by Joe Haldeman
His eyes were open.
“Paul?” No reaction.
I touched his skin and it was cool and dry. He didn’t blink when I touched his eyes.
I closed them.
16
We had talked a couple of times about whether it was better to lose a loved one suddenly, without warning and with no emotional preparation, or go through the agony of watching them slip away slowly.
For yourself you want it to be sudden and unexpected. But perhaps for the ones you love, you want time to say good-bye.
I still had no clear answer. If the biker gang had killed Paul there by the underpass, I wouldn’t have had the hours of talking, or trying to talk, while he slipped away. And he would have been spared the agony of a lingering death. Physical and emotional.
I had stopped crying, and started digging, by the time they came back. Cursing the blunt entrenching tool and the coarse network of roots that resisted it. I only had a small hole when Dustin and Elza came up the slope, along with two men from Funny Farm, Wham-O and one who introduced himself as Judd when he took the entrenching tool from me with quiet insistence.
“I’m sorry,” Elza said. “How many years?”
“Actual? I was eighteen when we met and a few weeks older when we fell in love, or I did. Twenty-one real years?”
“Not enough.”
“No.” How many would be enough? We had moved back to the cart, and I stared down at him, at his body. I wanted to touch him, and I didn’t want to.
Judd had followed me up, holding the small shovel like a toy in his large hand.
“Ma’am, I’ll do whatever you say, but wouldn’t it be best if we buried him in the graveyard up at the farm? You’re part of the family now.”
“Of course,” I said, and did a bad imitation of smiling. “I wasn’t, I’m not thinking straight.”
The three men had no trouble convincing Jerry to back and fill and come back down to the path with them. As we made our way along, they told me what had happened.
The gunfire we’d heard had evidently been in the nature of a probe: two or three people with automatic weapons staged an attack on the stockade’s front entrance. They killed the man who was standing guard there.
The “farmers” responded with fire from two of the guardhouses on the corners of the stockade, but worried they might have used up too much ammunition in a show of force.
When Dustin and Namir came to their aid, giving flanking fire from the east, the attackers withdrew fast, leaving a blood trail but no bodies.
Other than that first casualty, none of the good guys was injured, but it was a prudent assumption that they hadn’t seen the end of it. And they wanted us inside the stockade as soon as possible.
I thanked them for coming to our rescue so quickly. Dustin pointed out that it wasn’t exactly charity. Out there, I could be captured and held hostage. Even if they weren’t smart enough to do that, weapons and ammunition and a vehicle that ran on grass were beyond price.
A phrase with no meaning. When would things have prices again?
It wasn’t just Dustin and Namir and Judd in the rescue party. They said that Namir had wanted to come up with the horse, but the farmers already had a squad organized and on alert, which was how they were able to come back so fast. I never saw more than two of them at a time, but there were eleven others along with Judd, moving through the woods alongside of us, ahead and behind.
We moved along at a pretty good rate, and after about twenty minutes turned up into the road that cuts through the wheat field to the stockade. Judd shouted an order and then stayed back in the woods with his scattered squad.
Jerry stopped for a moment when he saw the building, and then all but trotted toward it. The double door swung open, and Namir came out on horseback to meet us.
He looked in the cart and nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“Not unexpected,” I had to say, but my voice cracked.
He dismounted and walked alongside me. “You were with him,” he said.
“Yes and no. I went off to check on a noise—a dog or a wolf. When I came back he was, he was gone.”
“Hard on you.”
Yes and no, I thought. That chest wound would not have healed without surgery. Even if he had been sheltered and comfortable, he wouldn’t have lasted very long. He probably knew that as well as I did. When we could talk, we talked of other things.
Gunfire to our right, two single shots. The horse and mule both realized it was time for speed, and we were hard-pressed to keep up with them on the way to the door. It slammed shut behind me, but they eased it back open a few inches, a guard watching through the crack.
Not a job anyone would want, sniper bait.
The place didn’t seem much changed from before except that some people carried weapons. And there were more of them. Judd confirmed that they had taken in a few neighboring families, who brought food and munitions with them.
Did they turn away people who came empty-handed? I could ask later. There were other horses and mules inside the compound, in a corral improvised from scraps of old lumber. A couple of men held it open for the horse and unhitched Jerry. They both went straight for the pile of hay, and I had a sudden vision of how hard that was to come by now. Harvesting under armed guard, quickly. The same with the orchards and other crops, and nobody would be lazily fishing out of the stream. There were chickens underfoot everywhere, which I supposed had been cute for an hour.
When would it be safe to go back to normal living conditions? Would it ever be?
Namir and Dustin and Elza helped me carry our gear to the small cabin we were sharing with two other couples. Then we went to the rear of the place, to the cemetery garden just beyond the back door.
Four living people were keeping guard in foxholes while a burial party of four others worked fast with pick and shovel. A body lay beside them under a dirty sheet stained with new blood. The man who’d been shot at the beginning of the attack I’d heard from back in the woods.
They passed us the pick, and we started breaking ground for Paul’s grave. I did a short turn, the pick much more efficient than our entrenching tool, but almost too heavy for me to swing. After a long and heavy day.
When they finished burying the other man, we stopped digging. Roz came out with two women and two children, and they each said some words, the children crying though the women had finished.
I thought I was done with crying, too, but it started again when the four of us carried Paul’s body from the cart, using a blanket as a stretcher. We lowered him into the waist-deep hole and took the blanket out; no winding sheets when cloth was getting rare. I used Namir’s knife to cut a square of cloth off my shirt, to cover Paul’s face before the dirt fell.
I cried then, and so did Dustin and Elza. Perhaps Namir would have if he could. The only humans on this planet who had been to the stars. Come back to Earth to die.
He would not have wanted a prayer any more than I would. But I tried to remember something he had said to me about how marvelously complex man was in spite of his cosmic insignificance. A shifting assemblage of atoms, mostly carbon, hydrogen, and oxygen, come together to “mimic and define” purpose in its beautiful stagger from cradle to grave.
He had been a beautiful man, full of humor and courage and love. I said that, too, after Dustin and Elza gave their farewells, and Namir said something in Hebrew. Then we each threw a handful of dirt into the grave, and Elza led me away while Namir and Dustin did the heavy work.
17
Roz had called a meeting of all the adults, newcomers and old residents, outside the dining hall in last light. There were over a hundred, mostly sitting on the ground or leaning against buildings. She began without preamble.
“We’ve all heard the same rumors. Some are exaggerated. There isn’t a huge army gathering out there in the woods. But there is a large and growing number of people, not as many as we have here. They have weapons and ammunition and a dwindling amount of food.
&
nbsp; “Some people who joined us today confirmed that they have leadership, a coalition of two biker gangs from San Francisco.”
The “biker gangs” were social clubs with two hundred years of history. They began as warring clans who roamed the old highway system on compact armed motorcycles, gasoline-powered until that became an expensive anachronism. They evolved into respected service organizations whose public appearance reflected their land-pirate origins. Mostly men, mostly fat and bearded, wearing leather clothing and tattoos. The leader would have an expensive loud antique gasoline motorcycle; the others, quiet electric scooters. They organized charity drives and always showed up in formation for parades and big games.
A few of the gangs had gone back to their violent origins years before the power went off. Then they junked their useless vehicles and took bicycles.
They knew which towns were not well defended, and raided their stores. The concentration of guns and ammunition at Funny Farm had protected them from individual gangs—but that concentration was also irreplaceable wealth in what had become a desperate firearm culture. So both large gangs had gotten together to plan a joint raid.
People who had come into the stockade for protection had wildly varying estimates of the size of the biker coalition, from a hundred to a thousand.
A hundred would be a manageable annoyance. A thousand would conquer the farm and take everything.
Namir knew how to conduct interrogations; that was his job description in a dark period of his life. Funny Farm didn’t have any of the advanced tools of the trade, but as Roz saw, he had full control of the basic ones: voice, manner, posture. A small room with one door and no windows.
She asked him to talk to each of the informers individually, alone. He didn’t raise a hand against them, or even his voice, but he got as much of the truth as they could give.
“The two gangs in charge,” Roz continued, “the Fangs and the Crips, have worked together before. They attacked compounds like ours—Bakersfield and Torrance—and left behind nothing but smoking ruins and corpses.
“The Fangs take female prisoners, for sex, but they don’t live long. When it comes to fighting, I want all of us women to remember that. Be fierce. There are”—she cleared her throat—“there are better ways to die. There are worse things than dying.
“We’re going to pull everyone inside the walls except for three scouts. They might be able to give us early warning; they might even infiltrate the enemy force and do some damage from inside. They don’t have specific orders.
“The rest of us stay inside the walls and hope they hold. The Crips have some military explosives, though they may have used them up cracking into Bakersfield. They had real walls there; it used to be a prison.
“They’ll probably attack sooner rather than later. They must be close to maximum force now, so have no reason to put it off.”
“They’ll wait until dark,” said a gray-bearded man leaning against the wall behind her. “While it’s light, they’re sittin’ ducks.”
She nodded. “Before dark we want to have all the weapons and ammunition sorted out. I don’t think they’ll likely attack from the front or rear, at least not at first, because there’s not much to hide behind.
“By Wham-O’s count, we have a basic armament of seventeen assault rifles, using the same military ammo, with only about sixty cartridges apiece, so we have to be prudent there. Likewise, Carmen brought a belt-fed machine gun, but with how many rounds?”
“Only ninety-seven,” I said. “Maybe thirty seconds’ worth.”
“We have three shotguns in different sizes, each with maybe a dozen shells. Namir has suggested that we not use them until the enemy is coming over the walls, or is inside.”
“We may lose a wall,” Namir said, “if they use explosives. So ‘inside’ becomes moot. Everybody tie a white cloth above your left biceps.” He had a pillowcase full of strips torn from a sheet. “At least at first, we’ll be able to tell friend from foe that way in the dark.
“I don’t suppose we have a strategy beyond the obvious. Fire from shelter, and don’t let them take shelter. Don’t shoot each other.
“The four of us from the starship will take care of the southeast tower,” he said, pointing. “Everybody else meet with Roz now in the dining hall. She has a chart with nighttime positions.” She nodded and led them away.
I watched them going with a rising sense of hopeless fear, panic. I wanted to run, and there was no place to go.
Elza and Dustin, holding hands, exchanged a wordless communication with Namir, and went off together for a little privacy. “Aren’t you ever afraid?” I said.
He gave me a troubled look and touched my arm, an electric tingle. “Always a little. We’ve gotten through worse things.”
But always with Paul, I thought. “So what should I do with these things?” I had the machine gun, as long as a rifle but heavier, and the plastic ammo box that weighed about ten pounds, as well as an assault rifle and a pistol.
“I’ll help you carry them up the tower. I guess Dustin should shoot the machine gun, unless you want to.”
“Oh, sure. As long as I don’t have to hit anything specific.” Or at all.
The rest of us could crowd in there with him, with rifles and the night glasses. That was what he called the big binoculars, which showed more at night, even without electronics. “Do the three-on, one-off shifts.” He smiled. “Two on, two off for now.”
I followed him across the compound to the tower, where we relieved a girl who did look relieved. She couldn’t have been fourteen, shorter than the old rifle she passed down.
There was a large wicker basket raised and lowered by a pulley, so you didn’t have to negotiate the ladder carrying things. Namir scrambled up as soon as the girl came down, and I passed up all the armaments and ammunition, along with two canteens and some bread. I got halfway up the ladder and realized I’d better go pee first, so did.
The tower was cozy but not too crowded, about six feet square. The outside walls were reinforced with thick logs, virtually bulletproof. A plank shelf, waist high, held all the ammunition, separated by type. Namir made sure I could locate them by touch.
We looked out over the wheat field and the approach road, with woods to our right. The foliage became thick a couple of dozen yards out.
“That’s the way they’ll come,” I said.
“If they hit this site at all. If they attack at all.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“No.” I could just see his face in the fading light, his lips pursing. “You try to get inside the enemy’s head. But there’s a limit to ‘what would I do in this situation?’—when you’d never be in this situation. The countryside is full of soft targets, where they could just walk in and wave some guns around and take what they want. So why attack a fortress?”
“Because it’s there?”
“Some version of that. The challenge.”
“Plunder,” I said.
“What?”
“They are pirates; you called them that. They want plunder, treasure. Funny Farm has the equivalent of gold and pieces of eight. Ammunition and food.”
“Alcohol and women,” he said. “And all this low technology, if they’ve thought that far. Lights and machinery that work without power.”
It had become too dark to see the shelf. I reached out and touched the rifle magazines, the box of pistol cartridges, the machine gun’s ammo box, with the long belt protruding. A short belt, nineteen rounds, was already locked and loaded.
He could tell what I was doing. “How do you feel about reloading the machine gun in the dark?”
“Rather you do it.”
“Okay.” He stepped around me and picked up the weapon and its plastic box. Propped it next to him and peered out into the gathering dark. “If they’re smart, they’re sleeping now. Rest up and hit us a few hours after midnight. Meanwhile, send out decoys now and then to keep us nervous and burn up our ammo.
“They could do
that for days,” I said.
“And they might, if they were a well-organized army. I think they’re itching for action and their leaders, if they have leaders, know they’ll be losing people every day. They’ll hit tonight. The only question is how long will they wait?”
As if in answer, one shot on the other side. I faintly heard a male voice, maybe Wham-O, saying, “Don’t!” There was no return fire.
“Flash suppressor,” Namir said, and I checked mine, though I remembered sliding it into place.
“Don’t start without us,” Elza said from the ladder. She crawled up onto the floor, and Dustin handed up two rifles and followed her.
“What do you think?” he said, panting.
Another shot on the other side. “I think ‘lock and load.’” Sound of greased metal, rifles being cocked. I heard Namir move the machine gun around, rattle and sweep of its ammunition belt. “This machine gun, we’ll wait for clear targets. Every fourth round’s a tracer.” We knew that, of course. It would draw attention.
“Dustin, you do bursts of three. The rest of us go single-shot for the time being?” His voice was calm, except for an edge that wasn’t fear. He was looking forward to it, in his way.
He once told me that up to a certain point, every battle you survive makes the next one easier. But everyone had a limit. Once you’ve cracked, you are like a pot that has cracked. Not very useful.
Maybe some of us were different. Maybe we started out cracked.
Another shot, and then another. My mouth and throat went dry, and I concentrated on keeping my nether parts the same.
I heard Elza unscrew a bottle and smelled sweet wine. “Here, Carmen.” It helped my throat a little, but my stomach was a knot.
Just get on with it. Please just do it. I suddenly realized that the people in the woods must feel the same way. You may not want it to happen, but even more, you don’t want to wait any longer.
“Places,” Namir said. “Carmen, come up to my left.” For a panicked moment, I couldn’t remember which was which. “Dustin, Elza, magazines on the shelf at waist height. Five or six?”