The air was frosty.
8
WINTER came early, harshly and entirely unexpectedly overnight less than a week afterwards. It came with a bitterly cold wind that swept down from the Canadian plains to engulf the central and northeastern states, to tumble the mercury by thirty degrees in one night, to lay a thin coating of ice on the quiet lakes and stagnant ponds. Snow began to fall before dawn and continued throughout the day, whipped by swirling gusts of wind, making a farce of the yellow autumn leaves still on the trees. Under the bumpy white blanket the world seemed to grow quiet and still. Nothing seemed to move in the early biting daylight, no man or animal stirring from whatever warmth it possessed. Countless pairs of eyes peered out at the wintry scene in dismayed speculation. The shock of its sudden coming was slow to wear away, and for some sleeping in the open fields it never wore off. They could not move.
Gary slumped in the rear seat of an abandoned automobile and cursed himself for staying in the North. He should have used his head, should have begun moving south when the first chill hung in the air. He was a fool for staying here.
He could have gone back to the fisherman's cabin in Florida — just to visit, of course. He wouldn't have wintered there. But he could have gone back in response to a sincere invitation: come back and see the kid. Whose kid, he wondered briefly? Or he could have pushed deeper into the South, there were plenty of beaches in Florida; he could have holed up in one of those tourist cabins on the St. Petersburg beach, or gone down to the Keys below Miami. Anywhere to avoid this. New Orleans was all right — he could have gone back there. For some reason or other that city wasn't accepting its fate as tragically as the northern river towns. New Orleans attempted to continue as before, its population thinned down, the ferries no longer operating and the Huey Long bridge blocked by a pair of squat tanks. But it went on living after a fashion.
Gary shifted his cramped position on the car seat and told himself again he was a damned fool.
The blast of a shotgun brought him to his knees, his eyes peering through a dirty rear window.
He saw a figure running toward him, toward the old automobile, a small person who labored and stumbled as he ran. The figure flung a hasty glance over his shoulder and tried to increase his speed. Gary peered beyond him and discovered the two stalking men. They both carried guns and one of them was reloading as he ran, intent on capturing or killing the fleeing quarry.
Gary snatched up his newly acquired shotgun and flung open the car door, taking care to keep himself out of sight on the rear seat. The little runner continued blindly on toward the car, unaware of his presence or the movement of the door. Gary readied the shotgun. There was a second burst of fire from the pursuers and the youngster screamed, either in pain or terror.
He batted his eyes and waited, trigger finger tensed. It had been a child's scream, a young girl's.
With hoarse, rasping sounds in her dry throat, the girl reached the automobile and flung herself through the open door to collapse on the floor. Gary reached over and pulled shut the door behind her. The girl whirled and saw him, screamed again and sobbed with a tortured breath. Her eyes were dilated with fright. She looked to be ten or twelve, maybe.
“Cut it out,” he said roughly. “I'm not going to hurt you.”
She didn't answer him, didn't stop crying and rolling her eyes. With his left hand he reached over and cranked down the rear window, then turned to open the other at his feet. The noise of the two running men came plainly to his ears, their feet making slapping noises in the snow. As best as he could judge, both were following the same path the girl had made, both were running together or nearly so. They should arrive at the car within seconds, approaching on the same side to use the door the child had used.
Gary glanced down. “Now keep your head down, kid, and I'll get rid of these guys. You won't get hurt.”
The rear door was yanked open and the girl screamed once more, frantically pushing herself into the far corner.
“I got her! I got the little—”
Gary quietly raised the shotgun to the man's face and fired at his open mouth. The blast cut the head from the shoulders like a hot, ragged knife. Without pause or lost motion, Gary rose swiftly to his knees and poked the smoking barrel through the open door to fire again. It caught the running man in mid-stride, bending him double. As he tumbled to the snow, Gary pumped a second shot into the body. Calmly then, he scanned the horizon for further movement, saw none, and sank back on the seat. With his foot he kicked the severed head outside and shut the door, finally running up the windows.
The child was still in the corner, her face covered by her hands. He wondered how much she had seen. Her crying was hysterical, uncontrolled, and he didn't know how to stop it. She was too little to slap, to gag.
* * *
It was more than an hour before he could calm her, could persuade her that he intended no harm, to stop her crying and listen to him, to talk to him. Her story was disconnected and not always intelligent, continually punctuated by fits of dry sobbing. He watched the road and near-by fields, listening to her.
Her name was Sandy, she said. Sandra Hoffman. She was twelve years old and she lived with her two brothers and her parents on the farm “over there.” Gary could not recall any farmhouse near-by and guessed that she had wandered for several miles. Shortly after daylight this morning, she and her older brother Lee—”he's fifteen, almost" — had gone out rabbit hunting. The early morning hours of the first snowfall is always good rabbit weather, she assured him. Her father had warned them to stay close to the farm but no one suspected any real danger — there had been many “stealers” about the place, trying to get away with food and clothing, but none offered bodily harm unless caught in the act. She and Lee must have walked farther from home than they realized. They hadn't found any rabbits.
Lee had been ahead of her, concentrating on a thicket likely to be concealing rabbits when the two men jumped them. The men had been hiding in the thicket and as they approached, leaped out at them with guns. Lee was carrying his .22 rifle. He fired at them without hesitation, probably in fright rather than fight, and missed. One of the men fired back at him, and Lee fell.
She turned and ran, hiding among the trees for a long time—”hours and hours" — before she heard them hunting her again. She kept moving around, trying to be quiet, but they finally flushed her. She took to her heels, finding the snow-covered road and running along it until she saw the automobile. They kept shooting at her, too, but they didn't hit her. And now what were they going to do?
Going to do? “I don't know,” Gary replied absently. “Let me think about it.”
With her question, a vague idea was born in his mind that he might be able to turn the incident to his advantage. Abandoning the child, simply walking away on her was out of the question; he might have done it if she were older and a boy — if she were her brother Lee, for instance. But he couldn't leave her there in the deserted car. He realized that it could be many tedious weeks, perhaps even bitter months before he could work his way back to the Gulf coast — and there always remained the danger of starving or freezing before reaching it. On the other hand if he stayed in the North, stayed here, there was the very real possibility that he could talk his way into a warm and comfortable house for the winter — with food on the table three times a day. He just might be able to use Sandy, and the body of her brother, as his entrance into that farmhouse.
It was well worth trying. He sat up.
“The first thing to do,” he said to the girl, “is to go back and get Lee. Then we'll find your house.”
“But I don't know where he is!” she wailed.
He put out a hand to ruffle the stockingcap pulled down over her hair. “Aw, that'll be easy for me. All we have to do is follow your backtrail. Say — I'll bet you didn't know I was a scout in the army!”
She gazed at him, round-eyed. “Was you really?”
“Yep. Used to track Germans all over the place.”
>
“Japs too?”
He smiled at her and nodded. “Japs, too. I tracked them all. Let's be moving along now — your dad will be worrying about you.” He opened the door on the opposite side of the car away from the two bodies and helped her out, to lead the way along the erratic, running trail she had left.
The small patch of woods in which she had hidden were not too far distant nor difficult to find. He didn't waste time in trying to follow her wandering footsteps through the woods, but instead began an encircling motion designed to carry him in a complete arc around the trees. A quarter of a mile from where he began, he located the trampled snow where the girl and her two pursuers had entered the woods. Standing there, sighting across the snow, he saw the body as a patch of dark clothing against the white.
“You wait right here,” he told Sandy. “I'll get Lee.”
She leaned against a cold tree and watched him go.
A part of Lee Hoffman's body had been stripped bare and the flesh cut away. Gary paused for long minutes, staring down at it, gripping his lower lips between his teeth. In an absent sort of way he had speculated on this, had foreseen it if the quarantine lasted long enough and the contaminated survivors grew hungry enough. There had been authenticated reports of it happening among marooned Japanese soldiers during the last war — when the food gave out, the prisoners suffered if there were any, and if not, then one of the soldiers became the unwilling victim. The strongest and the most unprincipled will stay alive in some way, even when that way is winnowed down to cannibalism.
Sooner or later, Gary reflected bitterly, it had to happen east of the Mississippi. Thanks to the damned army and their quarantine, their river patrols. And now here it was.
He stooped low over the body of the boy and wrapped it in clothing, covering it completely so that the girl would see nothing amiss. Hoisting the body over one shoulder and swinging the shotgun in his free hand, he turned and called to Sandy She came running
“Is he… is he dead?”
“Yes. Let's take him back home now.”
Her lips quivered and he saw that she had been crying while she waited for him. “I'm lost… I don't know where it is.”
“Now stop that stuff! Didn't I tell you I was a scout? A first-class scout?”
“Yes…”
“All right then, Sandy, just trust me. Does your farm have any big barns? A tall silo, maybe? Something we could recognize from a distance?”
“Sure, we got them.” She tried to keep her eyes from the burden on his shoulder.
“Then here's what we'll do: see that hill over there, the high one with the two pine trees? Let's climb up there and look for your place — you can shinny up the tree to see better. Okay?”
“Okay.” She fell in behind him, eyes downcast.
Gary completed his plan of action as he walked. When they neared her home, he would send the girl in ahead of him with the news. She was better than a white flag, she and the body across his shoulder, and he would not be shot before he had the opportunity to speak his piece. The farmer, no matter how hostile, would hold off a few minutes on the strength of the girl and the body of his son. After all — what could be more disarming, more sincere than an utter stranger bringing the two children home? Gary smiled to himself.
“Just stop right there,” Hoffman ordered coldly.
Gary waited without answering. The man stood at the gate to his yard, an old shotgun in his hands. Behind him in the open doorway of the farmhouse Gary glimpsed the farmer's wife, Sandy, and a smaller boy. Fright coupled with alarm was on the woman's face; she didn't look at the newcomer but at the boy's body across his shoulder.
“Put the boy down,” Hoffman said. “And your gun.”
Gary did as he was told, and backed away a few paces.
Hoffman was a middle-aged man, red of face and weather-beaten from his profession. His eyes were clear and sharp, cautious and distrustful. He approached the body and sank to his knees, keeping the gun on Gary.
“Be careful,” Gary said then. “Something happened to the boy.”
Hoffman shot him an angry glance. “What do you mean?”
“I didn't find the boy until it was too late — until the little girl led me back to him. You'll see what I mean when you unwrap him — but be careful! Don't let your wife see it.”
Puzzled but still brimming with anger, the farmer shifted his position to block the view from the doorway and reached out a quivering hand to pull away the coat from the body. He stared at his son's lifeless face and then slowly let his eyes drift along the body.
“God Almighty!” His head jerked up to ask a question but when his lips formed the words no sound came. He knew the answer. Finally—“Who did this?”
“A couple of no-good bastards,” Gary told him without emotion. “They were after the girl when I caught them.”
Tears had formed in the man's eyes. “So help me God, when I get my hands on them…!”
“There's nothing you can do to them now, except spit. I said I caught them.”
“You…?”
Gary pointed to his automatic. “That.”
The farmer stared at him without really seeing him, and then carefully wrapped the clothing about the body and picked it up. “Bring the guns,” he said to Gary and turned his back. “Come on up to the house.”
Gary followed him in.
Hoffman carried the body into an inner bedroom, the entire family trailing after. Left alone, Gary looked about the room in which he found himself and sat down, remembering to take off his ragged cap. It seemed to be a combination living room and dining room, opening directly off the kitchen. Something was cooking on the kitchen stove, something that bubbled and hissed, carrying to him a taunting odor that excited his hunger and caused the saliva to flow in his mouth. He held himself in the chair with difficulty, his eyes attempting to see the stove and the kettle around a corner. The room was comfortable and warm and he thought it had been years since he had known anything like it; there was a rocking chair and a long leather couch at the far end, three or four other chairs scattered about and some ancient magazines piled on the floor. From behind a closed door came the sounds of grief.
He pulled his eyes away from the kitchen doorway and tried to shut off the smell of cooking. The wallpaper around him was old and creased with yellow lines, yet it did not detract from the comfort and ease the room suggested. In the center of the floor stood a heavy oaken table from which the family took their meals, and the faded oilcloth covering it contained hardened, dried spots of spilled food. The little girl's doll lay on the table. Gary looked across the doll and discovered the radio.
He half rose from his chair, fingers already reaching out to snap the switch, and abruptly sat down again.
Hoffman walked into the room, hand outstretched. Gary stood up, took it.
“I ain't quite got the words to thank you.”
“Not necessary,” Gary told him. “Any decent man would have done the same.”
“Any man didn't do it,” Hoffman insisted. “You did.”
“I just happened to be there,” Gary said slowly, almost awkwardly. “The little girl came running to me…” He released the farmer's hand, sat down when the other did. There was a moment of strained silence. “If it's all the same to you, I'll move along. There's nothing more I can do to help you, I guess.”
“Leave?” Hoffman eyed him with astonishment. By God, you'll not leave! I can't let you up and walk out of here after what you've done for me, man. I owe you a debt I can't ever repay!”
“You don't owe me anything,” Gary contradicted him. His eyes drifted toward the kitchen. “I wouldn't take pay.”
The farmer was staring at him. “You're hungry!” he said with sudden surprise. “The devil, I should have thought of that.” He jumped out of his chair and took Gary's arm, pulling him toward the kitchen. “Come on out here — you can eat until it runs out of your ears!” He snatched the lid from the hot kettle and burned his fingers, swearing abs
ently. “The Lord knows we ain't got much left in this crazy world, but we have got food. You can have all you want of it.”
* * *
Gary accompanied Hoffman late that afternoon when the farmer took his son's body to a snow-covered hill for burial. He offered to help but was politely turned down, and told the farmer he would go along anyway to keep watch — one of them should keep their eyes open that far from the house.
He said nothing more while the silent man dug the grave, knowing that his remark would take root. When the grave was completed and the body ready for burial, the remainder of the family joined the two of them on the hillside, and Hoffman opened an old family Bible. Gary stood a short distance away, his cap off, listening to the halting words and the weeping of the bereaved mother. He slowly and silently paced the hill, continually watching the fields around them and seeing to it that his watch crossed and recrossed the vision of the farmer. That too would take root.
He felt no remorse over the boy's death for the boy had meant nothing to him; his stomach was full — overly full — for the first time since he had left the fisherman's cabin on the Florida beach; and he knew a vast satisfaction and a return of his old cockiness. Completely without cynicism or qualms of conscience he was putting on an act, an act designed to win him a warm winter home. He counted on the farmer's noticing it and bringing up the matter first.
The brief service over, they returned to the house.
* * *
By the next morning he had it.
Hoffman brought it up over the breakfast table. “Sandy tells me you're a soldier? In the army?”
“I was — yes. I was attached to the Fifth Army in Chicago, before the bombing. But they wouldn't let me come across the river to rejoin them.” He reached for another helping.
The Long Loud Silence Page 10