by neetha Napew
It wasn't.
"I remember reading something like this, years and years ago," said Nanci. "Place called Smithstown or Jonestown, I think. Kind of religious camp. And another one in the boondocks of Texas. First one they had a sort of leader who said that the only future was through death and then rebirth. So they all drank Kool-Aid spiked with poison."
The place was a charnel house.
Corpses lay everywhere around the single-story building, all of them in a fairly advanced state of decay.
"Three or four weeks," suggested Nanci. "Not so many blowflies and maggots as I'd have expected. Guess the bitter cold slowed them down."
"They all took poison?" asked Jim. "Couple of bodies in that kind of assembly room looked like they had bullet wounds in the head. And all of the babies were shot."
"Right. Must have been one or two who didn't take to the idea of being shoved into eternity. And the little ones couldn't drink whatever it was they used."
Most of the bodies showed signs of having died in extreme agony, doubled up, limbs contorted, fingers turned into swollen black claws.
The process of decomposition had darkened skins and burst bellies, swiftly taking away all of the visible soft tissues like eyes and lips. It wasn't possible to tell, in most cases, which had been female and which male. All of them wore identical uniforms of pale blue shirts and jeans, with white sneakers. All had very short hair.
Nanci found a large glass carboy in the open-plan kitchen, with a sticky residue in its bottom. She stepped carefully over a body and circled two younger corpses, locked forever in each other's arms.
She sniffed at the bottle. "Cyanide," she said.
"It did the job." Jim looked around at the dust-free stripped pine and the neatly handwritten religious texts pinned to the walls:
Thou seest me, Lord. I begin with Thee and I shall end with Thee.
Those are not with Thee are against Thee, Lord, and are my and Thy enemies.
"Wonder where they got the poison? I guess maybe stole it from some industrial place that had been abandoned. Electroplating or fluxing or case-hardening of steel."
"You sure it's cyanide, Nanci?"
"Sure. Smell the bitter almonds once and you never forget it. Sodium or potassium cyanide. It wouldn't work if what you wanted was a quick, subtle kill. Plenty of good neural destroyers for that. Invisible and tasteless and impossible to identify. But if you want to take out thirty or forty people and make sure none of them stand up and walk away…well…" She gestured around with her hand.
"Wonder what made them quit? Looks like they had a tight system going here."
They found the answer to that question in the big, silent room at the back, where they could make out Mac and Carrie, through the partly shuttered windows, going into the largest of the aluminum-clad barns.
There was a sophisticated electronic synthesizer and a complex sound system capable of pushing music or messages throughout the entire compound.
The gloomy chamber held several long, padded benches, upholstered in a dark maroon, plush material. Prayer and hymn books were scattered all over the floor, some of them crusted with dried vomit from the sprawled corpses.
But the eye was drawn to the body that sat in the largest chair in the place. Ornate and grand enough to merit the name of a throne, it was covered in peeling gilt paint. The hands of the dead man gripped the arms with a ferocious force, black blood around the broken nails. The head was on one side, the empty sockets turned toward the ceiling, which was crudely covered with a daubed mixture of fat-assed cherubs and cartoon devils. A broken crystal goblet lay between the splayed feet.
The stomach was distended, stretching at the brilliant turquoise robe that hung from the broad shoulders, and a fine piece of Navaho silver jewelry dangled around the throat.
At his side was a small, cheap cassette recorder and a microphone resting on a wire tripod.
Jim moved to it and looked down. "Been rewound to the start," he said. "Reckon there's a final message?"
"Be surprised if there isn't. Crazies like the world to know their famous last words."
Jim pressed Play and waited.
There was this hissing, crackling sound of the tape running through, then a loud cough. The voice that came from the tinny little speaker had a rich, deep, resonant quality, with the hint of a Midwest twang to it. It had an overlaid smugness of someone not used to being contradicted.
"This is the last will and testament to the world from Jericho Malvern, apostate, prophet and leader of this community, known by the prognosticated name of the First Oracular Church of the Reborn Nazarene."
There was a pause and the sound of the man swallowing. Nanci caught Jim's eye and nodded.
"My followers have all done the deed required, and now I take my draft of the elixir of eternal life." Another cough. "But I would first leave a message that will convey our beliefs to the rest of mankind."
Another cough and a sharply indrawn breath.
Nanci shook her head. "What a stupid bastard," she said. "Strychnine could've been better for them. Then again, it breaks your back and you die with a hideous grin. But cyanide…the man doesn't have long to give us his message."
"Didn't think it would work as fast as this but… Jericho Malvern and the Church of—" A rattling groan issued from the little speaker, and the faint tinkling of his glass breaking on the floor.
"How quick does it work, Nanci? It's only a few seconds since… half a minute at best."
"Sodium cyanide doesn't fool with you. You can have it as a gas or a powder. Doesn't always have that almonds smell."
The voice on the tape was rasping and painful. "My chest, like a bird fluttering its...."
"Tachycardia," said Nanci, turning toward the door of the death chamber. "His heart's starting to accelerate. Faster and faster. like a little kid running down a hill. Faster and faster, losing control. Falling and then...."
"Didn't want to…important message about…we lost hope and food gone and… fucking heart's bursting…can't breathe and everything's going, going…"
Silence.
"Gone," said Nanci.
JIM CLOSED the heavy front door quietly behind him, feeling profoundly depressed at the profusion of death that brimmed out of the house.
He'd suggested setting a fire, but the woman had pointed out that the only thing it might do was attract attention to them— maybe the attention of the Hunters of the Sun. And it would do nothing at all to help the decomposing bodies of the men, women and children of the lonely doomed community.
As they stood together at the front of the building, they both started at the sudden noise of a powerful engine roaring into life from the barns out back.
"Got a tractor going," said Jim. Another engine kicked into life. "Two tractors."
Nanci smiled at him, looking twenty years younger. "Maybe the dice are starting to roll our way for a change," she said. "Let's go see what they've got."
Chapter Twenty-Three
There were four tractors in the big, chilly barn.
One of them was in bits, with tools lying around it, as though the suicidal call of Jericho Malvern had interrupted the mechanic at his work.
The two that Carrie and Mac had started up were both quite old, rusting some around the edges. Blue smoke belched from the noisy exhausts, mingling with the plumes of breath in the icy interior. There was a fourth one against the back wall, uncrated but obviously brand-new.
"It will take a few minutes," said Mac when Jim and Nanci joined them. "But then we'll have the brightest tractor in the land. Look at it. Hasn't driven more than about a dozen miles in its fresh, young life."
"No," said Jim. "Take the two you already got running. Fix up a pair of decent trailers with Nanci while I go call the others down here."
Henderson McGill stared in bewilderment at his old skipper. "But this one's new, Jim."
"Sure, Mac. Like you say, it's only done a few miles. We might want it to go hundreds before we're thro
ugh with it. New machine hasn't been properly tested. Now, do like I say, and I'll be back in a few minutes."
He walked out into the farmyard, taking several deep breaths of the fresh, cold air, trying to dispel the nauseous taste of death that still lingered on his palate. His boots crunched in the frozen snow as he walked to a vantage point beyond what had once been a carefully tended vegetable garden, waving both hands to bring the others down.
"HORSE TRAILERS ARE excellent for what we want," said Nanci. "Big double ones. Best thing around. Folks can't see in them, but we can see out. Good to shoot from cover. We can get five in one and six in the other."
"The McGills versus the rest," said Jeanne. "That all right with everyone?"
Nobody disagreed.
Paul looked at the house. "Lotta dead in there?"
Jim nodded. "Dozens, son."
Carrie looked around her. "Someone has to go in and bring out some blankets."
"What?" Jim shook his head. "No way. They'll be tainted with the stink of death."
"She's right," said Nanci. "Those horse trailers don't have any heating. Even if we pack together with the sleeping bags and what we've got, there's still a good chance that we'll just freeze. Jeff, you and Paul and Heather go in and bring out as much stuff as we need."
"Not Heather."
"I'm fine, Dad. Seen a lot of death, remember."
He nodded. "Sure, kitten… Heather. But don't stay in there too long."
"And see if there's some good outdoor coats and gloves and stuff," shouted Mac, turning off the second tractor engine. "Driving for hours in those little cabs is going to be tough, real exposed work."
The oldest of the McGill children stomped off toward what had been the living quarters for the commune, followed by Heather Hilton. Jeff Thomas trailed a few yards behind them.
Jocelyn McGill sat on a bale of straw, cradling her little sister. "Sukie's not too good again, Dad," she said. "Feels real hot, and her breathing's kind of raspy."
Mac walked over from the tractors and stooped, laying a hand on the little girl's forehead. "Not too good," he agreed. "Can you take a look, Carrie?"
The skinny young blond woman joined him. "Certainly hot. It looked like she was getting over it, but now I'm not sure. All we can do is monitor her, Mac. Make sure she drinks plenty of water to stop her dehydrating."
Through the open doors of the big outbuilding they saw Jeff Thomas come out of the house at a stumbling run, dropping to hands and knees in the trodden snow. He threw up copiously, face as pale as parchment.
Nanci sniffed and turned away contemptuously. "The best surprise is no surprise," she said.
There wasn't a lot of spare fuel in the barns, but they managed to fill enough cans to get them a good way on their odyssey toward the north.
It was obvious that one of the reasons for the collective act of suicide had been starvation. The kitchens and larders of the commune were almost completely bare of food and drink. Jim went scouting, finding that the smell of the dead was less oppressive away from the front part of the house. He discovered some dried meat hanging from hooks in a cold scullery, as well as a few cans of peas and beans.
By the time he came out again into the cold air, the packing of the trailers was almost complete. Mac and Paul had given the engines of the two tractors as thorough a check as they could in the time available.
Jeanne was nursing little Sukie on her lap, brushing a strand of hair from the girl's damp forehead. She looked up as Jim came back into the barn.
"Worse, Jim," she said.
Carrie looked around, holding a pile of plaid blankets. "Could do with antibiotics. Nanci went inside and checked out the house, but it seems they didn't believe in medicine. More in the power of prayer."
"Right," said Nanci Simms briskly. "And look where that got them."
Jim knelt down and peered at the child. Her eyes were swollen from weeping, and a thread of green snot was dangling from her nose. She was breathing fast and shallow, and it didn't seem as if she was focusing properly.
"I don't know," he said.
Carrie had settled the bedding into the second of the horse trailers and rejoined them by the sick girl. "Could be anything. Since we landed back here on Earth, I've seen the symptoms of all sorts of sickness. Stuff that had almost gone from the United States before Earthblood came along. Typhoid and cholera have gotten a real big hold."
"Think it's one of those?" asked Jeanne, her voice ragged with worry.
"Might be. All we can do is hit the road and look out for a pharmacy and pray it hasn't been raided."
After last-minute double checks, they were ready to move. Jim drove the first tractor, picking his way carefully along the farm trail, then making a right when he reached the blacktop. The huge ribbed wheels made light work on the snow, which became wetter as they headed a little closer to the ocean. The sky had been clear for some time, though there were threatening banks of cloud to the east and north. The cab was reasonably protected, but daggers of the cold wind came through a number of gaps, making him glad for the fleece-lined gloves and the woolen cap with the earflaps. But he still couldn't rid his nostrils of the heavy smell of multiple death.
Paul was at the wheel of the McGill part of the convoy, perched high, giving Jim a wave if he caught him looking around.
Now that all the survivors were together, Jim found that he could actually relax a little. There were still some problems, large and small. The illness of Sukie McGill, and the doubts about the reliability of the enigmatic Jeff Thomas. Not to mention the powerful presence of Nanci Simms with the help and the threat that she represented.
But there were some big pluses.
Heather was coping with experiences that might have left a weaker child traumatized for life. Having Mac and the remainder of his family around was terrific. And the times when Carrie gave him support and something that was coming close to love all meant so much.
Jim wondered where Zelig was… and what the Hunters of the Sun were doing.
At that moment the fitful sun broke briefly through the iron clouds and flooded the white fields around with a dazzling light. Jim wondered if that was a good omen.
"GOT A REPORT from base, General. Says that the two choppers are making slow progress north. Been spotted three separate times, each time on the ground. Looks like they might have some kind of mechanical malfunction."
Zelig nodded. They were approaching the end of their first day's driving southward, and everyone was already cold and hungry and tired.
"Any news on weather?"
The man shook his head. It was hard to hear any conversation above the pounding of the powerful diesel engine, and he leaned closer. "Electric storms still bad in Oregon, General. A lot of breakup."
"Won't make it easier for their Chief, assuming that the young woman is riding with her troops."
"Sorry? Can't hear ya, General. Say again?"
"Doesn't matter! I said it doesn't matter."
The man resumed his seat alongside the driver, and Zelig leaned forward, his head in his hands. He was trying to calculate what kind of mileage they'd eaten up that day.
At their present speed, it was likely to take them the best part of a week, bringing them very close to the turning of the year, and there was always the high risk of their missing Jim Hilton and his party.
Zelig sensed in his heart that this could be a vital point in the campaign of Operation Tempest against the Hunters.
If Margaret Tabor had really committed both of her main operational choppers to this risky mission, and was also throwing in a significant percentage of her armed force, then a defeat could prove to be utterly catastrophic for her and for the Hunters of the Sun.
Then again, if she wasted Hilton and the rest of them, and also won a victory in a firefight against himself and his convoy of M113s, then it could spell the beginning of the end for Aurora and everything it stood for.
MARGARET TABOR was walking up and down the windswept landing strip,
fighting to contain a ferocious anger.
The camouflaged Chinook that carried most of their fuel and supplies was suffering from an ignition problem, so the engine was constantly misfiring. It seemed to have a link with the air-suction cooling, as the problem was worsened every time they encountered snow.
The original plan to cut across the Sierras and follow the coastline, keeping away from the worst of the winter chill, was doomed. They never managed to get enough altitude and nearly met total disaster not far from Lone Pine, when they were both forced to turn back toward the eastern flank of the Sierras by the whiteout blizzard.
Now it looked as if Tahoe might be their best option, though even that involved flying in poor visibility over a narrow and snowy pass.
"Shouldn't be long, Chief," said a young mechanic, saluting her.
"How long is not long?"
"Reckon about thirty minutes, Chief."
"Thirty?"
"Yeah. Thirty."
She considered repeating the conversation again, just for the satisfaction of watching the increasing blank panic overwhelm his face, the muscles around the mouth and eyes start to twitch in fear.
But it would have been a hollow and pointless satisfaction, like competing with a dead sheep in an intelligence test. She saluted the young man and let him go back to the white-shrouded Chinook fifty yards away.
Time was passing.
She knew that Zelig and his crew were on the move south, presumably to try to scoop up the Aquila's survivors.
There was a powerful image that had come to her while she dozed during one of the repair breaks—a glass egg timer, filled with sand, running quickly through from top to bottom. But, as Margaret Tabor slept, the golden sand turned a darker color, crimson, and became liquid.
Flagg, her previous boss and lover and enemy, had been a believer in the supernatural, often only making his tactical decisions after casting the yarrow stalks or consulting the tarot cards.
She had often pretended to share his arcane beliefs, sometimes manipulating the pack for her own benefit, making sure he received the Hanged Man in unfavorable company, but now he was gone there was no longer a need to dissemble. Now it was simply a question of getting the job done.