He was given a cot in a back room that had been used for storage. He was given his meals with the family, and he worked alongside the men of the family. He knew nothing about ranching or building houses, but he was strong and willing and quick. Also, he knew his Bible. This in particular impressed both the old man and his wife. Few people read the Bible now, except as literature. Religion was about as far out of fashion as it had ever been in the United States—a reaction against the intense religious feeling at the turn of the century. But Eli had been a boy preacher during that strange, not entirely sane time. He had been precocious and sincere, had read the Bible from Genesis to Revelation, and could still talk about it knowledgeably. Also, Eli knew how to be easygoing and personable, a refugee from the city, grateful to be away from the city. He knew how to win people over even as he condemned them to illness and possible death.
He wanted them all to start showing symptoms at about the same time, and he wanted that time to be soon. Left to themselves, infected people feeling their symptoms tended to huddle together in an us-against-the-world attitude. If everyone became ill at the same time, he would have less trouble keeping individuals from trying to go for help. He had started what could become an epidemic. Now, if he were going to be able to live with himself at all, he had to contain it.
He worked hard on the house that was intended for the son named Christian—Chris to everyone but his father. Christian’s wife Gwyn was going to have a baby and Christian had decided that the house would be finished before the baby arrived. Eli did not know or care whether this was possible, but he liked Christian and Gwyn. He worried about what the disease might do to a pregnant woman and her child. Whatever happened would be his fault.
Sometimes guilt and fear rode him very nearly into insanity, and only the exhausting hard work of building kept him connected to the world outside himself. He liked these people. They were decent, kind, and in spite of the angry God they worshipped, they were remarkably peaceful and uncorrupted by the cynicism and violence outside. They were good people. Yet it was inevitable that some of them would die.
The daughter Meda was doing her best to add to his burdens by seducing him. She had no subtlety, did not attempt any.
“I’d like to sleep with you,” she told him when she got her courage up. He had known since he met her that she wanted to sleep with someone, and would settle for him. He fended her off gently.
“Girl, what are you trying to do? Get yourself in trouble and get me shot? Your people have been good to me.”
“They wouldn’t,” she said, “if I told them who you are. They think heaven is only for God and his chosen.”
He became serious. “Don’t play games with me, Meda. I like your honesty and I like you, but don’t threaten me.”
She grinned. “You know I wouldn’t tell.”
“I know.”
“And if I can keep one secret, I can keep two.” She touched his face. “I’m not going to let you alone.”
Her touch produced a interesting tingle. She was coming into her time. He had apparently arrived just after her time of fertility the month before. That had been a blessing. He had been able to avoid the other two young women, but Meda would not let him avoid her. Now, she had no idea the trouble she was courting. She probably imagined a romantic interlude. She did not imagine being thrown on the rocky ground and hurt—inevitably hurt.
“No,” he said, pushing her away. She was still smiling when he turned from her and began hammering in siding nails. She watched for a while, and he discovered he enjoyed the attention. He had not believed women outside the crew would want to look at him with his body so changed. Meda was trouble, but he was sorry when she decided to leave. She looked as though she had lost a little weight, he noticed.
As she walked away, her brother Christian came out of the main house and stopped her. They were too far from Eli to worry about his hearing them, but he heard every word.
“That guy been talking to you, Meda?” Christian demanded. Eli could not recall having heard Christian refer to him as “that guy” before. For Christian this was damned unfriendly.
“Sure he has,” Meda said. “I came out here to talk to him. Why shouldn’t he talk to me?” Blast her honesty!
“What’d you say to him?”
“What did you do this morning Chris? Look in the mirror and mistake yourself for Dad?”
“What did he say to you?”
Eli looked at them and saw even over the distance that she smiled sadly. “Relax,” she told her brother. “He said no. He said the family had been good to him and he didn’t want trouble.”
Christian gave an oddly brittle laugh. “Anybody who recognizes you as trouble has the right idea,” he said. “If that guy were white, I’d tell you to marry him.”
Meda watched her brother with visibly growing confusion. Living in the house, Eli had heard enough to know Christian was her favorite brother. They had shared secrets since childhood. Christian knew how tired she was of being an isolated virgin, and she knew how nervous he was about becoming a father. Right now, she knew there was something wrong with him.
“Did you break down and buy some perfume?” he asked. “You smell good.”
Eli put down his hammer and stood up. It was beginning. Meda had bathed and she smelled of soap, but she was not wearing perfume. She was simply coming into her time. If she and her brothers lived, they would have to learn to avoid each other at these times. Now, however, Eli might have to help them. He stood still, waiting to see whether Christian could control himself. He realized Meda might not be as much in control as she should be either. He would not let them commit incest. They would be losing enough of their humanity shortly.
Eli jumped down from the floor of the house and started toward them. At that moment, Christian reached up and touched Meda’s face with one trembling hand. Then, with a strange, whining cry, he folded slowly to the ground, out cold.
Present 10
WHEN ELI AND KEIRA were gone, Blake opened his bag and turned it on again. He punched in his identity code, then the words “TIMED SLEEP” and the number three. He hit the deliver button. Moments later, he had a capsule that would put him to sleep for three hours and let him awake fully alert. Next he ordered a much less precise dosage for Meda. This he ordered in injectable form—a sleep tab.
He placed Meda’s dosage under the pillow he intended to use, then turned off the bag and closed it. He stripped to his shorts, and got into bed. Remembering Keira, he doubted that he could have slept at all without the capsule. And he had to sleep. If he did not, Meda would look at him and realize he was up to something. She might even figure out what it was. He did not underestimate her any longer.
He thought he heard her come in before he dozed off, thought she called his name. He may have muttered something before the drug took full effect.
He awakened on time, clearheaded, aware of what he must do. The room was full of moonlight and Meda lay snoring softly beside him. It amused him that she snored. It seemed utterly right that she should.
He was surprised to find himself feeling sorry for her as he eased the sleep tab from beneath his pillow and pressed it to her thin, bare right arm. She repelled him, but she was not responsible for what she had become.
There was no pain involved, but at his touch, she jumped, came awake, found him leaning over her.
“What did you do?” she demanded, fully alert.
He touched her hair, thinking he would have to hit her again, not wanting to hit her, not wanting to hurt her at all. Perhaps that was what she saw in his expression—if she could see him well enough to read his expression. She smiled uncertainly, turned her face to meet his caressing hand.
Then the smile vanished. “Oh God,” she said. “What have you done?” She reached for him, but her hands had no strength. She tried to get up and almost slid out of bed. Finally the drug stopped her. She moaned and slipped into unconsciousness.
Blake stared at her, feeling irrationally guil
ty. He straightened her body, placed her in a more comfortable-looking position, and covered her. She would awaken in three or four hours.
He dressed, looked around the room, noticed at once that his bag was gone. He looked through the closet and in the bathroom, searched the bedroom, but the bag was not to be found. Finally, desperately, he forgot the bag and began searching for the key that would let him out of the room. Since he already knew where it was not, he began by searching the one place he had ignored: the bed and Meda herself. He found it on a chain around her neck. It hung down inside her gown where he could not have touched it normally without awakening her.
Seconds later, he let himself out of the room. Feeling his way carefully, silently, he reached the front door. He wondered just before he let himself out whether these people posted a watch. If they did, he was probably finished. He hoped they had enough confidence in their ability to handle their prisoners not to bother with guards.
He slipped out and closed the door behind him. From where he stood on the porch, he could see no one. Things looked confusingly different in the moonlight. For several seconds, he could not find the car. It had been moved. He feared it had been hidden and he would have to risk stealing another. Then he saw it in the distance near one of the outhouses. Getting it started without his key would be no problem if he had time to disconnect the trap-alarm system. The alarm itself was sound and indelible dye sprayed over any would-be thief. If the thief persisted, he was sprayed with a nausea gas. The gas was utterly disabling whether it was breathed or merely came in contact with the skin. A car—even a fuel-gulper like this one—was a prestige item. The automobile age had peaked and passed. People who drove cars or rode motorcycles now were either professional drivers, the rich, law-enforcement people, or parasites. The pros, the rich, and the police usually went to even greater, deadlier lengths than Blake had to protect their vehicles.
Hugging the shadows, Blake worked his way toward his car. He had reached it and used his own special catch to get past the hood lock when someone spoke to him.
“You don’t have to do that. I have the keys.”
He turned sharply, found himself facing Keira. Solemnly, she handed him the keys. He stared at them.
“I took them,” she said. She shrugged. “Now you won’t have to worry about touching me.”
“You exposed yourself just to get the keys?” he demanded.
“No.” She was in shadow. He could not see her well enough to be certain of her expression, but she sounded odd. He took the keys and her hand, held both for a moment, then hugged her tightly, probably painfully, though she did not complain. Then he held her by her shoulders and spoke what he strongly suspected was nonsense. “Meda says the disease is transmitted by inoculation, not contact. Don’t touch your mouth or scratch your skin until you wash.”
She did not seem to hear. “I hit him, Dad.”
“Good. Get in the car.”
“He had some books—made of paper, I mean—and an old book-end in the shape of an elephant. It was made of cast iron.”
“Get in, Kerry!”
“I didn’t want to hurt him. I didn’t think I could hit him hard enough to do any real harm.” She got in through the door he had opened.
He started to close the door, then instead squatted beside her. “Kerry, did you hear anything about Rane? Do you know where she is?”
“With Ingraham and Lupe. I don’t know which house they’re in.”
She did not know. And how many people would he wake up if he tried to find out? One would be enough to recapture him. He had not even been bright enough to get himself another knife—not that the first one had done him any good. What he needed was a gun.
“Daddy, I heard something,” Keira said.
He froze, listened, heard it himself—someone moving around carelessly in the house nearest to him. It may have been just someone going to the bathroom, but it frightened him. He rounded the car in a few long steps, got in, and heedless of noise, started the engine. At that moment, someone opened the door of the house from which the noise had come. It was a man, a stranger, who actually managed to catch the car as Blake swung it around toward the rocky trail that led down from the ranch. The stranger tried to tear Blake’s door open as Ingraham had earlier. But with the car moving and his body inadequately braced, he failed to break the lock. He was dragged several yards as Blake picked up speed. As a final gesture, he managed to release his hold with one hand, raise his fist, and smash it into the window beside Blake’s head. Like the lock, the glass held. It broke, cracks raying outward in all directions from the impact of the blow, but it did not shatter. Its breaking amazed Blake. The glass was special, expected to stop bullets with less damage. Blake realized again how powerful these people were. If they caught him, they could literally tear him limb from limb.
He drove on, praying that he would see Rane, that he would have a chance to pick her up. But he saw only stick people—menacing, utterly terrifying in their difference and their intensity. In the moonlight, they seemed other than human. One refused to move from the car’s path, apparently trying to make Blake swerve and hit a house or a huge rock.
Blake did not swerve. No experienced city driver would have swerved or slowed. At the last possible instant, the “victim” leaped aside and clung to the rock like an insect.
Something that moved like a cat, but was too big to be a cat, ran alongside the car briefly, and Keira screamed.
“Don’t hit him,” she said. “Don’t hurt him!”
The car accelerated, leaving the running thing behind.
“What the hell was that?” Blake asked.
“Be careful,” she said. “Remember the rocks Eli had to dodge around.”
He remembered. It was impossible to speed past those boulders. On the other hand, it was very possible that Meda’s people in the mountains above could start rockslides that would close the narrow road entirely if he crept along slowly.
As though in answer to his thought, he heard a rumbling from above. Praying as he had not since childhood, he drove on, managed to swerve around one boulder just in time to see a rockslide beginning ahead.
He pushed the accelerator to the floor, sped past the slide area as the first rocks came down. Twice the car was hit by rocks big enough to shake it, but Blake managed to stay on the road. He did not slow down until he came to a sharp curve around which he thought he recalled a rock.
There was a rock. Many rocks. Another slide had blocked the road with a steep hill of loose rocks and dirt. Blake had no time to think. The car would climb the slide or it would not. It was a Jeep, after all, antique or no.
The car struggled for traction in the loose dirt and rock, then shuddered heavily as something landed on its roof. The something made an indentation they could see inside the car.
Suddenly Keira pushed her door open. Blake grabbed for her, not understanding. His hand just missed her as she leaned out. Then he saw what she had seen—a small, bloody face hanging upside down from the cartop.
“Rane!” he shouted. He leaned across Keira, indifferent for the moment to the way Keira bruised almost at a touch. He caught Rane’s arm, pulled her down and into the car across Keira, then slammed the door and locked it as something else began tearing at it.
Blake hit the accelerator and the car leaped onto the loose dirt and rock. For an instant, the wheels spun uselessly, throwing out sand. Then they found traction and the car lunged up the slide. A rock bounced off the windshield, chipping it slightly. Another hit the top, doing no important damage.
Blake reached the crest of the slide, rolled down it, and sped on down the mountain. Minutes later, they were in open desert. Keira and Rane, still tangled together, both hurting, both silent with terror until they looked around and saw that they had left the mountains and their captivity behind. Then they hugged each other, Rane laughing and Keira crying. Rane’s bare arms and her face had been cut and bruised somehow. If she had not been contaminated before, she was now. Blak
e worried, but said nothing. Contamination had probably been inevitable, however. The disease could be studied, understood, stopped, or at least controlled—and it had to be. The disease was only a disease. It was the willing human carriers intent on spreading it that made it so deadly.
Blake relaxed in his seat and surveyed the damage to the car. Nothing terminal. Nothing that would stop him from reaching civilization and getting medical care. He wondered why Eli’s people had not shot him, or at least shot at him. Bullets would have been more effective than rocks. But then, it was like Eli to hold back. He had saved Rane from Ingraham, held off contaminating Keira—probably for as long as he could—even tried bloodlessly to avoid a fight with Blake, though he could probably have broken Blake’s bones with no effort.
“How did you get free?” Keira was asking Rane. “Did you have to hurt someone?”
“I was tied up for the night,” Rane said. “Jacob let me loose. He didn’t like me, but he couldn’t stand the thought of anything being tied up. Then you two broke away and everyone was too busy chasing you to watch me. I almost killed myself running and falling down that goddamn mountain.”
“Jacob?” Blake said. “Isn’t that one of Meda’s sons?”
The girls looked at each other, then at him warily. “You know about Jacob?” Rane asked.
“Only that Meda has a son by that name.”
“He’s her son and Eli’s.” There was an odd pause. For the second time in twenty-four hours, Rane seemed unwilling to say what was on her mind. “Have you seen him?” she asked.
“No. But I don’t imagine he would be normal. Not after what the bag told me about Meda.”
“… he isn’t.”
“What’s he like?”
“You saw him,” Keira said softly. “He ran alongside the car for a few seconds. That was him.”
Blake frowned, gave her a quick glance. “But that was … an animal.”
Seed to Harvest: Wild Seed, Mind of My Mind, Clay's Ark, and Patternmaster (Patternist) Page 57