1987 - Swan Song v4

by Robert McCammon

  A dozen pistols, three rifles and seven sharpened wooden spears thrust into the Jeep at Sister, and an equal number of weapons threatened Paul. “Don’t kill us!” Hugh shouted. “Please don’t kill us! We’ll give you anything you want!”

  Fine for you to say, since you don’t own a damned thing! Sister thought as she stared into the bristling wall of firearms and spears. She calculated how long it would take her to turn the shotgun and fire at the bandits—and she knew she’d be history as soon as she made a sudden movement. She froze, one hand on the shotgun and the other trying to protect the glass ring.

  “Out of the Jeep,” the figure on the hood commanded. It was a young voice—the voice of a boy. The pistol shifted toward Sister. “Get your finger off that trigger if you want to keep it.”

  She hesitated, peering up at the boy’s face, though she couldn’t make out any features because of the coat’s cowl. The pistol was aimed as steadily as if the boy’s arm was stone, and the tone of his voice was all deadly business.

  She blinked and removed her finger from the trigger.

  Paul knew they had no choice. He muttered a curse, longing to get his hands around Hugh Ryan’s neck, and got out.

  “Some guide you are,” Sister told Hugh. She took a deep breath, exhaled and stepped out.

  She towered over her captors.

  They were children.

  All of them were thin and dirty, the youngest about nine or ten and the oldest maybe sixteen—and all of them stared as one at the pulsing glass ring.

  Fifty-six

  The surgeon’s task

  Herded before a yelling, rowdy gang of twenty-seven boy bandits, Paul, Sister and Hugh were prodded with the barrels of rifles and sharp spear tips through the snowy woods. About a hundred yards from the road, they were commanded to stop, and they waited while a few of the boys cleared brush and branches from the mouth of a small cave. A rifle barrel pushed Sister inside, and the others followed.

  Beyond the opening, the cave widened into a large, high-ceilinged chamber. It was damp within, but dozens of candles were set about and burning, and at the center of the cavern a small fire glowed, the smoke curling up through a hole in the ceiling. Eight other boys, all of them skinny and sickly-looking, were waiting for their compatriots to return, and when the bags were flung open the boys shouted and laughed as Sister’s and Paul’s extra clothes were scattered. The bandits grabbed up ill-fitting coats and sweaters, draped themselves with woolen scarves and caps and danced around the fire like Apaches. One of them uncorked a jug of the moonshine that Hugh had brought along, and the snouts grew louder, the dancing wilder. Adding to the raucous clamor was the noise of wood blocks clapped together, rattling gourds and sticks beating a rhythm on a cardboard box.

  Hugh balanced himself precariously on his crutch and single leg as the boys whirled around him, stabbing at him with their spears. He’d heard stories of the forest bandits before, and he didn’t like the idea of being scalped and skinned. “Don’t kill us!” he shouted over the tumult. “Please don’t—” And then he went down on his rump as a tough-looking ten-year-old with shaggy black hair kicked his crutch out from under him. A gale of laughter followed him down, and more spears and guns poked at Paul and Sister. She looked across the cave and saw through the haze of smoke a small, thin boy with red hair and a chalky complexion. He was holding the glass ring between his hands, staring at it intently—and then a second boy grabbed it away from him and ran with it. A third boy attacked that one, trying to get his hands on the treasure. Sister saw a throng of raggedly dressed boys jostling and fighting in the exhilaration of the hunt, and she lost sight of the glass ring. Another boy shoved her own shotgun in her face and grinned at her as if daring her to make a move. Then he whirled away, grabbed the jug of moonshine and joined the victory dance.

  Paul helped Hugh up. A spear jabbed Paul in the ribs, and he turned angrily toward his tormentor, but Sister grasped his arm to hold him back. A boy with the bones of small animals tied in his tangled blond hair thrust a spear at Sister’s face and drew it back just short of impaling an eyeball. She stared at him impassively, and he giggled like a hyena and capered away.

  The boy who’d taken Paul’s Magnum danced past, hardly able to hold the heavy weapon in a two-handed grip. The jug of moonshine was being passed around, inflaming them to further frenzy. Sister was afraid they were going to start firing their guns at random, and in a confined place like this the ricochets would be deadly. She saw the glimmer of the glass ring as one boy grabbed it from another; then two boys were fighting for it, and Sister was sick at the thought of the glass ring lying shattered. She took a step forward, but the darting of a half-dozen spears kept her back.

  And then the horrible thing happened: one of the boys, already dizzy with moonshine, lifted the glass ring over his head—and he was tackled from behind by another boy trying to grab it. The ring flew from his hands and spun through the air, and Sister felt a scream welling up. She saw it falling, as if in terrible slow motion, toward the stone floor, and she heard herself shout “No!” but there was nothing she could do. The circle of glass was falling… falling… falling.

  A hand grasped it before it hit the floor, and the ring glittered with fiery colors as if meteors were exploding within it.

  It had been caught by the figure in the cowled coat who’d landed on the Jeep’s hood. He was taller than the others by at least a foot, and as he approached Sister the boys around him parted to give him room. His face was still obscured by the cowl. The shouting and noise of clapping wood blocks and drumbeats faltered and began to fade as the tallest boy walked unhurriedly through the others. The glass circle flared with a strong, slow pulse. And then the boy stood in front of Sister.

  “What is this?” he asked, holding the ring before him. The others had stopped dancing and shouting, and they began to crowd around to watch.

  “It belongs to me,” Sister answered.

  “No. It used to belong to you. I asked you what it is.”

  “It’s—” She paused, trying to decide what to say. “It’s magic,” she told him. “It’s a miracle, if you know how to use it. Please—” She heard the unaccustomed sound of pleading in her voice. “Please don’t break it.”

  “What if I did? What if I was to let it fall and break? Would the magic spill out?”

  She was silent, knowing the boy was taunting her.

  He pulled the cowl back to reveal his face. “I don’t believe in magic,” he said. “That’s just for fools and kids.”

  He was older than the others—maybe seventeen or eighteen. He was almost as tall as she was, and the size of his shoulders said that he was going to be a large man when he grew up and filled out. His face was lean and pallid, with sharp cheekbones and eyes the color of ashes; in his shoulder-length dark brown hair were braided small bones and feathers, and he looked as dour and serious as an Indian chief. The fine, light brown hairs of a beard covered the lower part of his face, but Sister could see that he had a strong, square jawline. Thick, dark eyebrows added to his stern countenance, and the bridge of his nose was flattened and crooked like a boxer’s. He was a handsome young man, but certainly dangerous. And, Sister realized, he was neither a kid nor a fool.

  He regarded the glass ring in silence. Then: “Where were you going?”

  “Mary’s Rest,” Hugh spoke up nervously. “We’re just poor travelers. We don’t mean any—”

  “Shut up,” the boy ordered, and Hugh’s mouth snapped closed. He locked stares with Paul for a few seconds, then grunted and dismissed him. “Mary’s Rest,” the boy repeated. “You’re about fifteen miles east of Mary’s Rest. Why were you going there?”

  “We were going to pass through it on our way south,” Sister said. “We figured we’d get some food and water.”

  “Is that so? Well, you’re out of luck, then. The food’s almost gone in Mary’s Rest. They’re starving over there, and their pond went dry about five months ago. They’re melting snow to drink, j
ust like everybody else.”

  “There’s radiation in the snow,” Hugh said. “Drinking melted snow will kill you.”

  “What are you? An expert?”

  “No, but I’m—I was—a doctor, and I know what I’m talking about.”

  “A doctor? What kind of doctor?”

  “I was a surgeon,” Hugh said, pride creeping back into his voice. “I used to be the best surgeon in Amarillo.”

  “A surgeon? You mean you operated on sick people?”

  “That’s right. And I never lost a patient, either.”

  Sister decided to take a step forward. Instantly the boy’s hand went to a pistol at his belt under the coat. “Listen,” Sister said, “let’s cut this screwing around. You’ve already got everything we own. We’ll walk the rest of the way—but I want that glass ring back. I want it now. If you’re going to kill me, you’d better do it, because either you give me the ring or I’m taking it from you.”

  The boy remained motionless, his hawklike stare challenging her.

  Here goes! she thought, her heart hammering. She started to reach toward him, but suddenly he laughed and stepped back. He held the ring up, as if he might drop it to the cavern’s floor.

  Sister stopped. “Don’t,” she said. “Please don’t.”

  His hand lingered in the air. Sister tensed, ready to go for it if the fingers opened.

  “Robin?” a weak voice called from the back of the cave. “Robin?”

  The boy looked into Sister’s face for a few seconds longer, his eyes hard and shrewd; then he blinked, lowered his arm and offered the ring to her. “Here. It’s not worth a shit, anyway.”

  She took it, relief coursing through her bones.

  “None of you are going anywhere,” the boy said. “Especially not you, Doc.”

  “Huh?” Terror lanced him.

  “Walk to the back of the cave,” the boy commanded. “All of you.” They hesitated. “Now,” he said, in a voice that was used to being obeyed.

  They did as he said, and in another moment Sister saw several more figures at the rear of the chamber. Three of them were boys with Job’s Mask in varying stages of severity, one of them hardly able to keep his misshapen head upright. On the floor in a corner, lying on a bed of straw and leaves, was a thin brown-haired boy of about ten or eleven, his face shining with the sweat of fever. A dressing of greasy-looking leaves had been plastered on his white chest, just under the heart, and blood had leaked out around it. The wounded boy tried to lift his head when he saw them, but he didn’t have enough strength. “Robin?” he whispered. “You there?”

  “I’m here, Bucky.” Robin bent beside him and brushed the wet hair from the other boy’s forehead.

  “I’m hurting… so bad.” Bucky coughed, and foamy blood appeared at his lips. Robin quickly wiped it away with a leaf. “You won’t let me go out where it’s dark, will you?”

  “No,” Robin said quietly. “I won’t let you go out where it’s dark.” He looked up at Sister with eyes that were a hundred years old. “Bucky got shot three days ago.” With gentle fingers, he carefully peeled the plaster of leaves away. The wound was an ugly scarlet hole with puffy gray edges of infection. Robin’s gaze moved to Hugh, then to the glass ring. “I don’t believe in magic or miracles,” he said. “But maybe it’s kind of a miracle that we found you today, Doc. You’re going to take the bullet out.”

  “Me?” Hugh almost choked. “Oh, no. I can’t. Not me.”

  “You said you used to operate on sick people. You said you never lost a patient.”

  “That was a lifetime ago!” Hugh wailed. “Look at that wound! It’s too close to the heart!” He held up a palsied hand. “I couldn’t cut lettuce with a hand like this!”

  Robin stood up and approached Hugh until they were almost nose to nose. “You’re a doctor,” he said. “You’re going to take the bullet out and make him well, or you can start digging graves for you and your friends.”

  “I can’t! There are no instruments here, no light, no disinfectants, no sedatives! I haven’t operated in seven years, and I wasn’t a heart surgeon, anyway! No. I’m sorry. That boy doesn’t have a—”

  Robin’s pistol was cocked and pressed against Hugh’s throat. “A doctor who can’t help anybody shouldn’t be living. You’re just using up air, aren’t you?”

  “Please… please…” Hugh gasped, his eyes bulging.

  “Wait a minute,” Sister said. “Hugh, the hole’s already there. All you have to do is bring the bullet out.”

  “Oh, sure! Sure! Just bring the bullet out!” Hugh giggled, on the edge of hysteria. “Sister, the bullet could be anywhere! What am I supposed to stop the blood with? How am I supposed to dig the damned thing out—with my fingers?”

  “We’ve got knives,” Robin told him. “We can heat them in the fire. That makes them clean, doesn’t it?”

  “There’s no such thing as ‘clean’ in conditions like these! My God, you don’t know what you’re asking me to do!”

  “Not asking. Telling. Do it, Doc.”

  Hugh looked to Paul and Sister for help, but there was nothing they could do. “I can’t,” he whispered hoarsely. “Please… I’ll kill him if I try to take the bullet out.”

  “He’ll die for sure if you don’t. I’m the leader here. When I give my word, I keep it. Bucky got shot because I sent him out with some others to stop a truck passing through. But he wasn’t ready to kill anybody yet, and he wasn’t fast enough to dodge a bullet, either.” He jabbed the pistol into Hugh’s throat. “I am ready to kill. I’ve done it before. Now, I promised Bucky I’d do whatever I could for him. So—do you take the bullet out, or do I kill all of you?”

  Hugh swallowed, his eyes watering with fear. “There’s… there’s so much I’ve forgotten.”

  “Remember it. Real quick.”

  Hugh was shaking. He closed his eyes, opened them again. The boy was still there. His whole body was a heartbeat. What do I remember? he asked himself. Think, damn it! Nothing would come together; it was all a hazy jumble. The boy was waiting, his finger on the trigger. Hugh realized he would have to go on instinct, and God help them all if he screwed up. “Somebody’s… going to have to support me,” he managed to say. “My balance isn’t so good. And light. I’ve got to have light, as much as I can get. I need—” Think! “—three or four sharp knives with narrow blades. Rub them with ashes and put them in the fire. I need rags, and… oh, Jesus, I need clamps and forceps and probes and I cannot kilt this boy, damn you!” His eyes blazed at Robin.

  “I’ll get you what you need. None of that medical shit, though. But I’ll get you the other stuff.”

  “And moonshine,” Hugh said. “The jug. For both the boy and myself. I want some ashes to clean my hands with, and I may need a bucket to puke into.” He reached up with a trembling hand and pushed the pistol away from his throat. “What’s your name, young man?”

  “Robin Oakes.”

  “All right, then, Mr. Oakes. When I start, you’re not to lay a finger on me. No matter what I do, no matter what you think I ought to be doing. I’ll be scared enough for both of us.” Hugh looked down at the wound and winced; it was very, very nasty. “What kind of gun was he shot with?”

  “I don’t know. A pistol, I guess.”

  “That doesn’t tell me anything about the size of the bullet. Oh, Jesus, this is crazy! I can’t remove a bullet from a wound that close to—” The pistol swung back up again. Hugh saw the boy’s finger ready on the trigger, and something about being so close to death clicked on the façade of arrogance he had worn back in Amarillo. “Get that gun out of my face, you little swine,” he said, and he saw Robin blink. “I’ll do what I can—but I’m not promising a miracle, do you understand? Well? What are you standing there for? Get me what I need!”

  Robin lowered the pistol. He went off to get the moonshine, the knives and the ashes.

  It took about twenty minutes to get Bucky as drunk as Hugh wanted him. Under Robin’s direction, the ot
her boys brought candles and set them in a circle around Bucky. Hugh scrubbed his hands in ashes and waited for the blades to cook.

  “He called you Sister,” Robin said. “Are you a nun?”

  “No. That’s just my name.”

  “Oh.”

  He sounded disappointed, and Sister decided to ask, “Why?”

  Robin shrugged. “We used to have nuns where we were, in the big building. I used to call them blackbirds, because they always flew at you when they thought you’d done something wrong. But some of them were okay. Sister Margaret said she was sure things would work out for me. Like getting a family and a home and everything.” He glanced around the cavern. “Some home, huh?”

  It dawned on Sister what Robin was talking about. “You lived in an orphanage?”

  “Yeah. Everybody did. A lot of us got sick and died after it turned cold. Especially the really young ones.” His eyes darkened. “Father Thomas died, and we buried him behind the big building. Sister Lynn died, and then so did Sister May and Sister Margaret. Father Cummings left in the night. I don’t blame him—who wants to take care of a bunch of ratty punks? Some of the others left, too. The last to die was Father Clinton, and then it was just us.”

  “Weren’t there any older boys with you?”

  “Oh, yeah. A few of them stayed, but most took off on their own. Somehow, I guess I got to be the oldest. I figured that if I left, who was going to take care of the punks?”

  “So you found this cave and started robbing people?”

  “Sure. Why not? I mean, the world’s gone crazy, hasn’t it? Why shouldn’t we rob people if it’s the only way to stay alive?”

  “Because it’s wrong,” Sister answered. The boy laughed. She let his laugh die, and then she said, “How many people have you killed?”

  All traces of a smile left his face. He stared at his hands; they were a man’s hands, rough and callused. “Four. But all of them would’ve killed me, too.” He shrugged uneasily. “No big deal.”

  “The knives are ready,” Paul said, returning from the fire. Standing on his crutch over the wounded boy, Hugh took a deep breath and lowered his head.