Starfall

by neetha Napew

  "Scare away the game," Dean said, "and it'll be hard feeding all those people."

  "Yeah, I guess so." Ryan strode out into the clearing and used the panga to cut strips of young bark from the trees.

  They used the bark strips to tie the turkeys by the feet to branches above the ground, then cut their throats. It would allow the bodies to bleed out, and keep them from easy reach of other predators while they finished the hunt.

  "There's a lot of meat here," Ryan said, meaning it as a compliment.

  "Mebbe," Dean said, "but if the hunting's good, might as well make the most of it. Gonna be aboard ship for a while. Mebbe we can jerk some of the meat down in the kitchen, get it ready to travel."

  "That's good thinking, Dean." Ryan dropped a hand on the boy's shoulder and they melted into the night again, two of the deadliest predators in the region.

  A LITTLE OVER AN HOUR later, Ryan walked drag behind Jak and Dean, his hand hard around the Steyr. Four good-sized turkeys were slung over his shoulders. Their blood streamed down his body, but he didn't care; it would wash off easily enough.

  Jak and Dean each carried another pair of turkeys, and the albino had managed to get seven rabbits. They'd moved lightning quick through the brush, but Jak had been death in motion. Dean carried a pouch with close to two dozen frogs in it that were eating size.

  The brush around the campsite had been cleared, and the companions sat around the fires. J.B. kept watch over Elmore, Morse and his sons and the others, the Remington shotgun draped loosely across his knees. A big metal tub sat on top of one of the two fires, the twisting flames licking out from beneath it and scorching the metal black.

  "Too many bastard fires," Ryan grumbled, dropping the dead turkeys to the ground. "Light this place up and some­body else sees it, we're fucked."

  "We keep running around without clothes," Mildred told him, "we could be in trouble, too." She stirred the contents of the big metal tub with a fresh-cut branch as thick as Ryan's wrist. "And wearing them all covered in dog shit is pretty stupe. Lot of animals like the smell of shit, and it's kind of hard to move around unnoticed."

  "Thought about trying to wash the clothes out in the river, lover," Krysty said. "But that would have meant whoever did the washing would be fighting leeches the whole time. And the leeches would have been all through the clothes."

  Ryan knew it was true and didn't say anything more. The scent of soaps and scouring powders tickled his nose. He crouched over one of the turkeys and started pulling feathers. Krysty joined him.

  Jak and Dean both started gutting their kills, dropping the intestines into the river so the current would take them away. They also added everything that they wouldn't be cooking. Burning it or burying it in the ground was an option, too, but the river offered the cleanest way to get rid of it.

  Krysty tore at the feathers with a vengeance.

  "How're you feeling?" Ryan asked in a low voice that didn't carry any farther than between the two of them.

  "I've got a headache that won't quit." Her face looked pale in the mix of firelight and moonlight. A slight tremble worked through her hands.

  "Any voices?"

  She shook her head hesitantly, and with care. "Phlorin's quiet for the most part now."

  "Mebbe she's going away."

  "I think mebbe she's just resting up, waiting for me to get a little weaker."

  Ryan didn't like thinking about that. He took the panga out when they had the first turkey stripped clean, then car­ried the kill over to the river. He rasped the sharp blade against the big bird's ass to open up the body cavity, then reached inside and pulled the mass of coiling guts out. They splashed into the water, tangling out like bloody ropes that sank in places.

  "Hot pipe, Dad!" Dean called. "Look!" The boy pointed out into the water, blood dripping red stains into the river from the tip of his knife.

  It took Ryan a moment to see what Dean was talking about, expecting to see something breaking the river's sur­face. Instead, he spotted the luminous dots hanging sus­pended in the water despite the gentle current. Before he drew his next breath, he knew they were eyes.

  As he watched, the luminous blue eyes glided toward the bank, drawn to the blood and waste. Large jaws distended, revealing long yellow fangs. They tore into the discarded intestines and body parts with savage relish, shredding flesh.

  "You might want to watch yourself," Morse called out in his gruff voice. "Some of them damn piranha grew legs around here and learned how to come crawling out on the bank when they've a mind to."

  "Now there's a cheery thought," Elmore grunted in dis­gust.

  "J.B.," Ryan called.

  "I heard," the Armorer responded.

  "Let's make sure we let Doc know when he gets back."

  "It'll make for interesting guard duty," Mildred com­mented sourly.

  "Can you eat them?" Dean asked, as he continued watching the fish.

  Ryan knew it was a sensible question, and probably one of the most directly related to their continued survival.

  "Those bastard fish carry a poison with them," Bud said. "Get it from the contaminated water. Mebbe you get lucky and drink from the water and the worst you might get is a night of belly cramps. But you eat them fish, you're more than likely good as dead."

  "And there ain't no meat to speak of on them," Sandy interjected. "Tough, worthless fuckers, you ask me."

  Ryan finished gutting the turkey, then took the next one Krysty handed over. He glanced up at the dark clouds scud­ding across the pinched face of the waning moon. "Could rain again tonight. Let's get those tarps up, as well." He glanced at Krysty, seeing how pale she was and how her hands shook as she pulled feathers from the third turkey. He bitterly cursed the ill fortune that had found them, then pushed it away. They were doing all they could do. He just hoped it was enough.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Doc wandered back into camp less than an hour later, loaded down with vegetables and fruits he'd scavenged from the surrounding terrain. "Happily, my good friends," he said in a tired voice, "this hallowed ground does offer up a veritable cornucopia of victuals and refreshments. And you left the scent of yon fine birds basting in nature's juices over a slow fire to mark my way home." He made a pro­duction out of drawing in a deep breath through his nose, then sighed contentedly.

  "What the hell's he saying?" Bud demanded.

  "He's saying he found a lot of stuff and that the turkey smells good," Dean translated.

  "Then why the fuck didn't he just say so?"

  "He did," Dean said.

  "And you understood him?"

  "I've had some schooling." Dean said.

  "You've had schooling?" Elmore asked from the other side of the fire.

  "Sure," Dean replied. "Why?"

  Elmore shrugged. "Just surprising is all."

  "Heard of Nicholas Brody?" Dean asked.

  "Seems like I have. Got a place down Colorado way."

  "Went to school there for a while," Dean said. "Mebbe I'll go back some day."

  Ryan swapped looks with Krysty, noting the thin smile that filled her pale face. It was the first time the boy had ever said that.

  "Schooling can be a good thing," Elmore stated. "Pro­vided that ain't all a man puts in his head."

  "Schooling's for pussies," Bud said derisively.

  "Waste of fucking time," Sandy added.

  Dean swiveled his gaze toward the brothers. "You know how to do anything more than read and write your names?"

  "Don't know how to do that," Sandy said.

  "Don't see how we're going to need to," Bud replied.

  "Least you could make sure somebody spelled it right on your marker you do something stupe that gets you chilled," Dean told them. Color touched his cheeks, and Ryan knew his son was a little embarrassed to have taken pride in something the other boys were determined to rid­icule.

  "For pussies," Bud repeated.

  Sandy flipped Dean off, shoving his middle finger defi­antly into
the air.

  The turquoise-handled knife appeared like magic in Dean's hands. "Be glad to trim that finger off for you if you can't control it," he stated in a low, cold voice. "And shove it up your ass for you if you want to keep it as a souvenir."

  Morse glanced at Ryan, as if expecting him to back Dean off. Ryan returned the man's gaze without expression. Dean was old enough to start picking the fights he was going to stand up in, and to choose the things he was going to be willing to fight over.

  Bud and Sandy suddenly didn't look so sure of them­selves when no adults took a hand in the brimming argu­ment.

  Obviously angry over the turn of events, Morse stood and walked over to his sons. He slapped each of them on the head with quick hands. "You fuckers stop acting so stupe and shut your damn mouths."

  "He started—" Bud said.

  Before the boy could say another word, Morse back­handed him to the ground. Blood trickled from a split lip.

  "Don't make your last mistake, boy," Morse snarled.

  Bud pushed himself back into a sitting position but didn't say anything. Morse continued on to the campfire and poured a fresh cup of coffee sub and returned to his place.

  Ryan ignored the exchange, but realized that Morse was more afraid of them than the man let on. The sailor also resented it, not being a man used to fear.

  J.B. got another coffee refill, as well, squatting close to Ryan and speaking only so they could hear. "Made your­self an enemy," the Armorer commented.

  "Know it," Ryan said.

  "Best if we parted company with him soon as we can."

  "You feel comfortable piloting Junie along this river during rainy season?"

  "Nope."

  "Me, neither."

  J.B. took a sip of the coffee sub. "Going to have to keep an eye on him. Man gets that fearful of you—"

  "He'll stick a shiv in your back just to try to convince himself he's immortal again," Ryan finished. It was some­thing the Trader had taught them back on War Wag One. And it had proved true on a number of occasions.

  SINCE THE MODEST DOC had gone into the brush in only his long underwear, he'd had to improvise on methods to carry the vegetables and fruits he'd found. Using some of the long yellow grasses that grew abundantly in patches along the broken countryside, he'd twisted them into a webbed harness with small pouches that carried wild onions, garlic, blackberries, green apples, mushrooms, strawberries and herbs he'd recognized even in the moonlight.

  With Mildred's and Dean's help, Doc removed the tur­keys from the spits over the fire long enough to stuff them with the onions, garlic, apple slices and herbs. In moments, the aroma drifting off the cooking birds turned even more enticing.

  Ryan's stomach growled in anticipation.

  While they waited, the water heated up in a big tub that had been brought over from Junie. Steam curled up from the edges, letting them know it was hot enough to cook whatever leeches clung to the clothing. Washing got under way, with each person taking care of his or her own gear. Only two sets of clothing at a time could be washed before the water was so foul with dog shit that any further washing had to be postponed until more water was heated.

  There was a moment of consternation when a group of piranha pulled themselves up on shore and came at the campsite. A flurry of blows from makeshift clubs and rifle butts killed them out quick enough, and Ryan made sure all the corpses were kicked back into the water. He didn't know if there was a way to drain the poison out of the fish, but he didn't want Morse to have the opportunity to use it against them later.

  BY THE TIME the turkeys were ready, so were most of the clothes. Ryan opted to pull his on and let them dry on him rather than hang them from the branches the way Jak and Dean did. Being dressed made him feel more ready to move.

  Metal and ceramic plates from Junie's stores handled the food. There was also silverware. They all piled their plates high.

  "Alas and alack," Doc moaned theatrically as he hunkered down with his back to a tree, "would that we might have been able to break bread with this meal."

  "You'll be breaking wind soon enough after you stuff yourself," Mildred stated. "Judging from past perform­ances."

  Doc drew himself up. "Madam, you are ill-mannered."

  "But truthful." Mildred smiled as she bit into a chunk of turkey breast she held in her fingers. "Anyway, if you had bread, you'd be moaning that you didn't have butter to go with it."

  "In part," Doc admitted, "you are right. I should content myself on enjoying this fine repast we have managed for ourselves rather than lamenting what we do not have."

  Ryan listened to the conversation but didn't take part. He ate with real appetite and turned his thoughts to what they were going to need to do to set things right. The meat tasted good, still managing to carry the flavor of the bird's own juices mixed in with the herbs and vegetables Doc had found. And the fruits carried clean, sharp flavors. He ate until near bursting, Krysty sitting beside him.

  But they didn't talk. And Ryan was cognizant of the heavy silence between them even in the midst of the con­versations circulating around them.

  PHLORIN SPOKE. This is only part of the heritage you carry now within you.

  For a moment, Krysty thought her mind had been bring­ing up an old nightmare. The witch's interjection, however, let her know the woman was controlling what she was see­ing. She remembered lying next to Ryan, smelling the dampness that lingered in his clothes, making the detergent in them a little stronger. And she thought she remembered when he'd gotten up to relieve J.B. on watch.

  But she wasn't sure about that now.

  She stood in the middle of a street in a huge ville, a cancerous orange sun hanging overhead and peering fitfully through layers of indigo-and-charcoal clouds. Wags lined the streets, some of them resting against one another where they'd wrecked.

  White-gray ash overlay everything like a blanket of snow. It was inches thick in places, piled deep on the wags, against the tall buildings, strewed across the bloated corpses. Tiny breezes carried whirling ash dervishes yards away. Nothing lived.

  Krysty tried to stop her movement, struggled to stop walking through the deathscape rendered in ash and pain around her. But she couldn't; in the twisted nightmare, Phlorin controlled her body. Instead, Krysty turned her ef­forts to waking. She reached out for Ryan, feeling the emp­tiness that was there. Only the old woman living in the back of her brain didn't allow her to maintain that sensation.

  This is your legacy, Phlorin said.

  Not mine, Krysty argued.

  You can't walk away from this. The Chosen are here to know.

  To know what? Krysty scanned the death and destruction that lay in all directions around her. Despite all her expe­rience with sudden death, with all the forms it could man­ifest itself in, these sights left her cold. There had been, she knew, life there in those streets only hours ago.

  Now it was all gone.

  She strode by a young man lying in the street, brickwork smashed around him from the nearby building. The swirling ash partially covered his face, but it hadn't completely filled in his open mouth or the gaping eye socket. His limbs were twisted mockeries of anything human, the flesh burned from them in places from a searing heat.

  To know what was here before, Phlorin answered her question.

  What was where?

  Here. In Deathlands before it became called Deathlands.

  If you can remember all of this, why can't you remember anything further back?

  I can. I have the memories of my sisters to rely on.

  The sensation of movement left Krysty dizzy. The scene before her blurred and changed. In moments, she seemed to be standing on the same street—or one like it—before the nukecaust had erupted and changed it forever.

  The street was alive with movement and throbbed with an incessant noise like Krysty had never heard before. Wags raced along the street in both directions, clustered more tightly than an anthill, and people flowed along the sidewalks in dresses and
clothing Krysty had seldom seen.

  What is this place? Krysty asked.

  A ville called Seattle. In its day, it was one of the largest villes in the predark times. It was drank down during the quakes that took the western coast.

  How do you know about it? Krysty had seen fragments of vids concerning the ville. She'd even read about it in movie books that had survived the nukecaust and the in­tervening century. But never in all the vids and the images the books stirred up in her imagination had the ville ever seemed like this. She felt claustrophobic, lost amid the crush of people and wags, the noise and the smoke that burned the back of her throat.

  One of the Chosen, an ancestor of mine, lived here at the time.

  Krysty reached out for one of the people walking past her, wrapping her hand around the wrist of a man in a sharply fitted dark blue suit. She was surprised to realize she'd touched flesh over hard bone.

  The man turned and gazed at her, cocking his head to one side. "Can I help you, miss?"

  "No," Krysty told him. "No, thank you. I'm quite all right."

  The man appeared uncertain for a moment, then moved on, rejoining the thronging flock that trudged along the sidewalk. She watched him go with mixed emotions.

  How can you remember this? she asked.

  Our memories go back generations. Our biggest con­cerns aren't how we remember, but how is it you don't.

  No one can remember like this, Krysty protested.

  We do.

  How?

  Someone has to keep records. Someone must learn the truth.

  The truth of what?

  Of how all this came to be, Phlorin said.

  It happened because of the nukes, Krysty replied. Gov­ernments stocked them before skydark. More than enough to kill the world a hundred times over.

  But who set off the nukes?

  Krysty walked down the sidewalk, her eyes drawn to the shop windows filled with dresses, electronics, books and other merchandise. All of them seemed to glitter and appear ethereal.

  If you talk to different people, you get different answers about that. And most people don't care at all anymore. It doesn't matter.