Carrion Comfort

by Dan Simmons

  Saul was eight feet from the Oberst when the mindrape stopped. It was as if someone had shut off an incredible, nerve-deadening noise that had filled the world. Saul stumbled and almost fell. He retook control of his own body the way someone returns to the home of his early childhood; tentatively, almost sadly, aware of the light years of time and distance separating oneself from the once-familiar surroundings.

  For several minutes— eons—Saul and the Oberst had been almost one person. In the terrible clash of mental energy, he had been in the Oberst’s mind as surely as the Oberst had been in his. Saul had felt the monster’s overwhelming arrogance shift to uncertainty and the uncertainty to fear as the Oberst realized that he faced not just a few adversaries but armies, legions of the dead rising from the mass graves he had helped dig, screaming their defiance one last time.

  And Saul himself had been amazed and almost frightened by the shades that walked with him, rising to defend him before being slapped back into darkness. Some of them he could not even remember constructing— from a photograph here, a dossier there, a scrap of fabric in Yad Vashem— the way he had the others: the young Hungarian cantor, Warsaw’s last rabbi, the teenage girl from Transylvania committing suicide on the Day of Atonement, the daughter of Theodor Herzl starving to death in Theresienstadt, the six-year-old girl killed by wives of the SS guards in Ravensbruck—where had they come from? For a terrifying second, locked in the helpless recesses of his own mind, Saul wondered if he had tapped into some impossible racial memory that had nothing to do with his hundreds of hours of careful hypnosis and months of self-directed nightmares.

  The last persona the Oberst slapped aside was the fourteen-year-old Saul Laski himself, standing helplessly in Chelmno watching the departing backs of his father and brother Josef as they were marched toward the showers. Only this time, in the seconds before the Oberst banished them, Saul remembered what his mind had not allowed him to recall before— his father turning, Josef held securely in the crook of his arm— and calling in Hebrew, “Hear! O Israel! My eldest son survives!” And Saul, who for forty years had sought forgiveness for that single most unpardonable of sins, now saw that forgiveness on the face of the only person who could give such dispensation— the fourteen-year-old Saul Laski.

  Saul staggered, caught himself, and ran toward the Oberst.

  Tom Reynolds rushed to intervene, strong hands rising toward Saul’s throat.

  Saul ignored him, pushed him aside with the strength of all those who had joined him, and closed the last five feet separating him from the Oberst.

  Saul had a second’s impression of the Oberst’s shocked face, pale eyes widening in disbelief, and then Saul was on him, his fingers finding the old man’s corded throat, the chair tumbling over backward with Saul and the clinging Reynolds going over with it on top of the Oberst.

  Herr General Wilhelm von Borchert was an old man, but his forearms were powerful as they pounded at Saul, pressed against Saul’s face and chest, pummeled him in a desperate attempt to break free. Saul ignored the blows, ignored the old man’s knees crashing into his groin, ignored the smashing fists of Tom Reynolds as the catspaw pounded him on his back and head, Saul let their combined weight add gravity’s force to the power of his straightened arms as his fingers found the Oberst’s throat, closed on it, and met around it. He knew that he would never release that grip as long as the Oberst was alive.

  The Oberst pounded, writhed, clawed at Saul’s fingers and then at his eyes. Spittle flew from the man’s gaping mouth onto Saul’s cheeks. The Oberst’s ruddy face grew blood red and shifted into darker colors as his chest heaved. Saul felt supernatural strength flow through his arms as his hands sank deeper into the Oberst’s throat. The old man’s heels clattered and rattled on the horizontal legs of the massive chair.

  Saul did not notice as another explosion blew in the french doors and forty feet of windows, showering glass over all of them. He did not notice as a second shell struck the upper regions of the Manse and instantly filled the Grand Hall with smoke as the aged cypress rafters burst into flame. He did not notice Reynolds doubling and tripling his efforts, clawing, thrashing, slashing and pounding at Saul like some maddened, over-wound clockwork toy. He did not notice when Tony Harod crunched his way through the broken glass, carrying two heavy bottles of Dom Perignon ’71 from the bar table, and struck Reynolds in the back of the head with one. The cat’s-paw rolled off Saul, unconscious but still twisting and vibrating from random nerve impulses generated by the Oberst’s commands. Harod sat down on a black tile, opened the second bottle, and drank deeply. Saul did not notice. He had his hands around the Oberst’s neck and he closed them tighter, oblivious even of the blood flying from his own lacerated face and throat as it spattered on the Oberst’s darkening face and bulging eyes.

  A period unmea sur able by time passed before Saul realized that the Oberst was dead. Saul’s fingers had sunk so deeply into the monster’s throat that even after Saul forced his hands to unclench, deep grooves remained in the flesh like a sculptor’s handprints in soft clay. Willi’s head was arched back, his larynx crushed like brittle plastic, his eyes bulging sightlessly from a bloated, black face. Tom Reynolds lay dead on an adjoining square with his face a contorted caricature of his dead master’s death agonies.

  Saul felt the last of his own strength run out of him like water out of a punctured vessel. He knew that Harod was somewhere in the room and had to be dealt with, but not just yet. Perhaps never.

  With the return of consciousness came a return of pain. Saul’s right shoulder was broken and bleeding, feeling as if shards of ragged bone there were rubbing against one another. The Oberst’s chest and neck were covered with Saul’s blood, painting a pale outline on the old man’s throat where Saul’s hands had been.

  Two more explosions rocked the Manse. Smoke billowed in the Grand Hall and ten thousand shards of glass reflected flames from somewhere behind Saul. He felt heat against his back and knew that he should rise, see what the source was, and leave. But not just yet.

  Saul lowered his cheek to the Oberst’s chest and let gravity pull him down. There was another loud noise from just outside the shattered french doors, but Saul paid no attention to it. Content just to rest a moment, needing only a short nap before he went on, Saul closed his eyes and let the warm darkness claim him.

  SEVENTY-FIVE

  Dolmann Island Tuesday,

  June 16, 1981

  Well, that’s that,” said the pilot.

  As soon as the shelling had stopped, Meeks had brought the Cessna in lower over the landing strip. The shelling itself had dug only a few craters that might have been avoidable with good piloting and even better luck, but two trees had toppled across the tarmac near the south end of the field and the north end was ablaze from burning aviation fuel. An executive jet was burning on the main taxi apron and several other smoldering airframes littered the tie-down area and the heap of ashes and girders that had been the hangar.

  “That’s all she wrote,” said Meeks. “We gave it the old college try. Fuel gauge says it’s time to head home. We’re going to be getting back on fumes as it is.”

  “I have an idea,” said Natalie. “We can land somewhere else.”

  “Uh-uh,” said Meeks, shaking his head. The bill of the blue baseball cap moved slowly back and forth. “You saw the beach on the north end when we came around a few minutes ago,” he said. “Tide’s in and the storm tossed it all to hell. No chance.”

  “He’s right, Nat,” Jackson said tiredly. “There’s nothing else we can do here.”

  “The destroyer . . .” began Meeks. “You said yourself that it’s five miles east of the southeast point by now,” snapped Natalie.

  “It has long teeth,” said Meeks. “Just what the hell do you have in mind, kid?”

  They were approaching the south end of the landing strip on their third fly-by. “Turn left,” said Natalie. “I’ll show you.”

  “You have to be kidding,” said Meeks as the
y circled a few hundred yards out from the cliffs.

  “I think it’s perfect,” said Natalie. “Let’s do it before the boat comes back.”

  “Ship,” Meeks corrected automatically. “And you’re crazy.” Shrubbery still burned on the cliff face where the missile had self-destructed twenty minutes earlier. The sky to the west was lit by the airfield fires. Three miles behind them, bits and pieces of the Antoinette still smoldered like embers on a black cloth. After the destroyer had finished with the landing strip it had come back east along the coast and put at least half a dozen explosive rounds in or near the Manse. The roof of the huge structure was ablaze, the east wing had been destroyed, smoke billowed in the surviving floodlights, and it looked as if one shell had landed near the patio on the south side, blowing in the windows and riddling the side facing the long lawn that ran to the sea cliffs.

  The lawn itself looked undamaged, although parts of it were dark where floodlights were missing. The fire on the cliffs revealed low shrubs and dwarf trees at the cliff’s edge that would have been invisible if not for the nearby flames. The last, lighted twenty yards or so of lawn looked smooth enough except for the shell crater and its detritus near the shattered patio.

  “It’s perfect,” said Natalie. “It’s nuts,” said Meeks. “It must slope on an angle of thirty degrees by the time it gets to the Manse.”

  “Perfect for a landing,” said Natalie. “You’ll need less runway. Don’t British aircraft carriers have pitched decks for just that reason?”

  “She’s got you there, man,” said Jackson. “Phooey,” said Meeks, “Thirty degrees? Besides, even if we could come to a stop before we ran into that burning building, the dark spots on that lawn . . . and most of it is dark . . . could hold limbs, pits, and ornamental rock gardens. It’s nuts.”

  “I vote aye,” said Natalie. “We’ve got to try to find Saul.”

  “Aye,” said Jackson. “What’s this voting shit?” Meeks said incredulously. “Since when does an aircraft become a democracy?” He tugged at his baseball cap and looked at the destroyer retreating to the east. “Tell me the truth,” he said. “This is just the beginning of the revolution, isn’t it?”

  Natalie glanced at Jackson and took a chance. “Yes,” she said. “It is.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Meeks, “I knew it. Well, I’ll tell you, boys and girls, you’re flying with the only dues-paid socialist in Dorchester County.” He took the cold cigar out of his shirt pocket and chewed on it for a moment. “Oh, what the hell,” he said at last, “we’ll probably run out of fuel before we make it back anyway.”

  With the engine throttled down, the plane seemed to be stalling as it slideslipped its way toward the cliff face glowing white in the starlight. Natalie had never been so excited. With her broad lap belt cinched so tight she couldn’t breathe, she leaned forward and gripped the console as the cliffs rushed at them with throat-closing suddenness. A hundred feet out, Natalie realized that they were too low— the Cessna was going to crash directly into the rocks.

  “Crosswind’s a big, goddamn help,” grumbled Meeks. He tweeked the throttle and pulled the wheel back gently. They cleared the cliff edge and shrubs by ten feet and entered the darkness in the lane between tall trees. “Mr. Jackson, you let me know if that ship’s comin’ back.”

  Jackson made a noise from the backseat.

  It was thirty yards to the first floodlit strip and Meeks put the gear of the Cessna down precisely on the beginning of the white strip of light. It was rougher than Natalie had dreamed. She tasted blood and realized that she had bitten her tongue. Within seconds they had rolled into darkness between the strips of light. Natalie thought of fallen tree limbs and ornamental rock gardens.

  “So far so good,” said Meeks. The aircraft bounced through the penultimate strip of light and plunged back into darkness. It seemed to Natalie that they were climbing a vertical wall of cobblestones. Something banged and tugged at the right wheel, the Cessna slewed and threatened to tip over at fifty miles an hour, and Meeks played the throttle, brakes, and rudder pedals like a demented organist. The aircraft settled back and rolled through the last floodlit strip, the light starring the windscreen and blinding them. The south wall of the burning Manse was moving toward them much too quickly.

  They rolled through loose clods of dirt and made a bouncing turn that swung the starboard wing over the edge of the shell crater. The patio was fifteen feet away. A tattered table’s shade umbrella blew away in the wake of their prop-wash.

  Meeks slammed the machine to a stop facing downhill. Natalie was sure that she had been to the summit of blue diamond ski slopes that were less steep. Their pilot removed his cigar and stared at it as if just discovering it was unlit. “All out for a rest stop,” he said. “Anyone not back in five minutes or at the first sight of hostiles walks home.” He removed the pearl-handled .38 from the holster lying between the seats and tapped the barrel against his temple in a rough salute. “Viva la revolútion!”

  “Come on,” said Natalie, struggling to get the door open and her lap belt unhooked. She all but fell out of the aircraft, dropping her purse and almost twisting her ankle. She pulled the .32 Colt out, let the rest lie, and stepped aside as Jackson jumped down. He carried only his black medical bag and a flashlight, but he had tied a red bandanna around his head.

  “Where to?” he shouted over the noise of the still-turning propeller. “People likely to have noticed us arriving. Better hurry.”

  Natalie nodded toward the Grand Hall. The electric lights were out in this part of the Manse, but the orange glow of a fire outlined vague shapes in the smoky vastness visible through the shattered french doors. Jackson picked his way across tilted patio stones, kicked open the sprung main door, and flicked on his heavy-duty flashlight. The beam stabbed through thick smoke to illuminate a huge, tiled area littered with broken glass and bits and pieces of masonry. Natalie stepped ahead of Jackson and kept the Colt held high. She lifted a handkerchief to her mouth and nose to breathe more easily in all the smoke. Far to the left, beyond a cleared area of the huge hall, two tables held food, drink, and a tumbled clutter of electronic equipment. Between the door and the tables, the floor was littered with what Natalie thought for a second were limp bundles of laundry before she realized that they were bodies. Jackson held the light study and moved cautiously toward the first one. The flashlight beam showed the dead face of the beautiful Eurasian woman who had been in the car with Tony Harod when Saul had rendezvoused with him in Savannah three days before.

  “Don’t shine that light in her eyes,” came a familiar voice from the darkness to her left. Natalie crouched and swung the gun as Jackson swept the flashlight beam toward the sound. Harod sat cross-legged on the floor next to an overturned chair with more bodies near it. There was a half-empty bottle of wine in his lap.

  Natalie moved to Jackson’s side, gestured for the flashlight, and made him take the Colt. “He Uses women,” she said, pointing at Harod. “If he moves or I act weird, kill him.”

  Harod shook his head morosely and took a long swallow of wine. “That’s all over with,” he slurred. “All done.”

  Natalie looked up. She could see stars through the shattered roof three stories up. From the sound of it, an automatic sprinkler system was working somewhere, but the fire appeared to have a good hold on the second and third floors. In the distance she could hear the rattle of small arms fire.

  “Look!” called Jackson. The flashlight illuminated the three bodies near the massive chair.

  “Saul!” cried Natalie rushing forward. “Oh, God. Jackson! Is he dead? Oh, God, Saul.” She rolled him off the other body, prying Saul’s hands loose from the man’s shirt. She knew at once that the dead man must be the Oberst— Saul had shown her newspaper photographs of “William Borden” from his files— but the contorted, blackened face and bulging eyes, the liver-spotted hands frozen into claws, did not look human, much less recognizable. It was as if Saul had been lying on the corpse of some twisted, mummi
fied thing.

  Jackson knelt next to Saul and felt for a pulse, lifted an eyelid and held the flashlight close. All Natalie could see was blood; blood covering Saul’s face and shoulders and arms and throat and clothes. It was obvious to her that he was dead.

  “He’s alive,” said Jackson. “Got a pulse. Weak but still there.” He ripped open Saul’s coverall and gently turned the psychiatrist over, running the light down the length of his body. Jackson opened his bag, prepared a syringe, stabbed it into Saul’s left arm, swabbed his back, and began applying a dressing. “Jesus,” he said. “He’s been shot twice. Leg isn’t anything, but we’ve got to stop the bleeding on this shoulder. Somebody sure as hell worked over his hand and throat.” He glanced up at the fire. “We’ve got to get out of here, Nat. I’ll get the plasma going in the plane. Give me a hand, will you?”

  Saul moaned as they got him upright. Jackson got under his left arm and lifted him clumsily.

  “Hey,” said Harod from the darkness. “Can I come?”

  Natalie almost dropped the flashlight as she hurriedly stopped to pick up the Colt from where Jackson had left it on the floor. She thrust the gun into Jackson’s left hand and held Saul up so Jackson could free his arm. “He’s going to Use me, Jax,” she said. “Shoot him.”

  “No.” It was Saul who spoke. His eyelids fluttered. Even his lips were bruised and swollen. He licked them before trying to speak again. “Helped me,” he croaked and jerked his head in Harod’s direction. One eye was sealed shut with dried blood, but the other one opened and focused on Natalie’s face. “Hey,” he said softly. “What kept you?” His attempt at a smile made Natalie give way to tears. She started to hug him but released the embrace when she saw him wince at the pressure on his ribs.

  “Let’s go,” said Jackson. The rattle of gunfire was coming closer. Natalie nodded and swept the flashlight beam around the Grand Hall a final time. The flames were closer now as the fire took hold in the adjoining corridors of the second floor, and the brightening red glow made the scene into something out of Hieronymous Bosch’s details of hell with broken glass gleaming like the eyes of an untold number of demons in the darkness. She looked one last time at the corpse of the Oberst, shrunken to nothingness by death. “Let’s go,” she agreed.