?"
    "Entropy, ma'am? It always increases."
    "Or remains constant. As long as a little more effort went into this place than we ate up, we were kind of steady state. Productivity might go up or down, but we sometimes had surpluses, and we stored 'em here at Ridge. But if your productivity is less than, or even equal to, your consumption of resources, your troubles will multiply. If entropy always increased, none of us would be here. But life organizes itself in abundance, in order to stay ahead of the game. Case in point, babies."
    Karen patted her tummy unconsciously. "Yes, ma'am."
    Mary finished the beer and set down the jar. "Thing is, more babies, somewhere down the road, more consumption, which is great in the presence of more productivity, up to a point. This jar will never know another beer, Mrs. Allyn. There are too many random noises in this location, and insufficient signal to overcome them. All you young people, take notice. We old-timers are stuck here. Where the signal goes weak, staying one step ahead of entropy requires mobility. That would be you."
    Karen's eyes widened. For a moment, she looked at the empty jar, with its rapidly-drying floor of barley sediments. Then she met Mary's piercing gaze. "Yes, ma'am."
    A soft knock at the door brought both their heads round. It was Ro-eena. "Beg pardon, Dr. Mary, Karen."
    "Yes?" asked Mary, swinging her chair round.
    "Mr. Avery's compliments, and he says, condition absolutely red."
    "Invasion?" asked Karen, half-rising.
    "We think so," Ro-eena answered. "Karen's presence is requested upstairs, and we may be bringing everybody right back here today or tomorrow."

:::

Emilio Molinero, in spite of his hurry, kept to what little shade he could find. It would not do to get light-headed just now; though the slant of the afternoon sun bore less heat than it had done at the height of this terrible summer, it still commanded respect. Somewhere ahead of him were the Bledsoes: in his eyes a rabble of disaffected paranoiacs, but Creekers all the same. They had produced Huskey. Though very young, Huskey had shown potential and then some; as a leader he might have pulled all the Creek together.
    Also somewhere ahead of him, and hopefully a long way away through the frazzled cottonwoods, there was an army. Ellen Murchison and her crew, the only ones so far that had seen it in the blue distance, could not tell Emilio much about it; the forest, half-dead from drought though it might be, intervened. But there were, apparently in working order, a very large bulldozer and trucks of military design, and there was a tank. And they were toiling toward Starvation Ridge behind the dozer. It could, he supposed, be a good thing; strangers had come to the Creek in large numbers quite recently and they had not come to destroy, but to save.
   Yet in this instance Ellen had not held out such a hope, nor had her dour son Avery. "There is very little alive in the Great Valley, so far as we have seen," Avery had said, drumming his fingers on the arms of his wheelchair. "Except for bugs, sucker fish, possums, coons, coyotes, owls, osprey, and about ten million swamp trees. The Pilgrims have dried up. If civilization was up and running somewhere, the messengers they would send out would travel by twos or threes, maybe ten at the most; they could live on the occasional herd of deer, or maybe learn to use camas or wapato. But this looks like fifty or more, and Ellen does not think there are women or children traveling with them. She feels it must be a war party, carrying its own provisions, and from what she's telling me, I agree. Also, they are heading straight for Ridge."
    Wilson, whose still-bandaged chest showed beneath his tunic, had nodded. "Karen has been of the opinion, all along, that this man Wolf who led the bandits last year would return and have another go at us. It does look as if that might be the case."
    And so here I am, detailed to prevent our runaways from meeting whatever's out there. A fool's errand, to be sure.
    Emilio came to the Bridge, which tradition regarded as the gate of Starvation Creek. At right angles to the valley entrance, it marked what had once been an intersection. A country road had crossed the Creek here and gone north, around the base of Ball Butte; another had come from the Great Valley and, crossing the Bridge road just to its north, followed the Creek eastward up into the foothills. It had served, at one time, perhaps sixty households of part-time farmers, retirees, and commuters. What remained was the cart-track, with its mid-stripe of dried grasses, behind Emilio; the other three roads had very nearly vanished into a young and nondescript forest of, mostly, ash and willow. The few openings were choked with teasel and gorse. Even the Bridge, which had been maintained for many years by the Creekers, looked disheveled in its rust and its skirt of weeds -- what a difference a distracted year makes!
   He shifted the strange little rifle to his left hand, gripping it by the pump-action forearm. He was himself used to bow and crossbow, but Karen had made a strong case for the longer range of the bullets she and Deela had so painstakingly made. The weapon could speak with authority some twenty times with the copper tubes in his possession. Ten of them rested, malign in their potential indifference, in the hollow tube beneath the barrel.
        Which way to go? Stooping, with his right hand he tested the edge of a slight depression in the dust. Recent passage -- but by whom? And were they going north or south?
   Emilio became wary. Though he was not conscious of having heard a sound, he looked, without standing up, over his shoulder, and could see that someone had trailed out from the valley behind him.With relief, he recognized Josep, the young leader of the Roundhousers -- now Josep of the Creek, of one of the farms. The wild blond hair was partially covered by a wide-brimmed conical straw hat like Emilio's, but Emilio knew his jaunty walk. Josep carried a rifle on a sling, but also a bow on his other shoulder, and a water bottle swung from his hand. With the other he waved cheerily to his friend.
    "Well met, Mr. Emilio, and has our quarry absconded?"
    "I am having, shall we say, a slow time of it; the ground is so dry and in many places hard. Have you been sent to assist in the search?"
    "I am an afterthought of your many-headed leadership, suggested by myself. We all know you like to work alone, but it's prudent to have someone watch the trees while your own eyes scan the earth. Besides, I'm tired of the hoe."
    "Ah. Well, I am not displeased. But if memory serves me, you are the better tracker of us two. Let us trade roles for a time. Here are tracks, I think; but to me they lead nowhere."
    Josep leaned over to inspect Emilio's findings, while Emilio, with his hands on the rifle's forearm and grip, watched the surroundings. Josep walked first to the left, then to the right, nodding to himself. He snapped off a tall grass stem and chewed the end of it thoughtfully. "They have parleyed among themselves where to go from here. They have with them one hand cart? Yes -- drawn first south, then north, and then the pace opens up. It is confusing because your people walk heel to toe, usually, and here they are urging themselves forward, and so the toes make the deeper impression. When this trail strikes the brush, it should be a little more obvious. How many?"
    "Eight."
    "So few? How have you kept these farms going? But there were ten, not so long ago. And there was even a child at one time."
    "Attrition among us, as with you. In my lifetime there were at one time more than three hundred Creekers."
    "Yes. So I think we go this way; and from the description given by your Sergeant Murchison on the mountain above us, we may catch them up in two hands' time, maybe more."

:::

Two of Lacey's men would be watching for a signal from him. He studied the few birds in the trees nearby, and concluded from them that there was little danger anyone would overhear a conference, so he beckoned. Both, carrying juniper-wood bows, strung, in one hand, with an arrow at the ready in the other, caught up to him noiselessly. Each wore trousers, a jerkin and moccasins, made from deerskin and decorated with rows of colorful porcupine quills. They wore their hair braided, and tied off, with long leather thongs, and, as he had done, they had painted their sunburned cheeks and foreheads with fat into which green leaves had been pounded, to please Spiit and make themselves at peace with Death. Were it not for their luxurious beards, an observer in this place some two centuries gone might have taken them for Calapooia warriors.
    Lacey turned his palm down, and the three squatted among the bracken in the shade of a thirsty ash tree. "There are eight. I feel certain they are from the valley that will be contested; they do not look like those that have been on Pilgrimage for months. Their passage is noisy and they are not watching well. Soon they will make camp and sleep, perhaps with one guard. Bring two more of our men; that should be enough. We will collect them and make them serve the People."
    "Sir--" said one, touching his forehead with an index finger. "--the Machine-man Mullins said to bring anyone we find to him?"
    "Now that we are away from the column, I have freedom to speak," replied Lacey. "The Machines and their army are weaker than we were told, and to feed them requires the good will of Magee, which surely they no longer have. We will see this through a little longer; may be this war will be simple. May be not. We must make preparations to abandon their campaign, should we find it necessary to do so. We conduct the present operation on our own, and perhaps provide ourselves with new Bringers of Food."
    "Sir, this is wise. I shall go and get the others."
    "Good; two of us will do to see these travelers to their beds. Bring our men and follow us from here; we will break twigs at head height every thirty paces to show our line of march."
    "In Spirit I go."
    "In Spirit we await you."

Abide The Fire: EPUB!

2011-02-09T10:30:00.000-08:00

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Karen Rutledge, age fourteen, lost her father. He was the only human being she had ever known. Thrown into a world that little resembled the books and magazines of her childhood, she made her way to a valley inhabited by farmers and found a place among them. But there were others in her world who were not farmers and preyed upon farmers and "Pilgrims." The valley was attacked and successfully defended itself; weakened by their losses, the people of Starvation Creek took stock. Would they be able to rebuild? And what if the marauders returned? Book II of the Starvation Ridge trilogy.

Starvation Ridge

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Starvation Ridge now in print

Starvation Ridge

Bright in the Skies in inexpensive EPUB format

By Risa Bear

Book III in print

Bright in the Skies

Epilogue

Perhaps

This deal

Remember Masada

No remedy and little time

Always and everywhere

And with you

How old was I?

One thing we really should have

Think toward try

Burning a river

The stronger for it

A matter of hoses

May we learn better

Sleeping on the job

Shakespeare, we're not

Until the stars came out

The best hands

Horizon to horizon

So young, too

Unaccustomed regret

Nothing at all

In Spirit we await you

Bright in the Skies

Book III of Starvation Ridge And now men see not the light which is bright in the skies; but the wind passeth, and cleanseth them. Job 37:21

Abide The Fire: EPUB!

Book III of Starvation Ridge

And now men see not the light which is bright in the skies; but the wind passeth, and cleanseth them. Job 37:21