The Archivist

by Tom D Wright

  “So we made it to the other side?”

  “Yeah. It started snowing right after the accident, but Little Crow was right about it just being light flurries.” Danae applies an herbal compress to my left temple, and then wraps a new bandage on my head carefully as she continues. “You needed a litter, so he made one of those triangle things you hauled the generator with. Saffron pulled it most of the way, but dragging the litter slowed us down quite a bit.”

  “Where is Little Crow?”

  “He and Malsum are out hunting. They found some sort of tracks that got him quite excited.”

  I swallow another cup of soup. Then, without willing it, I am out again. When I wake up, it is dark and I am lying next to a campfire.

  “So, you want to build your shelter under a tree with broad leaves, the kind that slope away from the trunk so they funnel the rain away. Then you take the branches and lean them upside down like this…” Little Crow holds up a small forked branch, explaining some basic woodcraft to Danae. This time I manage to sit up on my own.

  “What kind of nonsense are you filling her head with?” I interrupt Little Crow.

  “The kind that might keep her alive,” Little Crow laughs. He comes over and crouches next to me, then gives me a light clap on the shoulder. “It’s good to see you back in the world of the living. I started thinking you liked it there in the spirit world.”

  “They wouldn’t have anything to do with me, so they sent me back,” I respond. “Danae tells me we made it through the mountains.”

  “Yes,” he says, and resumes his place by the campfire. “A couple hundred yards from here, the forest gives way to the grasslands. As we came down the slope, I think I saw your town in the distance. I’d say it’s a two-day ride, once you can travel again. But there’s a problem.”

  “Really?” Danae and I echo each other. This must be news to her as well.

  “Malsum and I tracked a large band of nomads. They’ve been living in this area for at least a year, probably two hundred men and about half that many women, plus a number of children.”

  “Disciples?” I ask.

  “No!” Little Crow snorts with a laugh. “Southern men. Can’t understand a damn word they say, but they are so clueless I could sneak in their camp and climb into bed with their women, and they wouldn’t be any wiser. Plus they destroy everything, like a swarm of locusts. Their camp is about an hour from here, and they wiped out or drove away most of the game. So they’ve started raiding the farms and ranches out on the plains. We’ll need to watch out for them.”

  Based on Little Crow’s description, these are probably Hombres. I have no particular fondness for these wandering bands of predominantly Hispanic nomads that have ravaged the North American Midwest since the Crash, but they are better than Disciples. Mostly.

  Ironically, post-Crash America has become remarkably similar to pre-European America. Like the Native American tribes that once roamed the landscape, Hombre bands forage for sustenance and maintain a hunter/gatherer lifestyle. And like the Native American peoples, many Hombre tribes are peaceful and hospitable, even if wary, while other bands are downright vicious. Little Crow is right: we will have to be cautious, because there is no telling which kind of Hombres these are, unless we run into them.

  Over the next couple of days, my head pain subsides and I regain my strength, starting with short walks and working up to a brief ride one evening at dusk. Danae dotes over me like I am a sick little kid. I suspect she would make a wonderful mother one day, if she ever decides she wants to be one.

  The next morning, Little Crow takes me to see the roaming band he found, but we leave Malsum behind, as much to protect Danae as the Hombres.

  Like he said, the group is spread out in a small valley. We crawl through some brush to a ridge that overlooks the encampment, where we watch the Hombres for several hours.

  In the first years following the collapse of technology and the ensuing holocaust of an extended nuclear winter, virtually all organized society vanished. There was nothing to stop the onslaught of chaos and anarchy which occurred in the absence of any government, as waves of human migrations swept over the breadbasket of the Americas in a pattern as old as humans have been around. In fact, Australia was the only continent not ravaged by migrations, while Asia is still reeling from continued movements of population.

  Before the Crash, corporations took over 98% of North American farming, and made enormous strides in exploiting the majority of farmland on the other continents as well, particularly Africa. Human farming could not approach the efficiency of automated farming with robots, but an unfortunate consequence was that virtually all food production ceased when the robots went berserk, and ravaged both crops and equipment before self-destructing. Aside from scattered Amish communities, few remaining humans were equipped with the knowledge to maintain the farms, let alone the tools to manage even small homesteads.

  Hordes of starving humanity swept over the former heartland, picking clean what little they could find until, finally, they turned against each other in cannibalistic horrors that became legend. Scattered remnants survived those first months and years—called the Demon Days—to form the bands of Hombres. One of them is now spread out in the small valley below.

  Little Crow is right: they seem to have been here for a while. Long enough to build up a sizable mound of trash in a small ravine. And they are comfortable enough with their position that they have gotten slack with their sentries, when they even have any.

  They are Hombres, but I have never heard of them this far north before. The Disciple territory has served as an effective if unintentional buffer to the south, so somehow this band must have been cut off from their southern homeland.

  Little Crow and I retreat cautiously back down the ridge and return to our small encampment. Danae has a stew simmering in a small kev-alum Dutch oven that Little Crow brought. The advanced material has the strength and durability of cast iron, with the weight of aluminum. The survivalists certainly were well prepared.

  Based on the pile of feathers I find down by the stream, I suspect that Danae’s stew meat is some sort of fowl. While eating, we agree to leave for Georges in the morning. I lie awake much of the night. Maybe I have slept too much in the past few days, but I keep thinking about that generator, and asking myself why the Disciples want it so much. The brilliantly twinkling stars offer no answers.

  As soon as the sky begins to lighten, we break camp and head out. The air is cold but the sky is clear, and when the sun finally comes up, it quickly warms us. Little Crow and Malsum lead the way alongside the stream, which has worn a shallow cutout across the plain.

  It is only ten feet deep, but wide enough that it forms a sort of roadway for us to follow while we stay out of view of anyone on the plains. Due to the clear skies, we do not worry about flash floods, but now and then Little Crow hops off his horse and scrambles to the top of the small ravine we are following to scan the horizon.

  Just before noon, he scurries back down, and warns us that a small party of Hombres is approaching.

  “I speak their language a little,” I tell Little Crow as I swing down off my mount. “If we can’t avoid contact, maybe I can warn them off.” Little Crow gives me a skeptical shrug.

  I unhitch and load my pistol crossbow while Danae unwraps her sling and picks out a handful of ammo from stones lying on the ground. After tying up our horses, Little Crow instructs Malsum to stay put, and we ease our way up to the top of the ravine. If they catch us at the bottom, it will be like shooting fish in a barrel.

  A group of eight men approaches us casually along the edge of the cutout, apparently looking for a good place to cross. Three of them are on horseback. Danae has proven the effectiveness of her weapon, so Little Crow indicates to Danae and me which riders we should each target. Malsum crawls up to crouch down alongside Little Crow, her tail twitching with anticipation.

  Four men—including the rider leading the group—have the dark hair and swarthy c
omplexion typically associated with people of Mexican or Central American origins. The two other riders are White, one of the men on foot is Asian and the last one is Black.

  Just as the composition of the Strohomish survivalists has evolved, so also the Hombres are Hispanic in origin, but over the decades they have become as diverse as any other group, and just as complicated. When less than one person out of a thousand remains alive, survival has a way of making racial distinctions insignificant.

  They are about twenty yards away when I rise and take a step forward out of the shrubs, holding my free hand up in the universal, open gesture of peaceful intent. But my crossbow dangles from my other hand as a sign that I am not stupid, either.

  “Stop, don’t come any closer,” I warn them, and the men on foot stop while the horsemen pull up. “Aquí no hay nada mas que la muerte.”

  One of the mounted Hombres laughs. “Estas mintiendo culero. Mátalo.” He gestures toward me, and his men rush forward.

  I am not sure what the exact translation would be, but his intent is clear enough for me. I swing up my crossbow as I kneel to present a smaller target, and take out the outspoken leader. Little Crow lets loose an arrow while Danae stands and whips her sling over her head in one fluid motion. The three men on horseback drop before the group even realizes that I am not alone.

  The horses mill about in confusion among the remaining men, who scream curses at us as they dash forward to attack. Then Malsum bounds over the edge with an unnerving roar which combines the wail of a banshee with the deep rumbling of a racing diesel engine. The enemies’ horses shriek and bolt. Two of the men flee, screaming as well; Malsum takes off after them.

  The other three race toward us, and one draws a pistol while I am still reloading my crossbow. He points the weapon at me, but before he can shoot, Danae’s sling whistles, and the man flops like a dropped puppet, a stone planted in his forehead.

  Quickly, Little Crow and I dispatch the other two Hombres. Aside from a slash on my forearm which I don’t remember getting, we emerge unscathed.

  Danae scrambles back down into the ravine to tend to our frightened horses, while Little Crow and I check our opponents. Of the eight men, four are dead, two are badly injured and Malsum chased off the last two men who were on foot. The rider-less horses are just receding dots in the distance, so we are not too worried about pursuit.

  After a quick examination of the bodies reveals nothing of material or informational value, we leave the two survivors to fend for themselves, and continue on our way to Georges. We see no further sign of the Hombres.

  I figure that their strategy is to hang out near the hills, where they can make a quick escape into the mountains if the locals get serious about rousting them, but that is unlikely, because no local government has the resources to raise an organized force that can take them out. If they could, they would have done it long ago.

  We continue along the winding gully for another day, until it widens into a copse of trees, and the stream disperses onto the wide-open grassland. Little Crow decides that he and Malsum will make camp, and wait here until I return from the town.

  Little Crow made it clear outside of Entiak how he felt about entering large towns, and he is not about to leave Malsum.

  Danae and I continue. It is midafternoon when we see the town walls in the distance. We come across a dirt road that leads past farmland; local farmers scrutinize us warily as we pass, but they ignore us when we do not present a threat.

  To pass the time as we ride, Danae tells stories about growing up as a physician’s daughter, and some of the cases Doc handled. Life in her small town was more interesting than I would have expected. In another age she could have written a memoir, but it will be generations before that market comes back around, let alone the presses needed to support it.

  “I’ll never forget one embarrassing thing that happened,” Danae says. “I was eleven, so it was maybe a year after my mother died. I was helping Papa mix up some ointments for cuts and burns, when someone banged on the door and said the blacksmith needed a doctor. We hurried up the street to the edge of town where the blacksmith shop was. When we got there, we found the man trapped under a fallen wagon, with his pants down.”

  “I could see why an eleven-year-old girl would be embarrassed,” I reply.

  “That’s not the half of it. His pants were down because he was on top of his neighbor’s daughter. She was pinned underneath him with her legs spread. The poor girl was only five or six years older than me at the time, and crying her head off. Not because she was hurt; she was humiliated and the blacksmith’s wife was there, yelling at both of them.”

  “That must have been awkward,” I say.

  “No kidding. I had heard rumors about sex from the other kids, but my mother died before she explained where babies came from. So I was both fascinated and horribly uncomfortable at the same time. Papa had to explain it to me afterward. Anyway, the wife had come into the workshop looking for her husband and didn’t see him anywhere, so out of frustration she pushed on a wagon that was being repaired on a stand. It went sideways and fell on the unlucky couple, who were hiding behind it. Papa was trying to examine the man’s broken legs, while I had to fend off the wife and her broom. She kept…”

  Danae continues talking, but I stop listening and examine the horizon. I pull up on the reins to halt my horse.

  “What is it?” Danae asks, as she stops her mount.

  I point toward a rising column of dust to the south. “I don’t have a good feeling about that.”

  We are perhaps a half-mile from the town wall. This is not a particularly arid region, so it must have taken a sizable group of some sort to raise that much dust.

  In theory, it could just be a large merchant caravan, but so far nothing on this retrieval has been easy. I have no reason to think that is about to change now, so I urge us forward to the gate, where two sentries eye us as we ride up.

  “I haven’t seen you before,” one of the guards challenges me—a strapping man with bright red hair. “What brings you to Georges?”

  “We are coming to visit a friend,” I reply. “Angelina, she runs an apothecary on the north side. At least she did a couple years ago.”

  The other guard nods. “I know the one he’s talking about. They’re okay.”

  “Fine, go on through,” the first guard grunts, and moves from blocking the gate.

  It has been years since I have been here, but the streets are still familiar. I wind my way through the maze of buildings until we come to the small herbal pharmacy that my friend owns and runs. We dismount, and tie our horses to a nearby hitching post.

  The shop looks like Angelina still runs it. I am wondering how I am going to explain Danae to her. Even more than that, how do I explain Angie to Danae?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Before we enter the shop, I hold Danae back. If I had the choice, this is one of the last places on Earth I would be right now, but my road to Wolfengarde lies through this shop. I am not sure which I am more nervous about: meeting Angelina again, or having Danae meet her.

  “I should warn you, it’s been a while since I last saw Angelina, and we didn’t exactly part on the best of terms. So just saying, I’m not certain how this is going to go.”

  “What do you mean? Did you two, you know…” Danae lets the question trail off.

  “Sleep together? No,” I chuckle as I answer. “I don’t get involved romantically when I’m on retrievals.” Danae skewers me with an exaggeratedly skeptical look. “Port Sadelow was an exception, and it was just that one time. Anyway, she was angry at what didn’t happen.”

  That raises another doubting eyebrow. “So how bad was your parting? Was it ‘don’t leave but if you must, write me once in a while’ or more like ‘get the hell out of here and don’t ever let me see your face again’?”

  “Based on the fact that I dodged a couple of thrown knives, I’d say more the latter.”

  Danae gapes at me. “And you think c
oming back here is a good idea… why?”

  “Well, she didn’t hit me when she threw them,” I say, then push the door open and enter.

  A small bell jingles as we step inside a cozy shop which is essentially a miniature drugstore. Rows of shelves line one wall, with an assortment of bandages, wraps and products for all sorts of ailments. A counter runs alongside the other side of the shop, and the wall behind the counter has several more rows of shelves packed with jars and bottles of herbs, powders and other raw ingredients for mixing potions, poultices and other naturopathic remedies.

  This is the post-Crash version of pharmaceuticals. At the far end of the counter, a curtain dangles across an entryway leading into the back.

  As Danae closes the door behind me, a stocky but athletic woman in her mid-twenties with black hair and a swarthy complexion sweeps through the curtain. “I’m getting ready to close, so if…” The woman comes to a dead stop when she recognizes me, then scowls. “You! It takes nerve to show up after all these years, you son of a mongrel bitch.”

  “I’m glad to see you too, Angie.” I watch carefully for whether she reaches under the countertop for the crossbow I know she keeps loaded, but instead she leans over the counter and rests on her elbows.

  She instantly sizes me up and spares a quick glance at Danae. “How long has it been? Oh yes, five years, eight months, thirteen days, going on ten hours. Not that anyone’s counting. Who’s the broad?”

  “This is Danae. She’s a friend.” Angie does not care much about explanations, so I will not even try.

  “Really, a friend? I didn’t know you had any.” Angie walks around the counter with a slight limp. That is new. She circles around Danae slowly, examining her up and down like the other woman is a side of beef. I almost expect Angie to check Danae’s teeth. “Yeah, I see the attraction. You know, honey, you’re going to wake up one morning next to an empty blanket when he’s done with you. And he won’t leave you so much as a ‘thank you’ note for your trouble.”