The Long Loud Silence

by Wilson Tucker

  “That was the last one,” he announced.

  “Pity,” Oliver said. Oliver was seated on a hillock twenty-five or thirty feet from the fire, a rifle lying in the crook of an arm. “Maybe we shouldn't have killed the hen.”

  “You wanted fried chicken, remember?”

  Oliver closed his eyes, dreaming. “I remember! She was a tough old bird but she was fine eating. So we were tired of eggs anyway.”

  “Mention that to me this time next week.”

  “Will do. Pity these farmers are so narrow-minded.”

  Gary glanced down at his arm, ran his fingers along the frayed sleeve of his jacket where hastily fired buckshot had grazed him. “Yeah. No respect for the United States Army.” He hugged his arms tightly about his chest as though to ward off the creeping chill, and turned his attention to the overcast skies. Behind the thick cloud blanket the sun had not yet surmounted the low range of mountains to the east. Around them the skimpy grove of trees was silent but for their few noises. “This weather is ready to turn. We'd better be moving south.”

  “These hills always snappy in the morning.”

  “Snappy, he says.”

  “How's the ammo?” Oliver wiped his mouth on his sleeve after emptying the contents of the tin cup down his throat. He shifted the rifle to the other arm and ran his eyes along the nearer range of hills. “Enough?”

  “Plenty. The damned mountains stay cold all day long.” He stacked his utensils in the skillet and pushed them aside. “I say we get out of them and head south.”

  “Willing. But we'd be safer staying around here. There were — and still may be — moonshiners in these hills the government agents never found. Did you know Daniel Boone opened up this country? Came through the Cumberland Gap and down into Kentucky; settlers followed him so fast Kentucky couldn't hold them all and they spilled over into Tennessee here.”

  “Daniel Boone should see it now.”

  Oliver shook his head. “He wouldn't approve.”

  “Look here,” Gary persisted, “we can go down through Knoxville or Chattanooga — might be something there worth picking up. Everybody can't be bright like us and maybe they haven't thought about the warehouses, like that one in… Where was it?”

  “Covington.”

  “Yeah — Covington. That watchman was a crazy little dope; who the hell needs night watchmen these days with everything shot to hell anyway? Well — we should have thought of the warehouses before, and left the stores go hang. Small stuff. If they haven't found out about ’em in Knoxville or Chattanooga we can stock up where we're short.” He jerked around in pleased surprise. “Say — Fort Oglethorpe is just outside of Chattanooga! I'd sure like to get my hands on an automatic rifle.”

  Oliver ducked his head to peer intently through the trees. After a long moment he relaxed and swung around to grin down at Gary. “What do you think the troops in Oglethorpe have been doing all this time?”

  “Drinking Chattanooga dry for all I care. I'd like to make a stab at it. It's getting cold here.”

  Oliver nodded and swung back to watch. “Can take a look if you like. No risks, though.”

  “I like my hide,” Gary retorted. “I've hung onto it this far — most of it.” He gathered up his eating utensils and climbed the hill to retrieve Oliver's. Stacking them all together in a slipshod pile he walked over to where the mail truck was parked, half hidden and neatly blending with the turning foliage. He tossed the gear into the back and closed the doors.

  The mail truck had been an inspiration, a fairly new olive green job that did not blatantly advertise its presence when parked off the road, and having the added advantage of heavy steel construction, construction which fitted the government's specification to the manufacturer of “armored truck.” Gary stepped-up the armored truck's mileage by adding a water-spray injector to the carburetor and pumping the tires hard beyond their rated capacity. They transferred their stock of staples and ammunition from the farm truck they had been using, and took leave of the remnants of civilization which clung to the river. The truck was not comfortable and rode hard, crawling through the hills at a snail's pace, but it offered a safety to themselves and their provisions otherwise lacking.

  They had journeyed back to the river and that particular bridge twice, just twice. One visit each month.

  Lieutenant MacSneary had not changed his mind during those eight weeks and on both trips the answer had been the same, with a pair of machine gunners beside him to enforce the refusal. On that first trip back, Gary and Oliver had found a dozen or so people camped ground this end of the structure, patiently prepared to wait out the quarantine. There had been a brief conversation across the length of the bridge with Oliver's ragged flags, and that was the end of it. Oliver ended it by flagging out a single word addressed to the officer, a word much loved and used by the army's rank and file. The officer stiffly turned his back.

  The second and final trip to that bridge had been far different. While still some distance away they saw that the refugee camp had been abandoned; closer inspection showed the abandonment had been in haste. Three bodies sprawled out on the steel span, bodies that while still alive had foolishly attempted a dash for the barricade. The machine gunners had been faster. Oliver stepped out of the newly acquired mail truck and signaled his question, carefully avoiding the bodies with his eyes but unable to escape the stench of them. The answer was a curt no, and thereafter they refused to answer at all. Gary turned the truck around and started back.

  “You should have asked them about our pay,” he said.

  “Have a good idea what that answer would be.”

  “Those boys ain't slow on the trigger.”

  “No. I wonder what I'd do, in their place?”

  When another four or five weeks had rolled by and the time arrived for the usual monthly trip, neither of them suggested the journey. With unspoken accord they thought it best to avoid the bridge. And so they remained in the hills, meeting no one, watching the woods slowly turn color with the approach of autumn and the coming of cool nights, chilly dawns. When they could, they raided an occasional isolated farm or cultivated hillside patch, taking what could be stolen on the run. The hen and her few eggs had come from one of these.

  More than three months had passed since the bombing.

  * * *

  Gary kicked each of the truck tires with his foot, testing them, and carried a bottle of dirty water from a near-by pond to pour in the radiator. He didn't bother to check the gas, knowing it was low.

  Flat on the side of the hillock, Oliver hissed against his teeth.

  Gary snatched his rifle from the cab of the truck and hit the ground, rolling sideways to get away from the vehicle. He came to rest behind the trunk of a tree and looked up at Oliver. Oliver raised one finger and pointed to the west. Gary commenced a slow crawl over the ground, putting distance between himself and the ashes of the fire, circling around to the west to move completely away from camp. He waited to see who was coming.

  A woman.

  She walked toward them with no attempt at concealment, a very tall girl whose bare feet moved noiselessly and without effort over the ground, carrying her body with a peculiar grace. A thin girl with tanned face and blue eyes, who wore a faded cotton dress and uncombed hair. The dress had once been a shade of red or brown. Her legs and toughened feet were nearly a matching shade of brown, and sturdy despite her thinness. The girl paused a dozen yards from Oliver and stared at his rifle.

  “Hello.”

  Oliver nodded to her, searching behind her. “Hello. Where did you come from?”

  “Yonder.” The blue hills somewhere behind. “Seen your smoke this morning.”

  He twisted his head to survey the ashes.

  “Did you, now?”

  “Did. You hiding out?”

  “Yes.” He glanced up into her face.

  “Seen your smoke. You ought to use good wood.”

  “I'm afraid I don't know very much about wood.”

&
nbsp; “Guess not. I could show you.”

  “You could? Now why would you do that? Why would you help me if I'm hiding out?”

  The girl gravely stared at him. “I'm hungry.”

  Oliver nodded slowly, still watching the way she had come. “Swap?”

  “Sure, swap. I'm alone.”

  With caution he raised up on his knees and peered over the hillock, searching the area behind her. “How do I know I can trust you? How do I know you're alone?”

  “I said I was alone.” She came a few steps nearer and stared down at his upturned face. “I'm awful hungry. The other man can watch.”

  “What other man?” he shot back.

  She gestured off among the trees to her left. “Him. I seen him first, when he jumped out of the truck.”

  Oliver laughed loudly, sat back on the ground. “Come on out, corporal, the girl scout spotted you.” He turned his head to watch Gary as he emerged from cover. “The army could have used her.”

  “Maybe we can,” Gary suggested. He stopped at a distance and spoke to the girl. “All alone — where's your folks?”

  “They died, long time back. Most everybody's dead. Folks, they went into town to see what was happening, and when they come back, they died. It's like the end of the world, ain't it?”

  “For us,” Oliver said, “for you and us it is the end of the world. The world is still turning across the creek, but the end has come on this side. Have you got a name?

  “Sally.”

  “Welcome home, Sally.” He stood up and rubbed the stiffness from his knees, all the while looking at her legs. “Take over, corporal. I'll fix her something to eat.”

  She joined them as quietly as that.

  That she intended to remain with them became evident after Jay Oliver had prepared her breakfast and then cleaned and stowed away the gear for a second time that morning. She ate everything he cooked, not speaking to either of them, but watching Oliver's movements with a curious intent interest. She had pointed out what to use for the fire that would not give off a betraying smoke, and then sat down cross-legged, feet tucked up beneath her, to let him feed her. Sally had not understated her hunger.

  Gary was on the hill position as lookout.

  In less than an hour they broke camp and once again locked the rear doors of the mail truck. Oliver climbed into the cab and took his place behind the wheel, resting the rifle on the edge of the seat near his left leg. He started the motor. Sally followed him into the truck then, leaping in with a quick movement to sit next to him, still without a word. Oliver turned to look at her, studied her face for an instant and then beat a short, sharp note on the horn.

  Gary left his position and came running down the incline to the truck. He stopped, staring at Sally, one foot lifted to climb in.

  “Company,” he said, looking at her thin body. His voice did not give evidence of being surprised.

  “Seems that way.” Oliver was grinning in satisfaction.

  “Your company,” Gary persisted.

  “Been on a fifty-fifty basis so far,” Oliver answered. “We get along better as a team.”

  Gary hesitated but a second longer and then climbed into the cab and slammed the door. “Suits me.” He shifted the weight of the rifle from his shoulder, resting the butt on the floorboards. “Suits me.”

  Oliver put the truck into motion and rolled it forward across the slope of the grassy hill, seeking the lonely dirt road which would lead them back to the highway. The seat was crowded with the three of them, their bodies tightly wedged together. Silence held the cab until the truck had found and followed the twisty little road to the pavement, until they had turned south and were moving out of the hills for the flatter land of Georgia and Alabama. The sky remained cloudy and bleak.

  After a while Oliver broke the silence. “Me and the corporal are partners.”

  The girl seemed puzzled.

  Oliver correctly interpreted the expression. “Gary — he's a corporal.”

  “Army soldier?” Sally wanted to know curiously.

  “That's our hero, complete with Purple Heart.” He broke off when he saw that he was adding to her confusion. “Both soldiers,” he told her then, feeling her eyes on his face. “Partners — we share everything.”

  She didn't answer him immediately but concentrated on his face, studying his eyes and lips. The truck rumbled along the highway.

  Sally said to Oliver, “I like you.”

  “Thank you — appreciate the compliment no end.” He briefly took his eyes from the road and flashed her a warm grin. “I like you too — but that doesn't alter the terms of our partnership. The corporal and me: fifty-fifty.”

  Sally thought about it. “You want me to be nice to both of you?”

  “That's right.” Oliver nodded. “Or not at all.”

  The long silence descended on the crowded cab once more. She turned her head sharply to study Gary, to examine his eyes and lips as though they were most important to her, as though they were the keys she sought to determine character. Their glances met and locked, each glance a neutral one that had not yet found time to form a bias. When the girl turned away to again concentrate on the driver's profile, Gary went back to his continual chore of watching the countryside for movement.

  The mail truck rolled rapidly through some small, anonymous Tennessee town which appeared completely deserted. Each one of the few stores in the village had been looted and wrecked, the windows smashed and splintered doors left hanging on hinges. The body of a dog gathered flies on a porch. And then they were out of the place, the last houses vanishing behind.

  The sight and soundlessness of the town had reacted on the girl. “All right,” she said suddenly. “I can like both of you. Fifty-fifty.”

  “Pleased to hear it,” Oliver commented. “Partners.”

  “But I like you best,” she added quickly.

  * * *

  It required several days to work their way south to the Gulf of Mexico, avoiding the larger cities and using only the less-traveled highways and sometimes a dusty country road. Occasionally they met, or even overtook and passed another automobile, but the occupants of both vehicles regarded each other with a maximum of suspicion and with weapons in readiness. There was no stopping, no seeking or exchanging of information. That stage of human curiosity seemed to have passed.

  Sally was beside herself with surprise and delight when they came in sight of the sea, revealing without words that she had never seen an ocean before. The highway turned and ran parallel to the water.

  The trio spent the mild winter months on a long, sparse sliver of land jutting out into the sometimes blue, sometimes green waters of the Gulf; it was a sandy island lying like an outstretched finger offshore from the mainland of western Florida and reached only by a wooden causeway. There were no signs of recent habitation. After Gary had trucked in supplies calculated to last through the winter, he and Oliver set about ripping up the planking of the causeway to prevent any other vehicle from following them. They hid the lumber in a ramshackle boathouse and lived in an adjoining fisherman's cabin.

  The truck was parked to the seaward side of the cabin to conceal it from eyes on the mainland, and a part of the winter provisions taken inside. Not until several weeks of complete isolation had passed did Gary and Oliver abandon the habit of standing guard each night; occasionally the fast-moving roar of a speeding automobile could be heard along the highway paralleling the coast, but none ever stopped, none ever investigated their island. Vigilance slowly relaxed and a sense of halfsecurity overcame them.

  The cabin contained in addition to a small stove, one narrow bed which had been awarded to Sally without discussion, while they bunked on the ground beside it or sometimes out on the sandy beach. Sally, in complete if silent submission to the partnership agreement, was compliant with the wishes of both but as time went on she found herself favoring Oliver rather violently, and had some difficulty in concealing it.

  Sally was lost in the enchantment
of the sea, and enjoyed wading barelegged into the rolling surf with them while they fished. Fishing was a daily occurrence.

  “That lieutenant…” Oliver remarked once to the far horizon. He baited his hook and cast the line into deep water.

  “What about him?”

  “Keep thinking of his precious bridge.”

  “He can have it,” Gary retorted, wading in deeper. The white sandy slope of the beach continued underwater, forcing them to wade out fifty or seventy-five feet to reach a depth fit for fishing. The sea was clear and unruffled and so transparent Gary could see his feet dug in on the bottom. “He's welcome to it. This is for me.”

  “Unhappy position, though,” Oliver insisted. “Wouldn't want to be in his shoes — suppose he had a family on the wrong side of the creek? What would you do in his place?”

  “I'm damned if I know. Join ’em, I guess.” He tugged on his line thoughtfully. “I don't like the idea of shooting up our side.”

  Sally waded over to stand behind him, watching.

  “Other hand,” Oliver argued, “you wouldn't want to spread the plague to the western states either. Now would you? Unholy predicament the man finds himself in — feel for him, sort of. If you and I had started across that bridge he wouldn't have hesitated to shoot because his orders said to shoot. But lacking orders what would he have done? If his wife started across, what would he do? Or his kids? Can a man obey orders and shoot his wife and children? Matter would be squarely up to his conscience. Most difficult to answer.”

  “Nuts, officers don't have them.”

  “Officers do, but you can't see it. I don't think I'd like to watch the lieutenant make a decision like that.”

  “I'll stick with this, thanks.” He turned and put his arm about Sally's waist. “Just like a six-month leave.”

  “Likewise.” Oliver stared absently at his sagging line and then again at the distant horizon, his thoughts presently returning to the bedeviled officer. “I consider his present position untenable; couldn't hold it myself but have to admire his guts for staying. Wonder if he can hold out as long as a year?”