The Night of the Triffids (29 page)

    And these people, as I'd seen before, simply walked among the triffids as if those sinister plants were no more deadly than apple trees.

    The Algonquin hunters paused for a moment to look at us with somewhat suspicious eyes. But once they'd decided that we weren't there to make mischief they continued on their way without a backward glance at us. Their easy stride took them effortlessly through the assembled triffid plants.

    Although the triffids knew of the Indians' close proximity (I'd seen the plants' cones turn towards them) the plants never made even one attempt to strike at them. Gabriel Deeds watched the men dwindle into the distance across the plain. Then, turning to me, he said softly, 'Now, if we could learn a trick like that life would look a whole lot rosier.'

    Little more than an hour after our 'visitors' had walked on out of sight the Jumbo came lumbering back to the camp. After a brief conversation with its crew Sam Dymes strode towards me. 'They've gone.' A grim expression made his face like stone. 'It's time we went back.' With that terse speech he waved his people to the vehicles.

    We were returning to the camp. I didn't relish the prospect of what we'd find there.

    

    

    

    THE return journey to the Foresters' camp was made in an atmosphere of grim expectation. What we found was even grimmer.

    Torrence's invasion forces had gone. Even now they were probably steaming north for New York. A shambles - a macabre shambles met our gaze. The elephantine vehicles grunted their way into the camp through gaps in the fence. Naturally triffids had filled the vacuum. They were busy feasting on the fallen soldiers of both sides. Littering the river banks were the remains of the landing craft that had been destroyed by the Foresters' artillery. While a little upstream, partly submerged, our flying boats had been hacked to pieces by the invaders before they left. Clearly they had wished to make life difficult for us on our return. Similarly, food and fuel stores had either been looted or spoilt. Buildings had been reduced to sooty smudge marks on the earth.

    A little while later, after a corner of the camp had been cleared of triffids, and with a line of Jumbos forming a temporary barrier against them, Sam Dymes stood upon the back of one of the vehicles to address the survivors.

    He told us that a grim task lay ahead. But we wouldn't shortchange the men and women who had died defending the camp. They would be buried with full honours. A memorial would be raised to them. That was the moment when the full import of the death and the destruction hit the survivors. Many went to their knees. Concluding the address Sam said, 'Torrence gave us a bloody nose. But he has not beaten us. And this… this barbaric attack on our camp did not achieve its aims. He sent his men here to snatch back David Masen. They failed. That means Torrence's wider strategy has been stopped dead in its tracks. Without Masen he can't invade the Isle of Wight because he knows those guys over there have an air force that can bomb his warships out of the water. And if Torrence can't seize the Isle of Wight, he can't grab the machine that turns triffid oil into fuel. Without that, he doesn't have a viable air force of his own. So…' Suddenly Sam turned to face north and with a genuine burst of hatred he shook his fist at the northern horizon. 'So you can stay in your skyscraper palace, Torrence. You can rot there for all we care! Because all you've succeeded in doing with your treachery and your brutality is to build yourself one hell of a prison. And you can't do squat about making your stinking, filthy, cockamamie empire one square yard bigger.' For a moment I thought he'd draw his side arm and in the white heat of rage fire off the whole magazine in the direction of distant New York City. But suddenly the rage vanished. In low, even tones he turned back to us. 'OK. We've got work to do.'

    Squads moved out across the camp in protective triffid gear, the clear fish-tank helmets gleaming in the sun. They docked the triffids of their stings, then felled them. Soon the whine of chainsaws filled the air. Post-mortem teams collected the dead, identified them, tagged them. Torrence's men were given burials as decent as those accorded the Foresters' dead.

    As I donned the stout canvas protective suit prior to repairing the fences, Gabriel appeared. He showed me a bucketful of syringes before dumping them into a trash barrel. 'These came from Torrence's soldiers.'

    'Morphine?'

    He shook his head. 'Amphetamines. His men were pumped so full of this junk that they came ashore feeling they were running on rocket fuel.' He wiped his hands on a rag as if they'd come into contact with something unclean. 'The poor devils were so high they never even felt it when a bullet hit them. Torrence, huh? Don't you just admire and respect the man?'

    The fence was a mess. Perspiring inside my suit I made a start with wire-cutters, clearing the tangled strands ready for the fencing gang to come and string fresh wire along the posts. A hundred yards to my right another figure - its appearance rendered androgynous by the protective suit - clicked away with wire-cutters, too. Far from comfortable, I tugged at this spaghetti supper of wire while triffids either lurched by me into the camp (where the anti-triffid squads would deal with them) or chose my head for a spot of target practice. Every so often a stinger would snap against the glass helmet with a chiming
trringg.
Something that never lost its power to irritate me deeply.

    Nevertheless, I laboured on, cutting wire and then dragging it free of the tangle of triffids that had been crushed during our escape. I wondered if the Foresters' headquarters, based several hundred miles to the south, knew of Torrence's attack on one of their military camps. These days communities were so reluctant to surrender knowledge of their whereabouts that they were inclined to avoid radio transmissions altogether. Instead, they tended to rely on something akin to the Pony Express, namely a written communication delivered by hand. With this deep mutual suspicion bordering on paranoia it was hard to see that the disparate communities scattered across the globe would ever make contact with one another, never mind actually get together to form alliances for trade and mutual support. Maybe my father was right. Humanity would be destined to exist in scattered fragments that would eventually shrivel and die out completely.

    Even at that time, when Torrence's evil handiwork was so obvious not only to my eyes but also to my nose as warm days and legions of bacteria did their work on the corpses, I
did
wonder about the man. Yes, he was brutal. Yes, he was a warmonger. Yes, he was undoubtedly Draconian. And yet… and yet, a genuine vision of the future drove him. Although his methods were wrong, his goal was right.

    As my cutters snapped through the glittering wires I immersed myself in my thoughts. I was so immersed, in fact, that I never saw them arrive.

    One moment I saw only the hairy boles of triffids, together with a mass of dark green leaves. The next, I realized that four individuals stood there, watching me.

    In a reflex action, I immediately looked for the shotgun that I'd left leaning against a fence post. Instantly, one of the four, a young woman with raven hair, drew back the string of a bow and released an arrow. With the sound of air being cleaved apart the arrow blurred past me, striking the wooden stock of the shotgun and splitting it neatly in two.

    I froze, staring at the four through my transparent helmet, their bodies distorted slightly by imperfections in the material: they looked more like phantoms than real people. Yet I saw clearly enough when the girl notched another arrow against the string of her bow and then raised the bow so that the projectile pointed directly at my chest. She pulled back the bowstring until it stretched taut.

    

    

    

    MY father once wrote:
That's the kind of warning I don't debate.
Wise words. His son remembered them only too vividly, expecting that the arrow would come thudding into his chest at any moment.

    To signify surrender in the time-honoured way, I raised both my hands. For a moment we looked warily at each other. Me, in my protective suit complete with transparent helmet, and the four American Indians who were dressed in brightly woven tunics. The Indians, of course, didn't wear any protective clothing at all. They stood side by side in the thicket of triffids; one had lifted a hand to push aside some of the thick green triffid leaves that obscured his view of me… and a strange sight I must make, I surmised. Three of the Indians were scarcely teenagers. The other, a man who was anywhere between fifty and seventy, watched me levelly for a time. His dark eyes assessed me. Then:

    'Naome, you can put up your bow now.' He nodded towards me. 'We're not here to make trouble.'

    I continued to stare.

    The old Indian smiled. 'Surely you didn't expect me to say something like "Me scalpum white man", did you now?'

    With the polished courtesy of a professional diplomat he bowed his head slightly and said, 'Good afternoon. My name is Ryder Chee. This is my daughter Naome, and my sons Isa and Theo.' His voice had the precise tones of a cultured man.

    'My name is David Masen.' My breath misted the clear material of the helmet. 'Do you mind if I lower my arms?'

    'By all means, David Masen. I am sorry that we damaged your shotgun. But we wanted to ensure that you didn't shoot first and ask questions afterwards.'

    Recovering my composure, I asked if I could help them in any way.

    Chee smiled. 'We're here to offer some small degree of help to
you.
After all, you are our closest neighbours.'

    I thanked them. Then I invited them to follow me down into the camp where I found Sam Dymes poring over hastily written work agendas with Gabriel.

    Once inside the triffid-free corner of the camp I could relieve myself of the burdensome protective suit. The fresh air smelled unbelievably good. With a lungful of good, sweet air I introduced our four visitors to Sam and Gabriel.

    Chee nodded towards Sam. 'You are the leader.' It was a statement rather than a question. 'Forgive our intrusion at what must be a harrowing time. However, we understand you have a number of wounded people here.'

    'Yes, that's right.' Sam sounded a little cagey. 'You'll be aware that things got a little rough round here a few days ago.'

    'We saw that there was fighting, yes.' Softly the old man spoke the names of his children. Quickly they slipped the backpacks off and laid them on the ground. 'We discussed your plight. We decided that in view of the wholesale destruction you might be short of medical supplies. Therefore we have brought clean dressings, antiseptics, soap and penicillin.'

    'Penicillin?'

    Yes. We make it solely in a tablet form since we don't have access to hypodermic needles. There are also opiates to relieve pain.'

    Sam appeared suddenly moved. For a moment he looked incapable of saying anything. Then the words tumbled out. 'Why… thank you. Thank you a million times. You don't know what this means to us. We're flat out of first-aid kits. All our medical supplies were burned up with the clinic' He pumped their hands enthusiastically. 'Again, thanks a million. Thank you - I'm going to use that word so much it's going to get all worn out… You people have saved lives today, but then I guess you know that, don't you? Gee! I can't begin to say how grateful I am that you fellers called over today.'

    'We are your neighbours. We saw that you needed help.'

    'That's really Christian of you. If you don't mind the phrase. Now, come on, where are my manners? Please take a seat… yes, yes. There on the cushions, we're still a little informal due to necessity round here yet. You must have coffee with us… and I think we have some fresh bread… we found an oven still in working order. Thank heaven for small miracles.'

    'Coffee would be lovely,' Chee said in his educated tones. 'I would, however, if it's at all possible, more than welcome a cup of tea.'

    'Tea. Say, Gabriel, do we have any tea? I don't think we've… wait a minute… wasn't there a tin of the stuff in the back of the truck we rode in on?'

    Gabriel smiled. 'I'll get someone onto it.' He had a word with a youth who nodded before hurrying away. 'Coffee and tea are on their way,' he said. 'And the medics will find a good home for the medical supplies.' He nodded towards the backpacks.

    Gabriel and I squatted beside the already seated group. The old Indian's heavy-lidded gaze took in the scene of desolation around him with undisguised sadness.

    At last he said, 'Will there be a way to resolve your differences peacefully?'

    Sam gave a regretful sigh. 'One day we hope to start working on it. It's just that the other feller won't parley.'

    Gabriel said, 'You've got yourself a neat operation if you can manufacture medical supplies.'

    'We can make a small amount. Of course, that's sufficient for our day-to-day needs. Ah, but by that…' Chee smiled, his eyes twinkling. '… you are really fishing for information about us?'

    Sam nodded. 'You're right. We're curious about you; darn' curious.'

    Chee didn't seem perturbed in the slightest by the curiosity. 'That's perfectly natural. Well… I am from the Algonquin tribe. I began training as a medical student, then switched to psychiatry after hearing a brilliant lecture by a Swiss psychologist. Indeed, after corresponding with him for some months he invited me to work with some other young disciples of his at his home on Lake Basel in Switzerland. I spent a whole winter there. Inspirational it was, too.'

    'Wait a minute.' Gabriel raised a surprised eyebrow. 'A famous Swiss psychologist? You're not talking about Carl Gustav Jung, are you, by any chance?'