by Brian Lumley
“On the day they buried him—buried my father’s body, and oh so deep—it was still making their radiation counters tick like a roomful of crazy clocks! The hard, heavy-handed old bastard…!”
They were a quarter of the way down the long hall, where on both sides the floor was divided into empty bays whose markings were here and there barely visible under layers of light debris and blown dust. The four members of the other teams paired off, climbing ramps to the higher levels. The place was ominously quiet now, a silence where even the softest footfall was clearly audible, while the snuffling of the dogs straining on their leashes came echoing back from the looming walls like the slobbering of primal beasts…
Behind them the pale dawn light from the entrance was gradually diminishing…ahead, their forward-leaning shadows were dimming with each step that took them deeper into the darkness. “Careful now,” said Ned Singer quietly. “Softly softly catchee monkey!”
“Monkey?” Garth whispered.
“Some old saying I got from my Old Man,” the other replied, yet more quietly. “Said he got it from his father.”
Now, almost halfway down the vast windowless gallery, with the narrow, yellow beams of their torches probing the deepening gloom, the grey, concrete bulk of another up ramp abruptly appeared and blocked the view ahead. In the same moment the hounds commenced to whine and skitter a little, no longer straining on their leashes; and as the team skirted the foot of the ramp and moved toward the utter darkness beyond it, so Maxwell’s charges halted and backed off stiff-legged. Then:
“Whoah, now!” Maxwell’s throaty, quavering warning sounded. “Take a look at my not-so-brave lads here, will you? Tails down, they don’t want to proceed; they’ve sniffed out somethin’ nasty just around this ramp on the dark side. See how they hang back? Oh, they enjoys to track the fly-by-nights, but they also knows when to quit and back off. Well, you may call ’em cowards if you like, but to my way o’ thinkin’ their behaviour says we are the ones that should be scared…and I bloody well am! So now you gents, if you’d care to take over from me and the dogs…” With which he quickly slipped back between Singer and Garth, letting the dogs whimper and whine where they huddled to his long legs.
“Fingers on triggers, but gently!” Singer growled, clipping his torch to the stock of his big weapon. Easing forward, Garth followed suit…but only a moment later somehow found himself in the lead position and first around the corner! Nerves jumping and scarcely breathing—if at all—he jerked his torch’s beam here, there, and everywhere, slicing criss-crossing light paths through the sentient darkness, paths far too fleeting in their passing for Garth to identify anything. But still his eyes were starting out, as he vainly attempted to penetrate the cobwebbed gloom of that awful corner, and his spine tingling as he sensed the almost physical weight of Ned Singer’s presence just a pace or two behind him.
But at last—in only a matter of seconds despite that each second felt like a minute—he began to make out certain shapes and outlines on the floor. A jumble of rubbish: old bedding and other stuff piled in a tangled white heap…and sudden motion! A rat went scurrying…and another! But Garth had squeezed his trigger one split second after seeing or sensing movement—or at least he’d tried to—only to find his action blocked! Like a frightened novice, and unaccustomed with his father’s weapon, he had neglected to release the safety catch! And now, silently cursing himself for an utter fool, he withdrew a trembling finger from the trigger guard, freed the safety catch, and finally…finally began to breathe again, albeit shakily.
While from behind, almost in Garth’s ear: “Well, it appears I should grant you this much at least, ’prentice Slattery,” Ned Singer begrudgingly panted, his breath coming in short, shivery gasps. “For a mere pup you’ve learned fast!…Learned to save your shells and stay cool in a queer situation! If I’d been in front…why, it’s not at all unlikely there’d be rodent blood and…and bodies all over the floor! That’s a pat on the back for you ’prentice, but don’t you go bragging about it!”
Surprised, startled for a moment—until the truth sank in —Garth thought, So: more concerned for himself Ned failed to notice my error. Good, else for sure I’d be in for another dressing down! As for all his “pat on the back” waffle: that’s just so much empty flattery—a cover to hide or disguise his own fear—because he’s no less shaken than me! (Or perhaps not, but it salved Garth’s conscience to consider it so…)
Now that both Garth and Singer were directing their torch beams into the unquiet corner, the mess on the floor was more clearly revealed. Coughing his disgust, Singer called for Garry Maxwell to come forward with his dogs:
“Gangling Garry,” he growled, regaining complete control of himself so quickly it was almost as if he’d never lost it. “You can bring those mangy sniffers of yours up front again now, for there’s nothing much here to worry them. Upon a time maybe, but not any longer. Just a small pile of fly-by-night shit and leftovers, is all!”
However reluctantly, and almost dragging his dogs with him, Maxwell came cautiously around the rim of the ramp. Then, sensing nothing to fear, the animals gradually relaxed; their tails stayed down but they nevertheless advanced, sniffing and snuffling at the remains in the corner.
And “remains” was the right word for at least some of those leavings. That small, gleaming white mound, for instance:
“Bones!” Garry Maxwell gasped. “Dog bones, for God’s sake!”
His own hounds had arrived at the same conclusion; hot-eyed and whining, and showing their teeth, however uncertainly, they skittered off from the dog debris and huddled to their master’s legs. Going down on one knee, Maxwell hugged them and muttered, “Eh, what? Those bastard things eat dogs?” He looked up, frowning his disgust and dismay at his companions.
“Anything with meat and red blood,” Ned Singer nodded. “But with preference for the blood, of course! Is it any wonder that in my time I’ve seen entire packs of wild dogs running from the damn things? And look at that skull there: two sets of jaws! He was a mutant, that one, but all the teeth in the world couldn’t save him from these fucking monsters!”
“What of the mattresses?” Garth haltingly queried. “I mean, do they sleep, the fly-by-nights?”
“Can’t say,” said Singer with a shake of his head. “I suppose they might, but no one knows for sure. During daylight they hide in places such as this—hide from the sun, of course—so I’d reckon it likely they take their ease here, too. Why settle for a concrete floor when you can lie on a mattress, eh? Even a fly-by-night would surely have that much sense!” Which for once made perfect sense to Garth…
There sounded a whistle, causing all three and the dogs too to jump. Two long blasts, in fact, echoing down the ramp from regions up above. It was an “all clear,” and something a little more than that: a summons.
“They want us to see something,” Singer grunted, “something they’ve spotted from on high.” He turned to Maxwell. “Gangling Garry, there are people outside waiting to hear from us. Go let them know that it’s safe to come in now, will you? While me and the ’prentice boy here go up top and see what’s happening.”
While Maxwell went back the way they’d come, Garth and Singer used the up ramps to climb to the car park’s higher levels. In doing so, they followed in the dusty footprints of team number two, and on the open top floor all six men came together.
Dan Coulter and Peder Halbstein were at the walled rim, and team two closing with them. It seemed safe enough under thickening cloud cover, so Singer and Garth hurried to join the others. As they did so there sounded gunfire.
“Aha!” said Singer as he reached the wall, leaned on it, and gazed down across a heap of rubble—once a block of buildings—at the half-ruined church beyond. “And what have we here?”
More gunfire sounded, and out from the gaping wounds of the church three bundles of fluttering rags came leaping, drifting, skinny arms reaching; while yawning mouths issued hissing, near-silent shrieks! Fly-b
y-nights, pursued by men with blazing weapons! But their guns were scarcely necessary, for the clouds had parted where sunlight came slanting from the east.
Even so, it seemed to take too many long moments before the sun’s rays took effect. Time enough for the leading creature to go wafting toward a trundle, reach it and float part way up the open side…only to be fired upon by someone inside, and sent sprawling back into the sunlight. And there, mewling thinly, it coiled itself up like a crippled insect and visibly shrank, its ragged clothing smoking, while the thing itself began disintegrating in the rays of the risen sun. The others lasted a moment or two longer but fared no better; having taken multiple hits from the raging gunfire, they staggered and fell, seething into smoke in the uncaring sunlight.
Finally a fourth and last fly-by-night came bursting out of the church. Clambering after it and armed with a roaring flamethrower, a man of the clan caught the thing in a withering gout of liquid fire. Wreathed in flames, the monster threw up its oh-so-long arms and crumbled to ashes in the dust and debris.
And at last it was over.
Whistles sounded…weary people started to disembark from trundles and other vehicles…a rauper with a bulldozer blade rumbled into view, began thrusting aside the rubble in front of the church; soon it would knock holes in the walls of that holy place large enough to grant access to many of the half-convoy’s vehicles.
By which time the car park was shuddering to the weight and the sound of the other half-convoy, as its vehicles escaped the lethal light and found refuge within. At which Ned Singer said: “Time to get out of the sunlight, lads, before it starts eating into our bones, too…”
On their way down the ramps and within Garth’s hearing, Singer spoke to Dan Coulter and Peder Halbstein: “What do you reckon, you fellows? On the way in through the ruins I saw a sign said: ‘Supermarket.’ We sometimes did pretty well out of such places down South. The place I saw: it was pretty much blown apart and open to the skies, but who knows what we’ll find under all that rubble? It’s only a block or two away, but if we’re going to do it at all it’ll have to be now, before Big Jon finds other work for us. Me, I reckon we’ve done enough for one day. And anyway, I’ve something of a thirst on.” He winked knowingly.
“Wines, do you mean?” Peder Halbstein answered him.
“Hell no!” said Singer. “In ten years they’re vinegar, most of ’em. And in a century and a half? I’m talking about the hard stuff, stuff that keeps its sting forever. Back in the Southern Refuge I rescued three whole cases of the stuff—brandy! With a quarter bottle of that in you you’ll truly enjoy a good day’s sleep, believe me!”
“Very well then, we’re in,” said Coulter, licking his lips, and Halbstein nodded an eager affirmation.
“Good!” said Singer. “Okay, grab whatever you need from the trundle, get into your radiation suits quick like, and I’ll see you at the entrance ramp in ten minutes.”
Down on the second level, Garth spotted the familiar figure of his Old Man among a stream of people from the trundles. Zach Slattery was struggling under a burden of blankets, weapons and a few personal belongings, his and some of his son’s, all of it in a bulging carpetbag. Garth turned toward him, made to go and offer assistance; but as Coulter and Halbstein hurried off, Ned Singer caught his elbow and drew him closer.
“’Prentice,” he growled, “a word in your ear.”
“Yes, what is it?” said Garth.
“It’s that Layla Morgan girl,” said Singer.
“Layla? What of her?”
Unemotionally, and entirely unabashed, the other answered, “Well, I’ve set my heart on her—I want her—you understand?”
Scarcely knowing how to reply to that, Garth offered a non-committal shrug and attempted an indifferent “so what?” expression.
It didn’t fool Singer one little bit. “Now you listen to me, ’prentice,” he said, “and take heed of a fair warning. Don’t go stepping on any toes, that’s all—especially mine! So you can quit making the sheep’s eyes and what all. What, did you think I hadn’t seen you? Oh, but I’ve seen you! So I’ll say it just one more time: I want that Layla girl. And what Ned Singer wants he usually gets.”
“And does she want you?” The words spilled out before Garth could stop then. After all, it was something he very much needed to know.
Scowling, Singer replied: “’Prentice Slattery, that’s something for me to know, not for you to question! So mind your own business! As for feelings between me and Layla, they’re between Layla and me—and no one else! Got it?”
Garth nodded. “Got it,” he said. “But if Layla wants you as badly as you want her, then I don’t know what’s worrying you! I mean, in that ease I’m sure all will be well. She’s a very…a very nice—” (he meant lovely) “—person, and would surely make a good companion and excellent wife for…well, for any man!”
“For this man!” said Singer. “As for a ‘companion’: I don’t know about that, but she’ll be something warm and juicy in bed, for sure—at least when she’s broken in!” And then he laughed.
Turning away, Garth grimaced at a sudden bitterness, a sour taste more in his mind than his mouth, and thought: Ned Singer I like you not at all—not a bit—and I’m damned if I can see why Layla Morgan would like you any better!
Then again, knowledge of women—their likes and dislikes—was scarcely Garth’s forte. How could it be when, in the innocence of a youth spent in the subterranean maze of the Southern Refuge, he’d never really known any? Never before felt the way he now felt about a girl? About Layla Morgan…
Oh, his were mixed emotions, definitely—several of which he wasn’t even sure of and didn’t much care for…more especially now, following Ned Singer’s “word in his ear”—but where Singer was concerned one thing at least was certain: Garth knew well enough now how he felt about him—
—And that was a feeling of cold yet burning anger, a sickening sensation conjured by the brutality of the bully’s words, and a hatred that was little short of loathing…
V
Garth helped his father find a spot well away from the old fly-by-night nest at the far end of the lower level, a spot where a little harmless daylight came slanting in from the entrance.
Zach unrolled a thin foam mattress and laid it down against the wall with a heavy blanket on top, took a small, fire-blackened iron tripod, a bottle of precious water (half of his daily allowance), a jar of ancient coffee granules—the latter long since reduced to so much brown powder while yet managing to retain at least a spark of the original flavour—a kettle and a tiny kero burner from the carpetbag, and grumbling disgustedly to himself threw down the bag itself for a pillow.
Kneeling beside his father, Garth made his own preparations for a day’s rest. But watching Zach from the corner of his eye, and knowing him the way he did, he was puzzled by what appeared to him the other’s somewhat unaccustomed nervous activity.
Down on his good knee, Zach made a vain attempt at fluffing up his stiff, lumpy “pillow,” then turned to Garth abruptly and inquired: “Tired, are you?”
At first shaking his head, Garth finally answered, “Well, a little, maybe. But I did my share of nodding off in the trundle last night. How about you?” And again he noticed how his father appeared unusually preoccupied and restless.
“Not really,” his young Old Man answered. “The leg’s giving me a bit more stick than usual. The best thing for that is exercise, or so I’ve discovered. So if you’re going to stay here—staking our claim to this bit of concrete, as it were—I think perhaps I’ll take a walk and have a look around. Truth to tell, there’s this handsome young widow woman I’ve noticed looking my way once or twice. Maybe I should try to find her, pay her some attention before someone beats me to it, eh?”
No more explanation was needed! And again shaking his head, then turning away to avoid embarrassing his father, Garth could barely keep from grinning!
Chuckling, Zach took up four pieces of aluminum tubi
ng from his effects, fitting them together to form a lightweight crutch. Then standing up: “Right, I’m off,” he said. “But I don’t think I’ll be too long. No, I’ll be back to snatch a few hours’ sleep before Big Jon reckons it’s time we moved on again…which he won’t, at least not until the sun’s down. So then, I’ll see you later.”
Garth simply nodded and watched Zach move off toward an up ramp. Then, undressing and bundling up his vest and underpants until the next time the clan’s washerwomen got their cauldrons going—which, considering the scarcity of untainted water was a rare event indeed—he put on a clean, soft leather breechclout and stretched himself out, finally drawing his blanket up under his chin.
It was only then that he realized how weary he was, but for the moment sleep refused to come. Instead his mind went back to that time in the Southern Refuge, prior to the exodus, when Big Jon Lamon had called the meeting at which the lives of everyone in the sprawling underground shelter had been changed forever.
Big Jon had talked about his contingency plan: a plan based upon the ideas—the written records, strategies and proposals—of other, long-forgotten clan elders: men who had envisioned a future when, for various unspecified reasons, it might become necessary if not convenient to abandon the Southern Refuge and venture out into the poisoned land.
And now Garth recalled certain of Big Jon’s list of preparatory requirements: the work to be done, provisions to be made, and items to be acquired as he deemed essential:
