Hereafter

by C. K. Crigger

  His snigger reminded her of his youth. Just a kid, really. “Maggots? Nah. They ain’t coming back anymore tonight. There’s only one or two of ‘em left.”

  “We killed that many?” Lily asked, shocked.

  “Well, hell,” Jacob said, as if it were nothing. “There weren’t more than half a dozen.”

  So much for Lily’s head count.

  Harrison Bell groaned, lids fluttering as between them Lily and Jacob picked him up and propped him against the cave wall. “Did we…?” He clutched Lily’s coat around him like a lifeline as he opened hazy eyes.

  “We’re good.” Jacob answered the unfinished question.

  “Here, Mr. Bell,” Lily said, “I have a couple aspirin and I want you to swallow them. They’ll be bitter, but they’ll soon make you feel better. Water?” She looked at Jacob. “Pills are better washed down with liquid.”

  He jumped up. “I’ll get some.”

  “Neila here?” Bell looked up at her as if hoping.

  There was that name again. Lily was working up a regular database on the woman. “No,” she said. “But trust me. These will help. They can be hard on an empty stomach, so we’ll follow up with a bite of soup.” Or they would if it hadn’t spilled.

  Bell’s eyelids fluttered. “Not hungry,” he muttered.

  Lily felt sure that was a bad sign. “The soup’ll warm you from the inside out,” she said. “Make you feel better.” It was something her grandma used to say on the rare occasion Lily came down with an illness.

  A tin cup of water dripped on her shoulder, courtesy of Jacob. “Thanks.” She dropped the pills into Bell’s mouth, open like a baby bird’s beak, and pressed the cup to his lips until he sipped a little water. Stream water, she realized, and untreated. It must be safe, after all.

  “Bitter,” he complained, but afterward he managed a few bites of soup from the still upright pot before firming his lips and refusing more. Settling back with Lily’s coat snuggled around him, his eyes closed.

  Lily’s stomach lurched as, at last, it was her turn at the soup. Remembering her bout of sickness with the water earlier, she borrowed Jacob’s cup and drank broth, leaving the pot with the bulk of meat and greens to the boy and Sliver.

  Closing her eyes at the first mouthful, she savored the taste. Salty, although she hadn’t added any. Had none to add, actually. At the second sip, a long trembling started in her belly and traveled all the way through her. By the time she finished, the tremble had abated. Some of the pain eased. Setting down the cup, she watched Jacob and the dog polish off the fruits of her labor while she checked Bell once more.

  Good, he was still breathing. Let the old man sleep. She had the boy to question, and if she couldn’t get more information out of him than she could from a wounded man, she was better off in different line of business.

  From the moment she awakened this morning, she felt as if she were living a dream. Or had stepped into another world. The feeling continued even now, seeing Jacob lying at the cave’s entrance where he had a clear view of the surrounding area. Her ally, for God’s sake, was a boy with a bow and arrows, going up against freaks with swords and rocks and sharp teeth. Maybe she was in shock, because how could all this be true?

  Wishing for a toothbrush and some minty fresh toothpaste, she cleared her throat. “You’re apt to think I’m a little crazy, but these Mags…they…” she stopped. Oh, yeah. He was bound to question her sanity. Hell, she was questioning it herself right now.

  He didn’t look around. “What about them?”

  What could she do? Ask if they were real. She knew they were. Even in the dark of the cave she could see blood splatters on her ballistic vest, and it hadn’t come from either her or the pheasant. She shuddered and changed her mind.

  “I don’t want to talk about Mags, after all,” she said. “Tell me about Neila. Who is she?”

  Jacob burped. “Good soup,” he said, adding, “Neila is our healer.”

  “Yeah. So you said. But what does that mean? Is she a doctor? A witchy woman? Old woman in an herb patch?”

  Jacob scowled. “Watch it. We all respect Neila, and you’d better too.”

  Hmm. Sensitive young soul, wasn’t he? “Sorry. I don’t mean to be disrespectful. I just want to know about her, aside from the fact she’s a healer. That’s all. Is she young? Old? Pretty?”

  He ducked his neck in a universal sign indicating he hadn’t given the matter any thought. “Pretty old.”

  What a card.

  “She’s got a kid. His name is Harmon. She’s an O’Quinn, so she’s sister to the clan chief. Cousin to my boss, too,” he volunteered, pride apparent. “Bannion O’Quinn,” he explained at Lily’s quick stare. “He’s the sheriff and war captain.”

  War captain?She didn’t want to even go there, not yet.

  “O’Quinn?” O’Quinn. She knew the name. Knew it well. Lily’s mind stuttered over this, but Jacob didn’t wait for her to assimilate the information.

  “She cleans up nice, I guess,” he continued. “She’s so much older than me I never thought about it. She’s older than you, too. Neila is just Neila.” He went quiet a moment. “Neila knows things other folks don’t. All the O’Quinns do. It’s like—”

  “Like what?” She tensed.

  Lily heard Sliver panting as he lay by his sleeping master, the dog’s breathing loud.

  “Magic,” Jacob finally said, but he hurried to add, “They’re not magicians, though. I’m not saying they are. They’d never go along with that bunch. Honest.”

  ‘That bunch?’ Lily echoed, not in the least reassured as she remembered Harrison Bell believedshe was a magician.

  ***

  Bannion rose in his stirrups, easing his tired butt and stretching stiff legs. His eyes rested on the vista of dark green water spreading all the way to the mountains. The wind promised at sunrise had arrived, frosting choppy waves with whitecaps.

  From the site of this morning’s skirmish, to the turn-off leading to clan headquarters had taken most of the afternoon. Moving slowly, the posse found traces of Mags all along the way; some of which the mutants hadn’t bothered to hide. Bones, shit, cooking fires, broken weapons. And blood, of course. Anywhere you found a Mag, you also found blood.

  They’d flushed two more only a couple miles from here, a male and female still bearing vestiges of humanness. Zelnor had quietly dispatched them. He couldn’t say it eased his mind, finding so many this close to headquarters, and with no trace of Harrison Bell. The Mags hadn’t come this close in years. What had emboldened them now?

  Bannion figured he knew. He figured the Mags had gotten Harrison.

  “Mr. O’Quinn, sir, we’ve found something you need to see.” Kira Shandy loped up to Bannion, spinning her horse to fall in beside Nog. Although she sounded calm enough, her cheeks were flushed and her brown eyes flashed.

  She was a pretty girl whose excitement added to her charm, and Bannion admitted he got a little stirred just looking at her. A patrol wasn’t the time to pursue, or even to think of that twitchy fellow in his britches however, and he accepted her report with appropriate gravity.

  “What is it, Miss Shandy? Have you found Harrison Bell?”

  “No, sir. We’ve found another dead Mag. It looks like he was killed this morning, but there’s something kind of strange.”

  “Strange? Show me,” Bannion said.

  Kira kneed her horse, leading the way to a narrow strip of beach where bushes grew within a few yards of the water. When they got to the undergrowth, she slid to the ground, saying, “In here, sir. Watch your head. We have to crawl.”

  Bannion followed her, aware of her firm bottom moving just ahead. So admirable was the sight, he nearly ran into her when she stopped after only a few feet. Not nearly long enough, considering the view. But then, he already knew what lay ahead. The buzz of a thousand flies along with the prevailing stink of death warned him. The only question was who—or what.

  He wriggled up until they were even. The b
rown-haired girl who’d been riding drag with Rondo Zelnor earlier was already there, ducked under low-hanging foliage and squatting by the body of a male Mag, one of the three-eyed variety, intent on examining the wound in its ribs. Fresh blood, still sticky, bathed the Mag’s thin chest.

  “Report,” Bannion said.

  Kira took the lead. “As ordered, sir, me and Dulce and Luke were scouting ahead. Dulce saw a bunch of magpies diving into these bushes and chattering away, which made her curious. Then we smelled something rotten, so I sent her and Luke to investigate while I kept watch. They found this dead Mag.”

  Flies, in a loudly buzzing swarm of iridescent green, rose up in a cloud from the body as Dulce waved them away. She pointed at the wound, her voice rising in excitement. “Look here, Mr. O’Quinn. This one right here is a fresh wound. He’s only been dead a little while. But he was hurt bad before that, and holed up here, probably waiting for more of his kind to come find him.”

  “Is that so?” Bannion moved up beside her for a closer look. The smell rising from the body was horrific. Gangrene, enticing to flies, sickening to humans.

  “Yes,” Dulce replied, gagging a little. “See here. Here’s the first wound, the sick one.”

  “Do you think he killed himself when the pain got too bad?”

  “No, sir,” Dulce said confidently. “See here? What killed him was this stab wound. See the marks of a blade? But the only weapon here is a broken end of a spear, and it has a round head.”

  Bannion, whose first glance had told him as much, smiled at the girl. “An excellent observation, Dulce. I believe you’re right. Is there anything to show who finished him off?” The kids had been in here, moving around, muddling the scene. He expected there’d be little to find by now, even by as seasoned a tracker as Nate or himself.

  “No weapon left behind,” Kira said. “Whoever it was took the weapon with him. But look…” Like a prideful magician, she motioned him over to the side, and pointed at some marks showing on the soft ground. “Have you ever seen anything like this, sir?”

  Bannion peered down at a sharply delineated track imprinted in dew-dampened soil.

  “Never have,” he said. A footprint, sure, but one shod in gear new to him. Not a moccasin, like everyone—including Mags—here in the hinterlands wore at one time or another. Nor had it been made by a riding boot, with a heel mark distinct from the ball and toe. It wasn’t like the smooth-soled shoes worn by the Techs and Cits, either.

  Looking up, he found the girls focused on his reaction. There was something else, he noticed, besides the odd cuts made in the sole. “What’s your take on size?”

  Kira set her foot down beside the track. “Smaller than mine. Do you think it might be a woman, sir?”

  He shrugged. “Or a boy.”

  “Or a small man,” Dulce added and, as the other two stared at her, “Well, it could be. Maybe.”

  “Maybe.” Bannion winked at her, leaving her flustered, before shifting his attention to the other girl. “Kira, detail someone from your squad who’s good at tracking to see where this person went. The rest of us will stay here until he reports.”

  Kira’s face lit up. “Already done, sir. Jacob Felix is the best in our squad, and he’s on it.”

  Bannion started backing out of the shrubbery. “Well done, patrollers, I’m proud of you. I’ll speak of you all at the next clan meeting—a graduation ceremony seems in order.”

  He pretended not to notice the look the girls exchanged, or the delight they tried to hide. Graduation meant coveted warrior status, better than just regular patrollers or posse members. It meant you were someone in the clan. That he should promote them on their first exercise was special, but they deserved it. He had experienced men in his troop who were not as observant, nor as able to draw accurate conclusions from those observations. Rondo had done a good job with this batch of kids, even Cameron House once the boy got over his first battle wobblies.

  Out in the open again, Bannion called Sergeant Zelnor, who had allowed the patrollers to dismount, to him. “Check out the body Miss Shandy’s squad found, Rondo. Then have somebody bury it. Can’t stand the stink.”

  Rondo gawked at him. “Another Mag, boss?”

  “Yep. This one is more interesting than the other. You’ll see.” He motioned the sergeant over to what was becoming a well-worn path into the bushes.

  In seconds, Rondo reappeared, his rear skinny in baggy homespun britches. The older man grunted as he stood up. “Shall we camp upwind, boss? Or do you want to wait a while to see if Felix shows up. We’ve got another hour of daylight. Time enough to make headquarters.”

  “We’ll wait on Felix’s report. We know we’ve been driving a few Mags in front of us. I don’t want to run into a bunch of them in the dark. Don’t want to stampede them into Felix, or Harrison, either, if he’s still alive.”

  Rondo nodded. “Gotcha.” He lifted his voice, calling in a couple of weary kids who, their legs stiff, mounted up and rode out a hundred yards—perimeter guards for the camp. He set a couple others to setting up a picket line for the horses, one to digging a latrine, and three to fixing a cold meal. No fire to warn the Mags of their range, and it wouldn’t hurt the kids any. They were all healthy and young, and had been eating regularly.

  Bannion hitched Nog in the middle of the picket line. Experience had shown if a mount was stolen, it was almost always one on the end, and he never took chances with his best war horse. After that he found a relatively smooth spot near the beach on which to sit and eat his bread and cheese. Trail rations. Good, though not inspiring. He had no doubt that tomorrow the rest of the clan would be cleared to come forward, they’d settle into winter quarters, and food would be plentiful during the winter months.

  What he didn’t expect was the wait for Jacob Felix to go on through the night until the next morning when, at daylight, writing the youngest of the patrol off as dead, the troop saddled up and rode on. Bannion, grim-faced, sent a line of scouts fanning out into the meadow, moving slow and careful, until at last the headquarters buildings came into sight.

  Chapter 8

  Rongo Zelnor’s hand on his shoulder woke Bannion an hour before dawn. The sergeant’s eyes were glassy from hours spent staring into the dark during his watch. His chin bristled with graying whiskers, but his report bid fair. “Mags have vanished, boss, with nary a smell of one all night. Looks like we got’em on the run.”

  Bannion grunted a reply. Pushing his blanket aside, he sat up and yawned. He felt as tired this morning as when he went to bed. Too many nights short on sleep. Last night before retiring, he spoke with each member of the posse. Imbuing his young recruits with confidence, he figured, was more important than an hour in the sack. By the time he gave several commendations for work well done, then made a few suggestions on ways to formulate a better performance, the hour had grown late. Hell, he even stuck his nose into a couple’s personal zone regarding the impropriety of romance on the trail. Affairs of the heart were not his forte, he admitted, remembering the girl’s tears.

  “Get Jacob Felix up and send him to me,” he said, stretching arms above his head and twisting, trying to de-kink his spine. “I want his report first thing. Meanwhile, rouse the troops and have them saddle their horses. I want to arrive at headquarters by daybreak.”

  Zelnor nodded, but didn’t move. “The kid didn’t make it back, boss.”

  Teeth gritting, Bannion reached beneath the saddle he used as a pillow, found his knife and rammed it into the sheath at his side. “That’s not good,” he said finally, soul flinching from his next duty. He dreaded giving bad news to the boy’s mother.

  “Nope, not good,” Rongo agreed. “Best situation is he found Bell and Bell made him stay the night. Would’ve been the smart thing to do, considering the number of Mags we ran into yesterday.”

  “Those weren’t Felix’s orders.” Shaking his head, Bannion rose to his feet. “He was to scout and return ASAP. Do you think he would’ve disobeyed?”


  “Not on purpose.”

  “I don’t think so either. House or one of the others might, but not the Felix kid. Being the youngest, he’s always trying harder to prove himself.”

  “Have some experience with that yourself, don’t you, boss?”

  Bannion snorted. “Once upon a time.” He bent, picked up his blanket and shook the dirt off before rolling it to fit behind his saddle. “Time is wasting, Sergeant Zelnor. Let’s get moving.”

  Five minutes later they were trotting along a trail lined with thirty-year-old timber, the patrol in a double column, a configuration Rongo complained about until Bannion assured him it was safe.

  The deputy scowled. “How do you know? Granted, we ain’t seen a Mag all night, but that don’t necessarily mean they aren’t around.”

  Bannion knew they were around. Just not on this trail. So he sighed and gave Zelnor a straight answer. “The birds, Rongo. They told me.”

  Rongo glared. “Wish to hell you wouldn’t say stuff like that. It’s creepy. Makes me think you’re one of those Cross-up people.”

  “But the birds did tell me. They’d tell you, too, if you’d listen.”

  “That’s the point. They’re talking, singing, chattering…whatever you want to call it.” Bannion pretended he hadn’t heard Rongo’s crack about the Cross-ups.

  To his credit, Rongo cocked his head and did a minute of the recommended listening. “Gotcha,” he said at last. “I hear the horses, and the jingle of tack. Should do something about that, I suspect. We’re getting careless. I hear a breeze rattling in the trees and bushes. I also hear some kid—probably House—talking when he ought to have his mouth shut. And you’re right. I hear birds. Never hear any birds around Mags. I don’t know why.”

  He didn’t mention the smell of dust, of dew, of trees, and people and horses. Perhaps it didn’t occur to him that if bodies had been lying in ambush, there’d also have been the scent of crushed ferns, the acrid odor of bruised wormwood, and the sweet smell of dog fennel. Bannion felt bad about the sergeant’s lack. It meant Rongo was getting old and losing his edge.