Dies the Fire (22 page)

He could just cut Bob's throat, but Havel didn't want to get that close without a good reason; Hutton was right—the man's legs were out of commission, but his arms were still working and his teeth too for that matter. Instead he carefully wiped the blade of the
puukko
on the clothes of the dead bandit pinned to the wall by the spear, and then sheathed it before he went back into the cabin.

Astrid was still standing with her bow, staring at nothing; Signe was huddled into a ball on the floor, staring at the corpse of the bandit leader. Havel went past in silence—there was nothing he could do to help at that moment—and checked the bedrooms.

Mary Larsson lay spread-eagled on her bed; the mattress was saturated, and it dripped thick strings of blood onto the floor. Havel took one quick look and then carefully avoided letting his eyes stray that way while he found a blanket and covered her.

I hope she died fast,
he thought, breathing through his mouth against the smell.

Unfortunately that didn't seem very likely.

Her husband was trussed to a chair in the corner of the room; alive, not too badly beaten up, but staring with the look of a man whose mind had shut down from overload, and there were vomit stains down the front of his shirt and tear-streaks through the white-gray stubble on his cheeks. Havel freed him with a few jerks of his knife, and pulled him erect.

“There's nothing you can do here,” he said. “Come on, Ken.” The older man's lips moved, almost silently.

Havel went on: “Astrid and Signe are fine.”
Or at least alive. Technically speaking, they weren't even raped, I think.
“They need you, Ken. They need you
now.
”

That seemed to get through to him; he stumbled along under his own power. Havel left him with his daughters in the living room as he hefted the dead body of the bandit chief and half carried it out to pitch over the railing of the veranda; Will Hutton watched with somber satisfaction.

Then Havel pulled the spear out of the wall. The young bandit's body came with it; the point pulled free of the wood and the heavy corpse flopped down into the pool of blood and fluids, but the square shoulders of the knife caught on something inside. Havel put a foot on the body and worked it free, careful not to loosen the bindings; then he hefted the pole into an overhand grip like a fish gig before walking out towards Jailhouse Bob.

He hadn't gotten far.

 

 

 

They buried Mary Larsson in the morning, and were ready to leave around noon. Her husband had come out of his shock a little by then, and none of the younger Larssons wanted to stay at the ranger cabin any longer than they had to; Hutton was anxious to get back to his wife and daughter, of course.

Astrid hadn't slept much. From the way she started screaming the moment she slipped out of consciousness that was probably just as well.

I'll give her some of the tranquilizers tonight,
Havel thought, turning to look at her as she sat against the base of a tree, face on her knees and arms wrapped around her head.
And being away from this place will help. I hope.

Will Hutton came up and looked in the same direction, nodding.

“Best get the horses back to the road too as fast as we can,” he said, finishing his bowl of elk stew. “They need rest, but they need food a lot more, and they can't eat pine needles. I'll go take another look at the loads.”

Havel waited until the Larssons had made their last farewells at the rough grave—most of it was an oblong pile of rocks. It was a bright cold day, with tatters of high cloud blowing in from the west; the long wind roared in the pines around them, carrying away most of the stink of violent death. He and Hutton and Eric had dragged the dead bandits out of sight, but nobody had been in a mood to clean up the cabin.

They
had
stripped it of everything that might be useful, from bedding and kitchenware to shovel, ax and pickax, and Hutton had improvised carrying packs for some of the horses. It was a pleasure to see him work with the animals; it always was, watching a real expert at work. He'd been a help rehafting the
naginata
and spear onto good smooth poles they'd found in the toolshed behind the cabin, too.

Signe came up to him with a brace of books in her hands. “Mike, take a look. I think these might be useful. They were on the mantelpiece, and I was reading them before . . . you know.”

He did, flipping through the text and frequent illustrations.
Frontier Living,
by Edwin Tunis, plus
Colonial Living
and
Colonial Craftsmen
by the same author.

“You know, I think you're right,” he said. “Pack 'em with the rest.”

Astrid came out and gave him a cup of coffee; he took it, and cleared his throat as she turned silently away, slight and graceful in her stained leather outfit.

“Kid.” Reluctantly, she turned back to him. “You did good. If you hadn't shot him, I'd have had to chase him down in the dark. He might have killed or crippled me and come back for the rest of you.”

She nodded again; he went on: “I know you've had a real bad time, but we don't have the leisure for thinking about our hurts right now. You're the only one of us who can use a bow and we need more food, badly. We may have to fight again, too. We just can't afford you folding up on us. You've got to be functional no matter what it takes. OK?”

She nodded silently a third time; the huge silver-blue eyes seemed to be looking through to another world as much as at him.

He shook his head: “Let me hear it, Astrid. Don't go hiding in your head. We need you out here.”

“I understand, Mike,” she said, after taking a deep breath; he saw her blink back to being fully in the waking world.

Suddenly she spat: “They were like
Orcs!
”

“Yeah, that's a fair description.”

He restrained himself from tousling her hair.
You're a good kid. Let's see if we can get you going on something you care about.

He'd never been of the talk-about-it-forever school when it came to dealing with really bad stuff; in his experience that just made you think about it more and compounded the damage. Hard work and concentrating on the future were the best way to handle trauma.

“What do you think of that bow we captured?”

It was sitting on one of the veranda chairs. Astrid looked at it and sniffed.

“It's a Bear compound,” she said, with a touch of her old de-haut-en-bas tone, edged with contempt for the high-tech vulgarity of it. “Adjustable setoff, double round cams . . . with that, you might as well be using a
gun.
”

Christ Jesus, how I wish I
were
able to use a gun,
Havel thought.
Guns I understand.
Aloud he asked: “Will it work?”

“Oh, it will
work,
” she said. “It's easier to use if you're not a real archer and it'll shoot hard and straight . . . until something breaks. The riser is an aluminum casting, the limbs are fiberglass-carbon laminate, and the cams on the ends are titanium, with sealed bearing races. The string's a synthetic and the arrows are carbon-composite. I could make a copy of my bow, if you gave me time to experiment and the materials I needed. I don't think anyone in the whole world can repair that one, not now, and to make a new one—forget it.”

Purist,
he thought, hiding his smile and finishing the hot drink; it was lousy, but coffee was going to be a rare treat.

He went on: “You've got a point, but we'll use it while we've got it. You can give us all instruction.”

She sniffed again. “Signe can shoot. Sort of. At targets.”

Then she took the cup away for washing and packing; her orange cat slunk at her heels, looking thoroughly frightened.

Havel found himself obsessively running over the inventory in his head again; particularly the food, which was about enough for everyone for four weeks, if they were very careful.

Of course, the Huttons probably have some more back at their vehicles. And we can do some hunting. But we've got to get out to farming or ranching country, somewhere where there
is
food; if it's there we can get it one way or another. Now they can't ship cattle out, there ought to be plenty, for a while. And farmers store a lot of their own grain these days in those sheet-metal things.

He'd only eat the horses if there was no other choice or the animals were dying anyway; they were too damned useful to lose. A lot of the medical kit had been expended on Mary Larsson, too. God alone knew what they'd do if anyone else got seriously ill or hurt.

Well, yes, actually we do know. The one who gets sick will recover or die. I hope everyone has had their appendix out,
he thought grimly, hefting his spear and slipping on his pack.
Let's get going.

Suddenly he was conscious that Signe hadn't left; she was standing by the base of the veranda stairs. The bruises on her face were purpling, and her lips were swollen, but she looked at him steadily. There was one new element to her gear; she had Jailhouse Bob's belt and blade. Unexpectedly, she drew it, looking down at the big fighting-knife with wondering distaste.

“It's a tool,” Havel said quietly. “Just a tool. Anyone can use it. It's the person that matters, not the equipment.”

“I know,” she said. Then she looked up at him: “Teach me.”

He made an enquiring sound. She went on fiercely: “Teach me how to fight. I don't ever want to be that . . . helpless . . . again. Teach me!”

Her knuckles were white on the checked hardwood of the knife hilt.

Problem is, I can teach you dirty fighting, and how to use a knife,
he thought.
If guns still worked, I could make you into a pretty good shot in a couple of months. But damned if I can tell you how to use a bow or a sword or a spear . . . which I suspect are going to matter more from now on.

Aloud he went on: “You bet. We've all got a lot to learn, I'm thinking.”

Hutton had the horses ready and everyone was outside; decision crystallized, and Havel put his fingers to his mouth and whistled.

Everyone looked up, and he waved them over as he walked down to where the pathway to the cabin joined the Centennial Trail proper.

“Before we go, we ought to settle some things,” Havel said, as they gathered around. “Mainly, what we're going to do—and if there's a
we
to do it.”
Better than dwelling on our losses, at least.

He leaned on his spear and looked at the Larssons. “I figure my obligations to Steelhead Air and its clients have about run out,” he said bluntly. “All things considered.”

The younger Larssons looked stricken. Ken gave him a slight smile; he recognized negotiation when he heard it, and so did Will Hutton.

Havel went on: “So if we're going to stick together, we'll have to put it on a new basis. So far we've just been reacting to things as they happened; it's time to start making things happen ourselves. If you folks don't like my notions of how to do that, we can go our separate ways once we reach the highway.”

Ken Larsson was evidently relieved to have something to think about but his murdered wife. His face lost some of its stunned, blurred-at-the-edges look as he spoke.

“Something has happened and not just around here,” he said. “At least over a big part of this continent, and maybe all over the world. Mike, remember just before the engines cut out, they were reporting that weird electrical storm over Nantucket? I don't think that's a coincidence—and it's also thousands of miles from here.”

He shrugged. “I can't imagine what could have caused a Change like this, unless it's simply that God hates us. . . . Maybe incredibly advanced, really sadistic aliens who wanted to take our toys away? Call it Alien Space Bats. But at a guess, it started there over Nantucket—probably propagated over the earth's surface at the speed of light. It's too . . . specific . . . to be an accident, I think. If it were an accidental change in the laws of nature, we'd most likely just have collapsed into a primordial soup of particles.”

Will Hutton shook his head. “Hard to get my mind around it,” he said.

“We have to,” Havel said bluntly. “That's the difference between living and dying, now.”

Hutton nodded: “I don't know any of that science stuff, but it occurs to me this might have happened before.”

They all looked at him, and he shrugged. “If it happened back in olden times, who'd have noticed? Maybe this”—he waved around—“is the way things was for a long time. That'd account for folks taking so long to get guns and such.”

Havel looked at him with respect; that wasn't a bad idea, although of course there was no way to check, short of time travel. He went on: “So the question is, what does each of us want to do? Do we stick together? And if we do, what's our goal?”

Hutton scratched his head thoughtfully. “Not much use in trying to get back to Texas, for me 'n‘ mine,” he said. “Too many hungry, angry strangers between. Got my family with me, 'cept for my boy Luke. He's in the Army, stationed in Italy with the 173rd. All I can do for him is pray.”

He winced slightly, then shook his head and rolled a cigarette, using only his right hand and offering the makings around.

“No, thanks,” Havel said. “Wouldn't want to get into the habit again—not much tobacco grows around here.”

Once Hutton had lit up, Havel waved towards the cabin and the congealed pool of blood still left on the veranda. “Stuff like this is probably happening all over the world. Most people aren't going to make it through the next year even out here in the boondocks, and it's going to be worse in the cities, a lot worse. I'd like to be one of the minority still living come 1999. That's going to mean teamwork. Sitting around arguing at the wrong moment could get us all killed.”