Skylock

by Paul Kozerski

  "Shock immersion. An old Plains Indian way of breaking fevers."

  She folded her arms at their amazement, offering curtly, "Once upon a time I was a college junior in American History studies. I learned that tribes would soak the ill person in hot water to raise his temperature even higher. Then they'd dunk him in cold. The snap between could jar his system back in synch."

  Trennt stared mutely. Even with his authority eclipsed, he felt a sudden and strange reliance growing for this troublesome woman. But it was the chief who gave voice to the drawbacks.

  "This same immersion might not also be fatal?"

  Geri nodded honestly. "Yes."

  Whitney regarded his unconscious son for a time, then studied Geri and his own people beyond.

  "If we learn something, we all gain. Do what she says!"

  The tribesmen reluctantly stepped back, ready to follow Geri's orders. Her manner was bold among the warriors, and had a professional confidence they responded to.

  "The big thing we need is water. Five, ten gallons—as hot as a person can stand; again as much, ice cold."

  "The solar collectors might still catch enough afternoon sun," declared Whitney. "Get them turned! What else?"

  "We'll need a tub to soak him in, one that can be quickly drained."

  "We have no such thing!" barked Machu, stepping forward. "This is fool's work, Father! Let me remove these dogs!"

  Geri faced the repugnant man. "Your brother has quit perspiring. Before long his brain will cook like a hard-boiled egg and you'll lose him for sure. Is that what you want?"

  Trennt offered a suggestion. "The canvas top off our truck might work if tied at the corners."

  "Get it!" Geri ordered.

  The brother stepped forward, blocking Trennt. "You stay here, dog. My men will get what is needed."

  * * *

  The canvas roof was stripped off and lashed by ropes into a tub shape. Gallons of precious water were set to heating aboveground in an assembly of tiny solar collectors. More was sunk to cool in lower crevice depths. A difficult wait began.

  Geri marked time acting as an attending physician, daubing the stricken young man with cooling alcohol and rubbing salves from the medkit. The spirits and ointment beat back his rankness with a smell of hope.

  Then, a sullen tribesman appeared.

  "We've lost the sun, leader, and the water is barely warm."

  Machu shot to his feet.

  "This white devil foolishness is done, then! Send them out and let our own healers return."

  The chief sighed in accord. "If we have no other means of heat . . ."

  "Our truck," said Trennt, "also has fuel. Use it."

  The chief motioned to his men.

  Distant pockets in the stone floor were filled with lit fuel oil and cans of water strung across to finish their heating. Geri readied the soaking tarp and motioned. "Bring him."

  Machu set aside his spear and strode forward to raise his brother, but before he could lift, Trennt was on the other side. He locked eyes and wrists with the warrior, not allowing the man to budge unless they did it in unison. Machu's eyes flashed with surprise, then grabbed Trennt back. Together they hoisted the ailing youth toward the makeshift tub.

  The patient looked even worse than before, moving through the thin passageway light. His skin was mottled and lumpy, almost seeming to cringe in the flickering torches. Trennt felt his own flesh crawl as they lowered the sick man into place.

  Some distance off, Top and another tribesman stood ready as the hot water brigade.

  Her patient set, Geri called. "Top!"

  "Yo!"

  "Water ready?"

  "Guns up!"

  "Bring it!"

  The pair threaded hardwood spears through the sooty, five-gallon cans' carrying lugs and shuffled over. The hot load was heavy: eighty-plus pounds swinging like huge unwieldy anchors.

  Trennt and Baker met them with shirts off and bunched into oven mitts. At Geri's nod, the first can was slowly blended into the room-temperature water. The sick man's eyes fluttered with the new heat. His shallow, racing breath hiked up to a higher notch. Tribespeople glanced about uncertainly, but Geri drove them on.

  "Keep it going! Don't mind him!"

  The man's skin shimmered. Veins in his throat and temples began to bulge and throb. His eyes swelled against their drawn lids.

  Geri shouted again. "Cold water!"

  Two tribesmen supported the sick man while she yanked a corner knot to dump the first wash. But the weary, sun-bleached fibers snapped as she moved to tie the rope. It was too short to reattach, so Trennt grabbed the sheared end and drew the cord snug by hand. Geri's eyes met his.

  "Do it!"

  The cold water was administered. At first the patient hung unaffected and still. Then he began to tremble. Slowly gathering power from somewhere far outside himself, the young man started quaking like an addict gone hours beyond his last fix.

  The frigid water about him came alive. It bubbled and fizzed to a counterfeit boil. Yet he couldn't seem to shed the sudden bolt of energy fast enough, and drawing back, finally exploded in a ghastly eruption.

  Head and shoulders flew out. Arms shot wide. Icy water sprayed far in a great silver blast. From its depths the youth rose as a high-arched piece of newly cast granite.

  Machu shouted, barging ahead.

  "The devils are killing him!"

  "Keep him away!" countered the chief. "And hold this one down!"

  Hands of tribesmen and prisoners alike joined to grab and suppress both men. Shocked at the indignity of his arrest, Machu melted in their grasp, but his unconscious brother fought them all. His case-hardened body corded and bunched with runaway power, until ligament and muscle seemed drawn beyond all possible limits.

  Just when it appeared he'd tear himself in half, the patient paused; then softened and crumpled—gone full circle, mush to monster and back.

  Geri caught him as he settled into the trough. She gently propped his head while the cold water drained.

  "That's all we can do," she said, handing over a thick medkit envelope containing a mix of sugar and salt. "Dry and wrap him up. Tomorrow should tell if he'll live. If he can drink, mix this in two gallons of water and give it to him. It'll replace all the body salts he's lost."

  The crowd hovered, numb in the aftermath. Though the patient was still unconscious, his breath now settled into a relaxed, easy rhythm.

  The chief granted Geri a bitter smile. He then moved aside to speak a time with a pair of warriors. Shortly after, the prisoners were led from the cavern. Behind, only Machu broke the silence, calling out a final warning.

  "If he dies, dogs, you will wish you had first!"

  * * *

  This time the captives were directed to a new, ground-level cell. A boulder was rolled over the opening and the four sat again, cast in darkness.

  Sometime later, Top got to his feet.

  Trennt looked toward Top's rustling.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Something's weird in here."

  "How?"

  "Don't know. Too—too . . . cold maybe, for this far inside the rock."

  The old-timer shuffled across the cave. Sweeping his hands slowly in the air before him, he stumbled over Baker, stopped, and doubled back.

  Baker growled, shoving him away. "The hell you doin'?"

  "I felt something, man."

  "What, spiders?"

  "No." He continued his motions. "More like, yeah! There it is again."

  "What, already?"

  "A breeze."

  Baker climbed to his own feet. "Oh, you're—" The shooter caught his words. "Jimbo, I think the old coot's right! You kin smell bits ah' fresh air, too."

  The rest came over.

  "Spread your fingers and sweep them slowly," Top directed. "Move too fast and we'll never find it."

  Their hands worked the dark ether in the fashion of sluggish mimes. Then, stooped low, Geri called out.

  "Here!"


  Top got to a knee. "Right on, Sunshine! It's coming up from low in this wall." He reached in and pulled away some corroded sandstone.

  "Oh, yeah. There's big time air coming in! And maybe enough room for a dude to squeeze through."

  "Then step aside, Granpaw," called Baker. "Don't wancha' gettin' your old hide hung up in there and blockin' my way out. I'll skinny on through."

  He was gauging the opening when Geri objected.

  "No. I'm smallest. I made a promise to carry my weight. This is a chance to prove it."

  The shooter paused. "Jimbo?"

  "Let her try," answered Trennt.

  Baker moved aside and Geri shinnied bravely into the narrow crevice. Her head and shoulders disappeared. Slowly, chest and waist vanished, thighs and knees; ankles were last and she was gone.

  The gritty sounds of her movement dulled and moved steadily away. Finally they stopped.

  Top called in a harsh whisper. "Sunshine! You okay?"

  Long seconds passed without a reply.

  "Sunshine!"

  "Yes," finally came her far-off voice. "Come on through. You can make it. And you won't believe what's out here."

  Baker went next. Then Top. Steadily upward, thirty feet and more. It was a snug fit, but manageable, like a passage which had been used before. Last in line, Trennt wriggled through the final yards. He exited into a bone-grating chill.

  The path had taken them sixty feet through the settlement's rock walls. It was long after dark now and, compared to the relative in-ground warmth, the starry late night air was brutally cold. Chilled flesh joined frayed nerves as the group stood shivering, in the unexpected presence of their truck.

  It sat loaded, just as it had been taken; roof tarp back in place, weapons stacked across its hood. Even the medkit was closed and secured. In addition, their water cans were patched and filled. More brimming skins had been lashed aboard, as well. Inside rested a larder of dried gourd hunks and parched strips of lizard meat.

  They stood silent and grateful—except Baker, who broke the spell with a brusque grab at his guns.

  "Hot damn!" he yipped, stuffing them back in his belt. "Felt bare-ass naked without 'em."

  Geri soberly examined the food cache.

  "A lot given by those who don't have much to spare."

  Trennt motioned toward the medkit.

  "Take some out for us. Leave the rest here."

  Geri did as instructed, but coming upon more of the thick sugar and salt electrolyte packs, her fingers paused. After a moment, several were eased out and slid deep into a cargo pocket.

  CHAPTER 20

  They'd passed through the town's chilly fringes for the better part of a damp afternoon. Weaving a trail through the flattened roofs and buckled, weed-grown streets of some extinct blue collar burg, they toured yet another quake victim—one more left with its neck wrung and its name forever lost in the growing bitter drizzle.

  Rising from beside the truck, Trennt swiped mud and pine needles from his knee as Top jumped into the chill beside him.

  "Now what?"

  "Loose rim."

  The old man scowled at yet another in the irritating rash of recent mechanical ailments.

  "Damn, Jack! Never, ever had this many gremlins hit me in any one trip. Next thing'll be a flat in the puncture-proof tires. Lugs okay?"

  Trennt rubbed them again. "Yeah. Just in time. Threads were starting to fret. A couple miles more and they would've begun to pop."

  Again, it wasn't anything grave; merely another quirk in the chain of loose nuts, bolts, and assorted fittings, which had sprouted in the week since their return to the woodlands.

  Trennt surveyed the dismal swirling mist. Sodden tufts of shredded house insulation drooped from surrounding treetops like grotesque wads of filthy pink moss. Splintered lumber, twisted sheet metal, and tumbled brick walls cast foreboding shadows as far as he could see. There wasn't any night cover that didn't appear inadequate or risky.

  "No sense pushing on and chancing a wreck in this soup," he declared. "Let's tighten up the rim and pull over in that tree stand for the night. Seems like the best we can do."

  It looked to be the miserable start of another chilly evening, napping upright and digging deep for warmth inside their foul clothes. But drawing up her collar, Geri spied a dim flash of color and pointed.

  "What's that?"

  Top swung the truck's spotlight over. In its damp glow a broad amber-glazed shape rose: the shiny brick of a wall nearly smothered in wild brush and vines. Above it flashed a crazy glint of shattered tinted glass.

  "A church," Geri gushed, answering her own question.

  "Could be a jail cell for all I care!" squawked Baker. "Tonight it's home an' dry. Let's scope it out."

  A quick examination revealed a partially collapsed, though stabilized wall and roof; a complimentary drive-through entrance for the truck and natural vent for an indoor fire.

  First inside, Top played his flashlight about the moldering brick and fallen plaster. Aside from its scattered pews, crackled marble altar, and random artifacts, the sizeable building was a shell.

  His light bounced harshly off a stainless steel baptism font, then tracked up a bird-stained wall to a clump of uneasy pigeons roosting in the rafters. The birds bunched uncomfortably against the invading glare, but did not fly.

  Top dropped his beam happily.

  "Far out! If someone wants to wrestle that stew pot from the wall and start a cook fire, I think we just found supper."

  Windfall branches were dragged in and water added to the remaining gourd meat. Mixed with soup stock from the half dozen hapless birds Top and Baker clubbed and plucked, the first hot meal in many days began to stew. Its simmering aroma and bright hearth imparted a certain, quick hominess to the dank and abandoned building.

  The group split up to gather wood and explore. Top, having taken up station as self-appointed chef, brought out his private stash and plopped down comfortably by the fire to indulge in a predinner smoke.

  Beside him, Baker unloaded his weapons. He set the edge of a rough, whisking hand to the marble altar top before shamelessly pouring out his cleaning tools. He noticed the stone surface didn't seem as dusty as it might have been, left alone for who knew how long. But he continued on and soon the clinking of tempered steel parts jingled through the deserted sanctuary.

  From his spot at the fire Top took a deep hit off his smoke, shifted to a side, and curiously scouted Baker's exacting movements.

  "You go through that same bull on every piece, every night, even if you don't use them?"

  Baker answered without looking up. "It relaxes me. Besides, precision goods need care. Not like that old steam driven piece of yours. Where'd you find that muzzle loader anyway, the Civil War?"

  Top affectionately nudged a dirty boot against the SKS carbine beside him.

  "My daddy brought it home from the Nam—place you probably never even heard of. Dinks knew how to make them last without all the crap you go through."

  "Well, just stay downwind if yah ever have to pull the trigger. Don't want that blowin' up around me."

  Top drew another hit from his smoke and surveyed Baker.

  "How many dudes've you greased, man?"

  Baker shrugged. "Quit keepin' score."

  "Bet you've bagged your limit."

  The slender gunman disassembled his custom-made sniper rifle and lovingly reset each piece in its formfitted case. "The Good Book said when you find a talent, you should let your light shine on through. Army gave me the trainin' and job opportunities. The rest is all natural ability."

  Across the church, Top saw Trennt disappear up a run of dim choir-loft stairs.

  "You two been tight a long time, huh?"

  "Me 'n' Jimbo? Like ticks."

  "Meet up in the Army?"

  "Yep. Doin' LURP work down in the Amazon war—long range recon stuff. He was an 82nd Airborne trooper and me, a sniper. Had us spots in a nice ole Special Ops squad.

  "We'd g
o up past the DMZ. Snoop around. Blow a bridge here. Wax some enemy official there. Mebbe plant laser homing devices for our planes along high-traffic guerrilla routes. Mess with 'em. You know."

  The gunman paused in his chores, smiling fondly. "That was good duty. No questions, no rules. Just do the job. Kinda sad when it ended. We got disbanded and the Army went back to all its silly-ass stateside regulations. Me 'n' Jimbo, we lost track of each other until just a year or so ago. And here we are today, doin' almost the same thing, together again. Funny how stuff works out."

  "Deju vu," Top concurred.

  Then it was Baker's turn to critique and he glanced down with a discerning eye.

  "Musta dropped the hammer a time or two yourse'f, Whiskers. Why the questions?"

  Top sucked another deep hit from his roach. He blew a smoke ring and regarded its rise toward the cracked ceiling.

  "Old-fashioned I guess. War or self-defense is one thing; a gun for hire is another. I don't care to be somebody's amigo today and their dinero tomorrow."

  Something caused Baker to pause, but he didn't speak.

  "Back in the desert," continued the old-timer, "you'd have taken on that whole black rifle platoon right there out in the open, wouldn't you?"

  Baker replied without hesitation.

  "In a blink. I'm still disappointed I didn't kill ole scarface. He'd better hope we never meet up again."

  Top rocked his head in sour amusement.

  "You are one certified trip, Jack. I only hope if we ever do get in a firefight on this gig, you're half as good as you make out to be."

  Baker grinned privately. "Time comes, watch me work."

  "Whatever turns you on. Just don't trip out and blow your mind like back at the tribe. That's a number ten, baa-aad scene."

  Baker looked at the fire from under heavy-lidded eyes. A dark chuckle filled his throat.

  * * *

  Geri took in the church's ruined grandeur as she gathered kindling. Pausing before a huge shattered window, she studied the random shards of leftover color still clinging determinedly to its weathered leadwork. Even in this advanced dilapidation, a certain nobility remained here that she admired.

  Her study was interrupted by a flash of movement up the dim adjacent stairway. It was Trennt, involved in a more practical investigation of the ruins. Minutes later, he descended the choir loft steps to find Geri, kindling under arm, blocking his path.