The Fly-By-Nights

by Brian Lumley

  The Fly-By-Nights Copyright © 2011 by Brian Lumley.

  All rights reserved.

  Dust jacket and interior illustrations Copyright © 2011

  by Bob Eggleton. All rights reserved.

  Print version interior design Copyright © 2011 by Desert Isle Design, LLC.

  All rights reserved.

  Electronic Edition

  ISBN

  978-1-59606-660-1

  Subterranean Press

  PO Box 190106

  Burton, MI 48519

  www.subterraneanpress.com

  I

  They wore no uniforms, the people of this deceptively raggle-taggle convoy where they rode, drove, or were trundled through a rubble-strewn wasteland in the dead of night. Yet despite the lack of khaki and badges of rank: the chevrons, shoulder pips, crowns and crossed swords—military insignia in general, the like of which Garth Slattery had seen illustrated in the brown, brittle pages of a battered volume he’d returned to one of the few dusty bookshelves that had passed for a library in the now abandoned Southern Refuge—still the careworn folk of the column, where they trekked a debris and broken-brick wasteland in the light of benign-seeming constellations, were far more akin to soldiers than civilians.

  That was because this mobile community, of which Garth was a junior member, was at war; as were humanity’s rags and scattered remnants world-wide so far as was known, and the very word “civilian” was almost obsolete among the clans of a handful (at best) of moribund refuges whose people—all but the youngest—answered the roll-calls as regular combatants as necessary.

  Their campaign, however, could scarcely be called an offensive, and in reality not even a campaign; not in olden terms of calls-to-arms or the joining of battle on predetermined fronts. No, the stance of these folk was rather the opposite: their war was mainly defensive, in which the hideous enemy’s spontaneous, apparently opportunistic attacks usually resulted from chance encounters, rarely from organized ambushes or premeditated tactics on the part of the fiend. Which meant that until the convoy arrived at its destination—one of the last few surviving refuges: a place of sanctuary and safety according to every expectation, and always assuming it could be found—its people must continue to endure the terrifying, all too frequent yet utterly unpredictable skirmishes and frenzied confrontations with every aimlessly wandering, crazed and blood-thirsty fly-by-night pack that crossed their path.

  Thus far, mercifully, such nomadic gangs had been less than populous; never once—thank God!—in such numbers as to constitute a swarm. But nevertheless they did regularly come drifting out of nowhere in small, vicious groups, arriving suddenly and silently on the scene, and at any time—

  —Which is to say any night-time, of course…

  For who in his right mind would want to venture out in the open air in daylight? Not the people of this convoy, and definitely not their monstrous enemy—the fly-by-nights! As for the latter by virtue of their manifest fear and hatred of the sun, if for no other reason, they must at least be granted the distinction of partial rationality. For despite the utter mindlessness they invariably displayed during their attacks, still they knew and respected the horror inherent in the sun’s rays; hence the sinister designation bestowed upon them by men. But for all that men and monsters faced disparate dangers from Sol’s radiations, still exposure was as lethal to one as to the other—to friend and foe alike—though death came more certainly and far more swiftly to the fly-by-nights.

  These were some of young Garth Slattery’s thoughts where he sat beside his father in a jolting trundle somewhere central of the column. Glancing sidelong at Zach Slattery, and covertly at the drawn faces of others in the vehicle, Garth’s thoughts were old for all that he was young. He thought back on a time—how long ago? Seven weeks, eight, more? He was certain someone must be measuring the days, or more properly the nights—but in any case he thought back to a time just before the exodus from the contaminated Southern Refuge, when all two hundred and seven of the people, men, women and children alike, had been called to a meeting convened by Big Jon Lamon.

  Big Jon, the Southern Refuge’s leader—a bulky, leathery, down-to-earth man in his mid-thirties, and therefore one of the oldest of men—had had plenty of cause to speak that time, and much to impart in an unaccustomedly lengthy address. Garth remembered that speech almost word for word now, because his “Old Man,” Zach, had bade him listen very carefully, explaining that these would be the most important, most momentous words that he was ever likely to hear. For the future, indeed the very existence of the folk of the Southern Refuge—or the “clan” as they often as not referred to themselves—was now threatened and so up for debate; the outcome of which would surely mean a turning point in the hundred-and-fifty-year history of the refuge and its inhabitants. And Zach Slattery had known these things for a fact, even for a certainty, because Big Jon Lamon had taken him aside, conferring with him beforehand in order to gain the wise counsel of a man he’d called a friend and colleague for most of his life…

  “I am obliged to call this meeting by reason of recent catastrophic events,” Big Jon had begun, his voice deep and gruff, yet still reverberant in the echoing central cavern that served the refuge as garage, workshop, and—as was sometimes necessary on occasions such as this—the clan’s accustomed assembly point. His stage was the raised platform of a loading bay standing hard against the cavern’s impermeable rock wall, permitting everyone in the crowded semicircle below to both hear and see him face-to-face, as it were.

  And slowly at first but resolutely, Big Jon had continued:

  “I’ll speak first of occurrences of which only a handful of you are already, necessarily aware: desperate occurrences, that demand desperate but inevitable measures. And then…then—”

  He had paused, his grey eyes sweeping the silent crowd, his faded-leather face grave as never before despite the many hard, often problematic times the clan had known in years past.

  “—And then I must speak of one measure in particular,” he had carried on, “of which I am sadly aware that like myself you are certain to despair. Of arduous times ahead, of difficulties and dangers to be faced and overcome if we desire a future for our children—indeed, if we wish to avert utter extinction!”

  At which there had commenced a fitful, nervous stirring in the crowd, which, as a single entity had issued a sigh—a gasp of pent breath—a despairing sound that quickly descended to a low groan: acknowledgement of the fact that Big Jon’s discourse seemed to be developing into that worst case scenario that several in his audience, the techs in particular, had good reason to anticipate, to understand and dread.

  Holding up a calloused, hopefully calming but hardly reassuring hand, however, before any anxious questions could be formulated, Big Jon had quickly continued:

  “At least such is my considered opinion, arrived at following the wise counsel and advice solicited from a handful of our elders. But while I am your chosen leader, and while the elders are wise as the sum of their years, still we are only a handful while you are many. Which is why any decisions as to the future must be your individual choices! And I have called this meeting on that basis: on the understanding that however you decide the decisions must be yours alone, yours and/or your families’. For limited though such choices are, each with its own problems and hardships, still their natures do not permit of any one man or group, however wise, making them for you. As for me—myself alone, because I have no family other than the clan itself—I have already made my choice: more of which anon.

  “Until then, three things are certain:

  “One: there can be no delay, no putting it off until a tomorrow that may not come, not in the Southern Refuge. Two: the choices, such as they are, can’t be avoided.
And three: action must follow sooner rather than later: if at all possible within the next few days at most, for that’s all the time we have left and nothing to spare.”

  And again, holding up a commanding hand against a possible outcry: “Now let me hurry on…

  “In certain ways fortune smiles on us…which may seem a most peculiar statement in times such as these! But believe me, all is not lost, not yet, and things could be much, much worse. As for how bad things are: I shall deal with that first, making no bones about it…

  “As you all know, our water is drawn from two deep borehole wells; water which has always been plentiful, clean and refreshing…until now!”

  That was when it had come if not quite as Big Jon had anticipated: the gasps of dismay, groans of strong men—the stirring of a crowd pressing closer to the loading bay the better to hear every word, not daring to miss anything—the soft sighs, even the sobbing of women clutching their smallest children to them.

  Yet even so, it was scarcely the eruption that Big Jon had expected. At which he’d known that at least some intimation of the clan’s uncertain future had spread abroad, if not the situation in its entirety; which could scarcely have surprised him in a community so small and close-knit.

  Then as the throng had pressed closer still, once again the leader had thrust a calloused hand high, his rough strong voice demanding: “Now wait, and hear me out!”

  And as the swell had settled: “Very well…and now, about the water. As you know, deep in the rock there are two borehole wells. One well serves the animals that provide our food, clothing and fertilizers; the other issues water for drinking, washing, tanning, and the hydroponic vats; water that also freshens the shallow lake from which, with an eye to conservation, we’ve always taken a limited quota of fish…well, for what that has been worth this last year and a quarter; what with all the parasitic infestations and, as a direct result, the poor quality of the catch…”

  Frowning, Big Jon had paused to gather his thoughts; until, finally: “Ah yes! Nor must we forget the small measure of clean water used as a coolant by our scavenger teams in the motors of their ancient, thirsty vehicles, venturing out in moon and starlight into the shattered towns and cities, fearless in the face of the fly-by-nights.

  “In short the water is—or rather has been—everything to us, without which we could not, and cannot, survive! I make that point not to further alarm you, who must surely be aware of the sickening of the animals, but to prepare you for what has obviously been suspected if not hazarded aloud—

  “—Namely that our wells, both of them, are now contaminated! Finally, after all these years, nuclear radiation from the surface has found its way into the depths of the earth and into the water! Many of the animals are poisoned, dying; which means that their flesh, their milk and eggs are likewise poisoned, no longer edible! Which in turn means we must take with us as many strong and healthy creatures as we can, preserving them for the future in order to preserve ourselves…”

  There! With the sudden finality of just three words—“take with us”—the unthinkable had been broached: no longer a mere idea or fanciful notion of mass exodus from the Southern Refuge but a definite statement of intention, and far more importantly of imminence! Until which moment it had been barely possible to hope that Big Jon—with his odd talk of “fortune smiling,” and then of dealing with the bad news first, which could have meant there was better news to come—might yet pull a rabbit out of his hat; such hope as was now rapidly evaporating.

  And once again anticipating a surge of desperate denials or anxious questions from his people, their leader had paused; but only until he had sensed the burgeoning pressure of their passions, their barely suppressed fear gathering energy to commence shouting and perhaps even screaming! And such was the weight of their terror that Big Jon had feared runaway hysteria!

  Then for the last time he had stood tall, thrusting a hand high; and his voice, as strong as ever and even a little angry, had come bouncing back from rearing cavern walls. “Now bear up, and hear me out! For I’m not yet done! Oh, I know, I understand that you may not care to hear my words—that you may even wish to deny them—for by now you surely suspect that the worst are yet to be spoken…which they are! But then again, so are the best, or at least better! In which respect I would not lead you astray, nor have I ever…”

  And as an anxious, ominous silence once more descended: “So then,” Big Jon had continued, “the water in the wells is contaminated. But we have always been diligent in keeping the reservoirs full—which they are—all but two: those closest to the source, drawing water directly from the wells. Needless to say, these have now been isolated from the system.

  “Now to the point of all this:

  “Assisted in my figurings by the techs, I calculate we have clean water for a three-month; that’s if we are to remain here, in the refuge. Three months—the total time allowed—before we begin to go the way of the animals!”

  At which, at last from the clan a hoarse cry, an angry male voice shouting: “Jon Lamon, you’re our leader, that’s true. But how are we to accept, even from a leader, the fact that both of our wells are poisoned? And that until now, somehow, a disaster such as this has gone entirely unnot—?”

  “—Hear me out!” Big Jon cut the questioner short. “I fully understand your angry tone; also the question you were about to ask, despite that I find it provocative if not odious. But still I’ll answer and have done with it. Let it be clearly understood that while you are correct and the clan faces a great disaster, still I’m able to assure you that no blame attaches, not that I can discover. Yet the problem exists as stated.”

  “No blame?” The inquirer, a tall, burly, red-faced man in his mid-twenties, had come forward, pushing through the crowding people. “The animals began to sicken more than a week ago, maybe even longer! So then, what of the techs and their instruments? Have they been scamping the work, sleeping on the job, somehow failing to note these desperate straits that we’re in? Radiation from the surface, you said; but can you be sure it’s not from the pile behind those huge lead doors in the refuge’s furthest reaches, which is yet again the responsibility of the techs? Oh, and did you call the situation ‘a problem?’ What, a mere problem? Hah!” Scowling, throwing wide his arms, he shook great clenched fists to illustrate his fury…and maybe something of his fear. And finally—lowering his arms if not his tone—he finished by saying: “Well, it seems to me that we’re all dead men! So how’s that for a problem?”

  “Ned Singer, you’re out of order!” declared Big Jon Lamon. “Your attitude surprises me, leaving much to be desired. Oh, I know you are a brave man and serve as the leader of one of our scavenger teams: a very important position. For which reason I might expect better from you. But dead men, you say? Without a full understanding of the situation? Is it possible you’re trying to condemn, to frighten the entire clan to death, Ned? No, of course not! So now if you’ll leave all your blustering out, maybe I’ll be allowed to finish up?! And, as I’m sure I recall saying, no blame attaches! How could it when no one could have foreseen or forestalled the ‘problem’ in the first place?”

  “But—” Singer had started to protest yet again. Until:

  “Be quiet!” The leader had roared, furious now. “Talk when I’m done, if by then you still have something to say.”

  And as Singer shrank down somewhat, growling under his breath but nevertheless shuffling back into the crush, Big Jon had addressed a pale-faced, balding, nervous little man in the front rank:

  “Speak, Andrew Fielding. Ned Singer has a question, even an accusation! And it seems to me that as the head tech you’re the best one to answer it; not only to inform Ned but also the clan in general: which was, of course, my main reason for calling you from your very important work. So speak now, Andrew, and let us all know how things are come to such a pass.”

  While Big Jon was speaking, Singer had returned to his previous position central in the crowd, between Garth Slatter
y and a girl called Layla Morgan. Layla, a seamstress in animal-hides and a teacher to the clan’s younger children, was barely a year Garth’s senior; her mother was a long time dead—of radiation induced cancer—and her father had died just six months ago in a rockfall where new habitats were being excavated. While Garth had only rarely come into contact with her, he had always found Layla disarmingly attractive…

  And meanwhile Andrew Fielding had begun to speak his piece:

  “I can only report what happened, telling it as it was and as it is…” But the little man had no sooner started to reply to Big Jon’s request, nervously addressing the clan in general, than he stopped short to clear his throat, from which his initial sentence had emerged as little more than a croak. At which:

  “Aye, go on, choke on your words—you little weasel!” Ned Singer muttered low under his breath, so that only those in his immediate vicinity could hear him. “Bone-idle tech that you are, with your ancient instruments and sputtering radios, your pills and powders whose strength was already on the wane five or more decades ago! Your only real work lies in servicing the generators! Other than that, what earthly use is a scrawny thing such as you? You should come out with me and my scavs one night, see what real work is!” With which Singer had elbowed Garth, almost as tall as himself, in the ribs, growling: “What say you, ’prentice Slattery?”

  Garth had shrugged. “It seems to me that keeping the generators working is very important,” he replied, reasonably enough. “The refuge is vast and we have need of the light; down here in the dark no one could work without it! Also, Andrew Fielding is small, not sturdy enough to be a scav. So it’s probably as well that he’s a tech, with knowledge of radios and motors, instruments and…and other such things.” Feeling that he’d finished lamely Garth shrugged again—and noticed Layla frowning at him from Singer’s far side. Now why was that, he wondered? Probably because she considered his answer weak—or maybe she believed he shouldn’t have answered at all? Garth couldn’t say, and meanwhile Ned Singer had turned him a scowling, narrow-eyed glance.