The Beachhead

by Christopher Mari

  There had been no way for them to prepare for what they were now seeing—or even to know if what they’d glimpsed would still be on the other side of the ridge, as fast as it had been moving. What had seemed like a single black mass moving across the landscape was in fact thousands and thousands of individual animals.

  “Buffalo,” John muttered. “My God, it’s a herd of buffalo.”

  Kendra’s voice caught in her throat. “It can’t be. Weren’t they hunted to extinction? I think I read that in a book in the Archives.”

  “They almost were.” He felt his eyes watering. “My mother once said it was one of mankind’s greatest sins—and greatest achievements that they were brought back from the edge of extinction.”

  “But what—what are they doing here?” Kendra said as she peered at the great beasts with their shaggy brown coats. They were more than six feet tall and around ten feet long. Every supple undulating movement of their slow-motion grazing was hypnotic.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I just can’t understand it.”

  “I want to take a closer look.”

  She stood up and slowly began to work her way down the other side of the ridge. John said nothing, just watched her hips find the most careful steps in the grass until she disappeared from sight. Then he got up and followed her. She approached the outer edge of the herd and came within about two feet of the snout of the nearest one, who looked at her as if she were as interesting as a tree.

  John came down toward her, still fearing that she could get trampled at any second. She shook her head at him.

  “They’ve never seen people, John. They couldn’t have.”

  He moved to stand beside her, trying not to make any sudden shifts as he progressed but keeping his carbine at the ready. He watched the herd lazily milling around as they chewed the high grass.

  Her face burst with joy and mischief. “I bet you could even pet one.”

  “Kendra. Don’t.”

  “I didn’t say I would try it.”

  “Good.”

  He looked at her, then at the animals all around him, each alive, each so beautiful, each a survivor of a near extinction. He looked at them and thought of all the ones who hadn’t lived, human and buffalo, whose lines had ended on a planet dead for generations. And he thought: And this one lived and this one lived and this one lived—the same thought he often had while walking down warm nighttime streets in the city and seeing old couples walking hand in hand or laughing crowds of tipsy Novices or young parents out on an evening stroll with their children. Why had all these lived and others had not? Billions of lives cut short. A million billion children unborn. An infinite number of useful existences extinguished, prevented, smothered, silenced, deleted. And this made sense? And this was justice? He looked at these magnificent beasts, the ones that had lived, and his face broke as he caught Kendra’s eye.

  “We haven’t had any meat in days, Kendra.”

  “Oh Johnny.” She looked all around. “John.”

  “And it’s getting pretty cold at night and we could use their skins.”

  “You son of a bitch.”

  She looked into the eye of the one nearest her hand. He was a bit smaller than the others, perhaps not fully grown. She could see her reflection in his eye if she stood at the right angle.

  “I’ll do it,” he said. “From the ridge.”

  “No,” she said with finality. “I’m the better shot, and I’ll put him down clean.”

  He said nothing. She made her way back up the embankment as he followed in her wake. He was to her left and slightly below her as she leveled her rifle at the one she had been tempted to pet. It was a clean shot that brought down its victim and cleared the plain of survivors, leaving man alone again in the world with his works.

  CHAPTER 12

  The buffalo were running over a cliff. He watched as they dropped one by one and almost too slowly over the side and somehow wound up in his mouth. But no, that didn’t make sense. They had cooked the one they shot. So why did he taste blood?

  John awoke and coughed and spit out blood and sand, then felt inside his mouth to see if he had done more that bite the inside of his cheek. All the teeth were still there, somehow still tight. He spat a couple more times with his head on the sand. The spittle went from bright red to pink and dissipated very quickly when it hit the water nearby. He soon realized he wasn’t just spitting into the water but was sitting mostly in water, soaked to the skin and having no idea how he had gotten that way.

  He looked up. His head spun as he tried to clear his vision. Splintered fragments of logs surrounded him, the hemp ropes that had bound them together drifting limply around in the surf.

  They had smashed up in rapids. A painful ache sprinted down his left shoulder into his wrist as he sat up. He tested each joint in slow deliberate motions until he realized they moved on their own. Nothing broken, just badly bruised. Lucky, lucky. He turned to Kendra to tell her that he was okay. Not there. She couldn’t have run off. He stood up to get a better look at his surroundings. A small waterfall, a pool at the end of this point of the river, gentle, calm. Bits of their raft and pieces of their supplies drifted around. The smashed wooden stock of one of their carbines spun in a gentle circle.

  No no no no no. No God no. Please not this. No please. Anything else. No not anything else. Don’t let her be badly injured or even hurt. Don’t let there be injuries I can’t see, something that will—God no. How did we miss the rapids? Shit shit shit. Nowhere in sight. Retrace the river, Giordano, she might’ve been tossed off earlier. Go go go.

  The rapids had come on suddenly. They had been coasting downstream with ease—a whole morning like that it seemed: bellies full of buffalo, their raft riding low in the water because they had salted and stored as much meat as they could.

  They had felt guilty about all the meat they had left on the carcass. They were still thinking of that and of the Orangemen and Kendra’s pregnancy and John’s dead father and brother and not really at all about the job at hand, so they never noticed the river’s gradient increasing bit by bit, never saw the turbulence starting to stir up until the current started to really foam, and by then it was too late because they were in the thick of the rapids and trying to steer a raft that handled as well as a pig might—and then, what? A rock? No—a tree, half-submerged and leaning out at an angle over the foaming river. No way to turn and then—

  Here. Now. And no Kendra.

  Please. Please let her be perfectly fine. Protect us from all anxiety—

  “Kendra!” His voice was raw and hoarse as his teeth chattered. “Ken! Ken!”

  He stopped and turned away from the wind rustling through the tree branches surrounding him, away from the cascade of the waterfall in the distance, even from the lilting rattle of the nearby reeds. He clenched his chattering teeth together and wanted to stop the pounding of his own blood so he could listen better. A faint sound across the pond. He looked. A large piece of raft wreckage was wedged upright and half-embedded in the sand. He stripped off his sopping jacket and boots and swam across. The cold water snapped his dull head back into sharp consciousness.

  A minute later he was tearing through the debris on the other side, pushing logs and shredded strips into the water. A groan, down below all this, made his world rational again.

  “Thank you, Lord, thank you.” He sat down next to her and pulled her into his lap as gently as he could. “Kendra?”

  “My fault,” she muttered through cracked lips as he wiped sand from her face and hair. Apart from a nasty gash about three inches long in her hairline, she looked okay all over. “I did it.”

  “Kendra—no. I’m here. I’m okay. Open your eyes.”

  A roar ripped through the air and unhinged their world. John lifted his head and looked all around, searching the horizon. From a grove of dense evergreens behind them came another roar, louder and closer this time, and then almost on top of it, the snapping and crashing of heavy tree limbs.

&nb
sp; “Kendra.” He shook her. “Kendra, wake up.”

  Her now-open eyes were sharp in their blueness but unfocused. She struggled to recognize him. He shook her harder.

  “Kendra, we have to run.” The snapping and crashing were closer still, the animal roars now sounding inside his skull. “We have to run—now.”

  He pulled her up by the wrists. She stood on her own, seemed to see him more clearly, then flinched at some sound—something close. He put his good arm around her waist and dragged her along as he tried to take off in a sprint. Another crack behind them and the clarity of the roar told him that whatever had been in the woods was now in the clearing and no more than a hundred yards behind them. He didn’t stop to look. He hitched his thumb into a belt loop of Kendra’s uniform pants and practically lifted her one-armed into the air as he ran.

  Her head half bobbing on her shoulders, Kendra turned to look behind them. John saw her eyes grow wide.

  “Run, John.”

  John glanced back long enough to see something thick and dark and very large entering the clearing.

  Kendra tried to get her legs under control so she could run with him. He felt her steadying and slipped his hand from her waist to take her hand in his to help pull her along. He kept running without looking back often. Slowing his pace even for a second would give whatever was barreling toward them that much more of a chance of overtaking them. They stumbled across uneven ground, hand in hand, looking for any cover that might give them protection from whatever was chasing them.

  A moment later they were in midair. The ground had fallen out from beneath them as they ran off an embankment that had been obscured by the high prairie grass covering it. They tumbled several feet before rolling to a spot near a tree trunk in a small clot of woodland. Their heads low, they crawled back up to the edge of the embankment to see if they could recognize whatever it was that was about to kill them.

  On the plain between the far evergreens and their ditch were a half dozen woolly mammoths.

  John found it hard to believe what he was seeing was not part of a delusion or a dream. Their curving tusks, most more than a dozen feet long, were held high as they ran, their dark eyes peering out in terror from their shaggy coats. The cold air steamed with their warm breath as their nearly ten-foot-high bodies cleared the embankment as if it were the slightest bump in a road—but then they found themselves blocked in by the same thick trees Kendra and John had come to rest against.

  The beasts scampered in a panicked semicircle for a minute, then screeched in absolute terror as a saber-tooth tiger leapt onto the back of the closest mammoth.

  Now hidden in some brush at the top of the embankment, John reached for his sidearm but found the holster empty. He went for his bowie knife instead, found it on his belt, and held it in front of them until Kendra nudged him and handed him her sidearm.

  John took the pistol but had no idea if it would be any more effective against these monsters than the knife. Either way he wouldn’t surrender their lives without a fight.

  The mammoth bucked and reared. The saber-tooth dug its claws in deeper. As the other mammoths ran in terror up the embankment and back into the woods they had come from, the tiger opened its massive jaws and sunk its teeth deep into the neck of its prey. The mammoth flung its trunk back and forth over its head and shoulders, trying to reach its killer, but it had neither the strength nor the reach to pull the tiger off. John could see its legs beginning to buckle even as it hopped around like mad.

  Two shots rang out from the tree line behind them. The mammoth reared again, and in rearing so suddenly it managed to toss the saber-tooth off its back. As the mammoth ran up the embankment after its herd, the tiger hit the ground in an embarrassed heap and righted himself as if looking for someone to blame. Then it raced after its prey, practically leaping over Kendra and John as it did.

  From their ditch neither of them had any line of sight—no idea where either the saber-tooth or the shooter was lurking. As Kendra started to get up, he pushed her down gently.

  “You stay here while I go topside.”

  Her eyes were more focused now, though bloodshot and wearied. By pain or confusion, he didn’t know. “Leave me your knife, John. Just in case.”

  He slid the bowie knife back out of its sheath and presented it to her handle first. She took it with her right hand, steadied it with her left, and sat back in the brush, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.

  “Five minutes.”

  She gave him a lopsided grin. “I’ll take that as a promise.”

  John paused at the top of the embankment before climbing over. He had no idea what he’d find on the other side and even less of a clue about whether Kendra’s drenched and ancient M1911, the one she had gotten from her grandmother, would even come close to stopping a saber-tooth tiger. He didn’t have to crouch very low to stay hidden in the tall prairie grass. After the tumult of the last few minutes, the silence was strange and unnerving. Any rustle in the wind was that saber-tooth stalking him; any twig snapped underfoot was the shooter cocking his rifle. Sweat dripped down his nose. He felt nothing but his own wheezy breath rattling through his chest. The cold air and his drenched clothes felt disconnected from him. After a few minutes of fruitless crouched searching, he took a deep breath and risked poking his head just above the high grass.

  The saber-tooth was gone. He was sure of that. No creature that large, that fierce, that hungry could keep still for so long with such easy prey like himself nearby.

  He took another breath and stood up to get a better look, making a 360-degree turn with Kendra’s pistol cocked as he did. And there on the horizon, coming from the edge of the far woods, was a man, framed by the setting sun. A man with a heavy shotgun leaning in the crook of his elbow, making his way toward John. On horseback.

  At least John was pretty sure it was a horse. As with the mammoth and the tiger, he had never seen a live one. Yet it looked very much like the poetic creature described in books from the Archives. He was so transfixed by the fluid grace of its head and neck and haunches as it approached that it took him several moments to level his pistol at it. Neither the horse nor the man reacted until John called out when they were about twenty yards away.

  “I swear by the Lord God I will put a bullet through you if you do not halt.”

  The burly man, whose face was obscured by a wide-brimmed hat, tugged gently on the reins. His horse stopped. He lifted his free hand and held it up while keeping the other cradled around the shotgun.

  “I assure you, sir, I mean you no harm.”

  “And I assure you, sir, that I will kill you if you make a move.”

  “I saw you and your companion running. Are you both safe?”

  John took a few careful steps forward without lowering his gun. “How did you get so far out here?”

  “‘Out here?’”

  “Away from New Philadelphia.”

  “Ah.” The man smiled. John could see that much of his face. “I imagine I could ask you the same thing. But you see, I’ve never lived in your city. My parents were Irish country folk, and they didn’t want any of that.”

  John blinked. “Are you a Remnant?”

  “A what?”

  “A Remnant. One of the survivors of the Apocalypse.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know your term, sir,” the man replied in an even tone. “But I am one of the survivors you speak of—though I was a boy of only four at the time.”

  John shook his head. “That’s not possible. All of the Remnants went to live in the city. That’s what they agreed to. All of them.”

  “Perhaps if you put your weapon down and I returned my own to my saddle holster, we might discuss this. What do you say, ay?”

  John nodded. “Okay. On three. One. Two. Three.”

  John slid Kendra’s gun into his holster as the man returned his to his saddle. He then proceeded to climb off his horse and lead it toward John. On the ground the man was far less imposing than he had appear
ed in the saddle. He was of average height and trending toward the portly side. His fair face was open and held an amused and inquisitive look. If he was an Orangeman in disguise—like some people claimed the Tylers were—he could not have picked a less threatening figure to inhabit.

  He removed his hat to reveal a shiny bald pate that was framed by a narrow fringe of close-cropped brown-gray hair. He was easily the age he claimed he was. Only his eyes seemed younger. The man smiled again as he held out a work-worn hand and John took it.

  “How do you do?” His voice was crisp and bright and betrayed an accent that probably derived from those Irish parents he mentioned.

  “My name is Captain John Giordano of the New Philadelphia Defense Forces.”

  “Giordano?” The man cocked his head. “Giordano, did you say?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Nothing.” He paused. “John baptizing Jesus in the River Jordan and all that, you know.” He cleared his throat. “I’m quite pleased to meet you, Captain. I’m Jack, Jack Lewis. I should say my friends call me Jack. I’ve such a silly given name.”

  “You have friends? Out here?”

  “Oh yes. Old friends. They don’t live near us, but we do see them from time to time.”

  “Us?”

  “Yes. My youngest daughter, her husband, and I. Prisha’s circled ’round while we’ve been talking to check on your friend. Don’t worry, Captain. She’s a good girl, studying to be our region’s doctor.”

  John glanced at the embankment behind him. His training had taught him to take this man down and make sure Kendra was safe. Yet he somehow knew she was and that he was hearing true things. He looked around, thinking of the animals that had chased him down here, the strange unseen creatures that had run through their camp—and now human beings, living human beings. He wondered if all he had seen was making him feel so flushed and warm, despite his wet clothes.