by neetha Napew
Chapter Thirty-Four
Her return to a sort of consciousness coincided with the arrival of dusk.
Margaret Tabor blinked open an eye, seeing a hazy gray darkness around her. There was pain. That was her first reaction. Pain so severe that it made her faint.
When she came around for a second time, she struggled with the pain, seeking to identify it and control it. It was everywhere, running through every nerve and every bone and muscle.
She was soaking wet, and her head and body were slathered with icy mud. One eye didn't seem to be functioning, and the Chief of the Hunters of the Sun battled to lift a hand to her face to find out why.
Only one of her arms, the left, was still working, but to lift her hand sent screaming messages of agony down an of the lines.
"Come on, Margaret, don't give up." Her voice sounded strange, distant and muffled. With her left hand she tried to trace her own features, remembering them from images in mirrors. But what her numbed fingers touched didn't remind her of herself.
There was enough light for her to squint at her hand, seeing that the thumb and one of the fingers were bent right back at an unnatural angle, and she could make out the whiteness of jagged bone protruding through purple, swollen skin.
Her jaw felt sloppy and loose. When she moved her tongue, it didn't encounter the fine line of regular teeth that had been an expensive tribute to orthodontal expertise. Now there was stickiness and ragged stumps.
And pain.
Much more pain.
The darkness came weaving around her like the embrace of a midnight drunk, closing her mind down.
A noise woke her.
A thin, keening sound that she finally traced to her own throat.
Despite being wet, she was also desperately thirsty.
Now Margaret Tabor began to fight. Fight to realize where she was. The dam had burst and the floods had roiled over her, throwing her helplessly into one of the countless narrow ravines, a mile or more down the hillside.
Her back was broken.
She was quite surprised at how calmly she reached that conclusion. Taking stock of her own body, aware of the devastation to it.
Spine. No feeling below the waist.
"Screw sex," she whispered.
If she lifted her head she could see her legs. One of her legs, crooked and splintered. The other leg was partly hidden from her sight, under a moss-slick boulder.
One arm broken and a shoulder and fingers and a wrist and both collarbones and her jaw and most of her teeth. She bit down, tasting sand and grit.
There was something wrong with one of her eyes, as well.
But she was alive.
Probably a few others would have survived, and they would come looking for their Chief. All Margaret needed to do was hang on until then. Nothing was impossible, and then she would begin the long road back to health.
And to her vengeance.
That thought was pleasant and it held off the pain for a little while.
Time passed and a serene moon drifted high above her, washing the arroyo with its silver light.
The helpless woman would not have been noticed if it hadn't been for the glittering of the badge, still pinned to the ragged remains of her uniform.
The golden arrow piercing the silver sun.
It attracted the attention of the hunters of the moon.
Margaret Tabor came jerking back into painful consciousness again, woken by the sudden howling of the wolf pack at the scent of food.
They were all around her, sitting in a circle, red tongues lolling from mirthless jaws, their lean gray shapes poised and watchful.
She looked at them, too weak even to scream.
Once they had decided that the broken, bloodied thing was helpless, they closed in on it.
EPILOGUE
The digital watch on Jim Hilton's wrist showed just a minute or so to midnight.
It was the last day of December, 2040, and January was waiting in the wings to make its entry.
He was standing outside the hut that had been allocated to him and to Heather and to Carrie Princip, in the sheltered community known as Aurora, in the heart of the Cascades in what had once been Washington State.
It had been a slow trip back, through deteriorating weather, with wounded men and women. But they had eventually reached their destination on December 30.
Nanci Simms had taken Sly Romero under her wing, insisting on sharing her quarters with him, and they both stood nearby, looking out over the wide valley. The snow lay deep and even, like an old postcard.
The McGills were in their own hut, gathered around a piano that Zelig had somehow obtained for them, and their singing came faintly out to the listeners.
"This Land Is Your Land." Finest of songs about pride in the past and future of your country.
Jim had one arm around Carrie, the other around his daughter, and felt his eyes suddenly prickle with tears.
"Don't cry, Dad," said Heather, squeezing his hand.
"Crying for those who didn't make it," he said. "For what they'll miss."
"But others are here, Jim." Nanci Simms walked over with Sly, their boots crunching in the fresh whiteness.
"And there'll be more and more." Carrie shook her head. "What time is it, Jim?"
"Fifteen seconds off midnight. Soon going to be a new day."
"And a happy New Year," said Sly, beaming. "Nanci tell me to say that for Steve, so's he knows it's a real good new year for me and all."
Jim smiled, hearing the faint click of the watch changing the day, the month, the year.
"Here's to sanity and a happy new life, everyone," he said.