by neetha Napew
Sukie McGill was fretful, crying constantly, repeatedly asking where her big sister, Pamela, had gone. The little girl was running a temperature. Her face was flushed, and the glands in her neck slightly swollen.
Carrie Princip had done some training as a backup medic to Bob Rogers on the Aquila and she tried to check out the child. But Sukie wriggled and slapped out at her, inconsolable.
"Just some sort of a bug," said Carrie. "Her temperature feels quite high but not dangerous. I don't know. I didn't do much pediatrics." She caught Nanci Simms's eye. "All right, all right. I didn't do any pediatrics."
"She can travel?"
Carrie nodded. "No choice, is there, Nanci?"
"None. Let's go. And try to keep the child quiet, or it could mean trouble." She didn't specify precisely whom the trouble might be for.
THE SQUAD of armed men approached the abandoned cabin about two hours after Jim Hilton and his party had left it.
They wore camouflage uniforms in mottled shades of dark blue and gray and black, and each of them had the tiny sun-and-moon insignia on their collars. Their weapons were a mix of American M-16s and Russian Dragunovs.
There were ten of them. Three came down from the highway, having checked out the stiff corpse of Burnette. Three more had circled around to the north in an inflatable dingy. The other four came in out of the ocean mists in a second inflatable, the electric engine almost soundless.
Though the hut looked deserted, they didn't take any chances. Anyone good enough to take out the marksman on the elevated bridge a couple of miles south wasn't going to be someone that you took casually.
But the birds had flown, leaving no clues as to how many of them there'd been. Tracks led into the steep ravine behind the cabin, deep in the soft mud. But they were so trampled and overlaid that reading the trail was impossible. A little higher up the treeless slope the snow had fallen, covering everything in a slushy blanket.
"We'd best report what we didn't find to the Chief," said the senior noncom.
"It's good we're a thousand miles away from her," the young officer added with a nervous grin.
IN FACT, the distance was rather less than that, as the pair of Chinooks flew in a tight formation, closing in on their destination. The clouds were gathering over the Sierras, forcing them to keep to the east, rumbling along below a thousand feet.
Margaret Tabor sat in the copilot's seat, listening to her favorite old Carpenters tape on her Walkman. Every now and again she pulled the miniature cans from her ears and leaned forward, tapping her fingers on the windshield, studying the deteriorating weather.
"Might have to put down if the ceiling drops any lower, Chief," said the pilot, the crackling of the throat mike disguising her nervousness.
"Your decision." Tabor's voice was neutral, not giving the woman any clue as to what she really wanted.
She inserted the earphones again and hummed along with "We've Only Just Begun."
ZELIG'S navigational plan had been to head southeastward on 1-82 out of the Cascades. Then they would try to find a cut-through to 1-84 and then down onto 1-5, depending on the meteorological reports.
The main problem was going to be circling around the devastated ruins of Portland.
His recon team had already gone in under cover and checked out the environs of the conurbation, reporting that there had been a massive fire. It had engulfed thousands of stranded vehicles and burned out a swathe to the east of the city that was twenty blocks by fifteen.
There had also been a number of fierce freak electrical storms' in the past three or four days, accompanied by savage blizzards, which had made any sort of radio communication difficult, even over short distances.
Zelig was perched uncomfortably on the edge of his seat in the rattling M113, peering out through one of the ob-slits in the armored flank of the vehicle. There had been a high wind that had tended to sweep the narrow blacktop clear of snow, banking it in the corners of fields in soft drifts that were ten feet high in some places.
"Lot of ice, General." The black infantryman next to him was a tall, powerful figure, his shoulders so broad that he cramped the people on either side of him.
Zelig nodded. He could hear the way the pitch of the tracks altered every now and again as the vehicle shifted sideways, the rear end swinging sickeningly as it hit slippery patches on the exposed sections of the highway.
He leaned forward and tapped the driver on the arm, putting his mouth close to the man's ear. "What sort of average speed are we making?"
"Around fifteen per hour, General. Could risk going faster, but if we hit ice on a bend, then we're off over the edge and it's a digging job."
Zelig nodded his understanding and resumed his seat. The pitching motion and the smell of the diesel engine were combining to make him feel a little queasy. It might be a good idea to call a comfort break in a few minutes.
IT HAD BEEN a stiff and difficult climb up from the beach to the abandoned highway. With the vegetation gone, there was nothing to hold the earth in place against the ravages of wind and rain and frost. Much of the hillside was slippery mud, and it often involved taking three painful steps upward and sliding fifteen back down again.
Jeanne and Paul McGill had taken turns carrying little Sukie, struggling to keep the feverish, fretful child clear of the slimy dirt.
By the time they all reached the snow-crusted blacktop, everyone was covered in wet, peat-colored mud.
Even Nancy Simms was slobbered with dirt, streaks of it along the legs of her khaki pants. She walked a little way back along the road, southward, to a scenic overlook, followed by Jeff Thomas, slumping along behind her.
Henderson McGill turned from his ailing daughter to watch the odd couple. He caught Jim Hilton's eye.
"What do you make of them, Skipper?"
"I don't know, Mac. You learn anything traveling along with them?"
"Not a lot. Just that Nanci scares the shit out of me. Scariest woman I ever met. Tough and capable as hell. But the way he trails after her, like a bastard lapdog…" Mac shook his head. "I still figure something doesn't ring true about Jeff's story on how Jed Herne got himself wasted."
Jim nodded. "Me, too. But there's not a lot we can do about it. Unless we just kill him."
"Murder him, Jim?"
"I prefer to think about it as an execution. But I can't bring myself to do that—not yet. Maybe one day. Just shows how far we've gone already, since the old Aquila came bumping and grinding down into the desert."
Sly came and joined them, looking worried. "All this snow and fog, Jim…"
"Yeah?"
"Well, Daddy Steve can see me… you said me he was able to could."
"That's right, Sly." Jim smiled and patted the teenager on the arm. "I see what you're worried about. How can he watch over you with all the snow and low cloud?"
"Yeah, that's it, Jim."
"Well, Steve Romero was always a real special man, wasn't he? Always."
Sly grinned, showing his uneven teeth. "Sure. But Mama Alison didn't think that. Her an' Uncle Randy said bad things to me 'bout Steve. Said he was a shitty run-off."
"You believe that, Sly?" asked Mac. "Because I certainly don't. Your father was one of the best and bravest men I ever met in my life. You should be proud of him, Sly."
"Me is, Mac."
"And he was… is damn proud of you, too."
Sly was comforted by Mac's words, and he turned to watch Nanci as she returned from the overlook. She reported that there was a mist coming off the sea and visibility was falling fast. "Getting colder rapidly," she said. "I think there's more snow coming our way. Best we can try to do is find somewhere that we can get transport."
"The farm?" suggested Carrie. "Only it looks as though there might be a turnoff over there," she said, pointing north. "Fog's thickening and you can't see it anymore. But I'm sure I saw it."
As they made their way north, Carrie turned out to have been right.
They stood before a battered red
-and-green mailbox and a tilted sign said that the track led to the Mannheim spread. A triple strand of barbed wire had been coiled across the narrow, rutted trail, and there was another sign just beyond it.
It was hand-lettered on what looked like a panel from the side of a truck: We Dont Want To See You And You Dont Want to See Us So Lets Keep It That Way.
Someone had added, in a different hand: Above Mean We Shoot On Sight.
"Earthblood's certainly brought out the finest in people, hasn't it?" Heather glanced around at her father. "We still going calling?"
"Sure are."
"We're going to steal their tractors, if they've got any, are we, Dad?"
"That's the idea."
"What if they fight?" The girl's face was lined with concern, making her look older than her eleven years. Jim realized that his daughter had lost a lot of weight in the past months, as he had. As they all had.
"If they fight against us, child, then they will probably find to their cost that they've bitten off more than they are capable of chewing."
"You'll kill them, Nanci? To get a tractor?"
The older woman favored Heather Hilton with a thin smile. "Wrong personal pronoun. We will all combine to kill them, but only if it becomes necessary. And we are not stealing just a tractor. We are seeking to avail ourselves of the only feasible form of transport that might eventually carry us to the mythic Aurora and save all of our lives."
"And murder innocent people? That makes us about the same as the Hunters of the Sun."
"I won't argue with you, Heather." Nanci's face was set like an obsidian knife. "But I would ask you to consider whether the concept of 'innocent people' is not outdated nowadays. Now there is simply 'us' who are few and 'them' who are many. And if you cannot see the distinction between our morality and that of Margaret Tabor and her coldhearts… then I am truly sorry and you are not the person I thought you were."
THE TRACK WOUND UP across the flank of a hill, dropped into a valley, then rose once more and crested a ridge. Even a mile or so inland from the Pacific, the fallen snow was crisp and clean and untouched.
Nanci Simms had been leading the way, and she stopped at the top of the slope and looked back at the others. "By God, but you look a pathetic crew, like a collection of ragged beasts, slouching toward Jerusalem."
Jim Hilton wiped melting flakes of cold whiteness from his eyes and mouth and laughed. "You do have a way with words, Nanci. And here I was thinking we looked more like Napoleon's army retreating from Moscow after their defeat at the merciless hands of the good General Winter."
"More like the Patriots' fans leaving Meadowlands," offered Jeanne McGill.
"More like a bunch of niggers on our way to a necktie party," suggested Jeff Thomas, laughing at his own merry humor.
Nobody else laughed. Or even smiled.
The snow had almost stopped falling, and the visibility was clearing from the east. There was even a tiny hint of brightness through the lowering clouds.
"Doesn't look like anyone's been along here for a while," said Jim.
Nanci disagreed. "Snow like what's been falling in the last few hours could cover up the trail of a platoon of cavalry in fifteen minutes." She pulled a face. "God! My use—or, rather, my abuse—of the English language gets worse with every waking hour. 'Snow like what's been falling.' Wouldn't think I was a schoolteacher, would you?"
"No," said Jim quickly. "I wouldn't."
Their eyes met for a second, and Nanci just shrugged. They all went on, and it was Paul McGill who spotted the farm buildings first. "There's the Mannheim house," he said, pointing to a single-story, rectangular building that nestled a half mile off among the stumps of what must once have been a pretty orchard.
"Not too big," said Jeff Thomas. "Maybe what we want is in that big barn."
Nanci was studying the layout of the spread below them with total concentration. "Generator," she said, sounding slightly puzzled. "LMG emplacements in the corners. Lines of fire cleared all around the building. Dead trees cut down and burned. What looks like steel sheet across doors and windows. With ports cut in them. Someone down there knows what they're doing."
She turned on her heel and started to move away, along the ridge, heading north.
The others all stood still in the ankle-deep snow, staring after her.
Jim broke the shocked silence. "Nanci?"
She answered him over her shoulder, not even bothering to check her stride. "What?"
"Where are you going?"
"North."
"Why?"
This time she ignored him, walking steadily away, starting to dip down along the coastal side of the slope.
Jeff raised his voice. "Nanci! Where the fuck are you going? What's happening?"
She stopped and turned slowly around. She looked straight into the face of the ex-reporter, holding his gaze until he slowly dropped his eyes.
"Why Zelig wants you people defeats me. You have the collective brain of a barn door. If you all worked together for a few days, then I imagine that you might just be capable of changing a spent light bulb."
"I thought we were going to try and get us a tractor, Nanci?" said Paul McGill, puzzled.
"Yes," she allowed, not bothering to conceal her exasperation. She spoke slowly and very clearly, as though she were dealing with a half-wit. "Likely they have some useful tractors down in that Mannheim spread. But they have a fortress. You following me? Good. We go down and when we're about fifty yards away from the building they'll open up with the Lord knows how much firepower. Half a picosecond and we'd all get to be dead. Terrific. So we go on north until we find another spread that won't prove an impossible nut for us to crack."
She swung off again, leaving a clear trail through the snow. The rest of them were silent for a few moments, the sniffling of Sukie McGill the only sound.
"I reckon…" began Jeff Thomas, stamping his boots like a petulant child. Then there was a tiny whoomping noise, and a small spray of powdery snow erupted a few yards below him, followed by a little trail of gray smoke from one of the fireports down in the wall of the farmhouse. Then came the crack of the rifle.
"That's to warn you!" shouted Nanci. "Tell you that they could probably hit you at that range, standing around like a crowd of sun-shocked geese."
This time they didn't need to think about it. They scurried along in a raggedy line after Nanci's upright figure. She never once looked behind to see whether or not anyone was following her.
Chapter Twenty-Two
"Yes."
"Got the same sort of defenses that the Mannheim place had back yonder," said Henderson McGill.
Nanci glanced at him. "You got real good eyes and ears and a halfway decent brain, Mac. How come you so rarely bother to use any of them?"
"What am I missing?"
The woman turned to the others, who were standing in a ragged circle at the center of a grove of dead, brittle sycamores above a large spread that lay below them like a child's construction toy. "Any of you found a use for your mind other than stopping you falling over every time you take a step forward?"
Everyone suddenly found a fascination in their own snow-caked feet, looking away from her startlingly pale eyes. Paul fumbled with the straps on the makeshift backpack that held his little sister, Sukie. She seemed to be recovering already from the high temperature and sniffling cold.
Heather Hilton was the only one who answered Nanci. "I don't hear a generator going," she said.
"Excellent. Take a team point, child. Collect fifty of them, and you get a beautifully illustrated edition of the gospels for children, meaningfully edited." She shook her head at the others. "Really, people! We're around three hundred and fifty yards from that farm. And, like little Heather notices, there's no sound of a generator. There's the outward show of power and defense, just like before. But nothing much beside. No smoke from a chimney. No footmarks between the main house and the outbuildings. Just plenty of nothing...." She paused. "And you better believe
that nothing's plenty for me."
Despite her optimism, Nanci Simms wasn't the kind of woman who took pointless chances.
"Jim and Mac and Carrie with me. Paul, stay here and keep a good lookout. All the way around, and don't forget the skies. Keep watching the skies, son."
"How come the kid gets to be in charge and not me, Nanci?" whined Jeff Thomas.
"He's good and you're not, Jefferson." She patted him on the shoulder with a mock display of affection. "Well, you're real good at some things, but I don't need them right now."
Nanci led the three others down the hill, instructing them to spread out into a skirmish line, fifteen paces apart. She motioned to them to have all their weapons ready. She handed the Heckler & Koch to Carrie, telling her to keep the little .22 bolstered. "This'll be more of a stopper, if you need it. Mac, watch what you're doing with that 16-gauge."
"Sure. Maybe I should have had the P-111 rather than the scattergun."
"No. I have a feeling that they might have abandoned the place some time ago." She looked carefully down at the picturesque, snow-covered scene below them. "We'll still step real cautious, but I don't think there's anyone there."
Nanci was sort of right and sort of wrong.
"OH, JESUS!" Carrie Princip turned away, gagging, as Jim Hilton slowly eased open the main, steel-shuttered door of the big farmhouse.
Mac put his free hand over his nose and mouth, closing his eyes, as though that might somehow protect him from the sickly sweet stench.
Nanci Simms nodded slowly. "It figures," she said. "Seen it plenty of other places after Earthblood came calling. Folks give it a try for a while and some float, like the Mannheims maybe did. And some sink."
"We going in?" asked Jim.
"I'll look around. No need for anyone to come in with me. No need for the guns, either."
"I'll come in," said Jim Hilton.
"We can look around the barns and stuff," ordered Mac. "Me and Carrie."
They walked off, clearly glad to be away from the scent of death that seeped from the building. Nanci half smiled at Jim. "Sure about this? You don't need to prove anything to me. Not going to be pretty."