by Brian Lumley
To which Garth had answered: “I…I didn’t realize it was quite that bad. So what will you do?”
“No Garth,” the other had replied, giving his head a shake. “It’s not what I’ll do but what you must do! I want you to take over as boss of the team—that’s as of now—and you’ll be the youngest clansman who ever held such a responsible position. As for poor Peder: I’ll find something a little less demanding for him. So then, now what do you say?”
For a moment Garth was lost for words; he had looked at his father, who stood silent, expressionless.
“Well?” said Big Jon.
“But it’s like you said,” Garth had finally answered. “I’ll not only be the youngest ever boss, but the youngest man in my own team! And there are others in the team who—”
“—Who’ll probably be glad that the weight doesn’t rest on their shoulders!” The leader had anticipated him. “As for being young: haven’t you noticed, Garth, how there’s no such thing as a truly ‘old man’ in the entire clan? Me, your father, and head tech Andrew Fielding—oh, and a very small handful of others—we’re just about the oldest you’ll find! Quite a few old ladies, it’s true, but damn few old men! Then again, there’s never been any female scavs. Which probably says it all…”
At which Zach had spoken up. “And of course, that’s what’s wrong with Peder Halbstein. He knows it’s only a matter of time. He’s seen friends die, far too many of them, but this last time Peder himself came much too close…”
And still uncertain, Garth had said, “It sounds like you’re warning me off!”
“No!” Zach shook his head. “Never! If you take this on I’ll be able to advise you, even come out now and then if things are looking especially rough, but the decision has to be yours.”
“I have no desire to be ‘volunteered.’” Garth had faced Big Jon squarely, determinedly.
“I would never do that to you—if only because I know your father would never forgive me!”
“But it won’t come to that—” Garth had made his decision, “—because I’ve already said I’ll do it. And so I accept. Well, with one condition.”
“Oh? A condition?” Big Jon had raised an eyebrow.
And Garth had nodded. “Yes, but just the one. Which is that you’ll be the one who tells Layla Morgan—er, Layla Slattery! —exactly what you’ve asked of me. Or better still, what you’ve ‘ordered’ me to do…?” And after a moment’s silence:
“Damn!” The leader had said, then chuckled along with Zach. But in another moment and far more seriously: “Which just might be the most difficult thing I’ve done in quite a long time. But there again I married you, so how can I refuse?”
VIII
Peder Halbstein was scarcely alone in his nightmares. As told, many of the travellers suffered in this way; and both Garth and Layla, during snatches of sleep, they also knew bad dreams. But mainly, having finally come together, their dreams were plagued by a single, recurrent theme: the fear of losing each other…Garth’s of being snatched away from Layla into a hellish, mindless half-world, unable to return to her, and Layla’s of losing him to the fly-by-nights—amounting to much the same thing.
But in fact since leaving the Southern Refuge contacts with the mutated vampires had on average been limited to just two or three per week: many sightings of individuals and small groups, half-a-dozen skirmishes and kills by the outriders, four savage attacks in which five men had lost their lives…all of which culminating in the massed onslaught by the swarm in the ruined town: the clan’s worst ever losses, which once again had woken up every traveller anew to the never-ending threat of the fly-by-nights.
Garth had learned several valuable lessons that night, not least from Singer’s malicious, vengeful behaviour: the way the bully had left him short of equipment, out of contact with his colleagues, utterly alone and vulnerable in the dark of night. Well, things would he different now; Ned Singer’s ways weren’t Garth’s. Each member of his team would receive the same treatment: there would be no favourites, and no one taken advantage of or victimized in any way.
And so, determined to perform as best possible on his first time out as the boss of his team, in the remaining hours before darkness on that third night, Garth had carefully reconnoitered the thinly wooded border east of the column, choosing the best vantage points in which to station his six watchmen; positions from which the eastern landscape would be mainly unobstructed, where the men would be able to signal each other without fail, and where their arcs of fire might even overlap. His own location when he was not patrolling would be central, of course.
Moreover, he had sought out the other bosses, Donald Myers and Bert Jordan—both of them Garth’s seniors by at least five or six years, (senior too by virtue of the extensive experience such years represented)—ensuring not only that the positioning of their smaller teams would be conterminous with his, but also suggesting that where defensive lines met, such “corner” stations would perhaps best be manned by one man from his own team, plus one from Jordan’s to the north, and one from Myers’ to the south, doubling the strength of these important junctions. This was an excellent notion; both bosses had congratulated Garth on his thinking, likewise on his “promotion.” Wishing him the best of luck, they had said he should go far—to which the somewhat saturnine Myers had added the proviso: “That’s always assuming, of course, that on this damned, seemingly interminable trek we ever go anywhere at all! Er, but best not to let Big Jon Lamon know I said that…!”
The night had gone well; Garth patrolled constantly and the hours seemed to pass remarkably quickly; Zach had visited once, in the wee small hours—ostensibly “because he couldn’t sleep”—offering to stand in for Garth for an hour or two to let him get a little shut-eye right there on the job. But despite feeling bone-weary Garth had turned him down; also, with the memory of what had happened in the car park fresh in his mind, he also turned down Zach’s renewed offer to trade weapons. No, he would stick with his rifle which, as a self-loader, didn’t need pumping: a not only plausible but genuine explanation that had gone far to satisfying his father’s concerns.
An hour before dawn, however, Garth had found himself wishing that he had accepted Zach’s offer and got his head down. He had barely been able to keep his eyes from closing, and following his final patrol had plumped down on the bole of a fallen tree, resting his upper frame in a crotch of branches…
It was never Garth’s intention to sleep. On the contrary; the smoky predawn light, much like dusk, did little to improve visibility but played tired, straining eyes false where distances were difficult to judge and the outlines of harmless shrubbery took on hunched, menacing shapes. All of which, compounded by an inches-deep, lapping ground mist, was distracting to say the least; so that Garth’s nerves were at full stretch, paradoxically increasing his weariness.
Yet apart from the distant hooting of a night bird—and, on occasion the muffled, ambiguous, but at least human-seeming sounds of movement from the encampment some thirty or so paces to Garth’s rear and that much deeper in the woods—the night was still and quiet, with no breath of wind to stir the leaves. And in fact the rising and falling ground mist, its slow swirling round the humped roots of trees and in the underbrush, had had something of an hypnotic effect. So that despite his every effort Garth had found himself nodding off…
And almost at once had started awake!
What the hell was that? What had happened just then? Had he been dreaming? Was he asleep long enough to have even commenced dreaming? But he had seen—or thought he had seen—something! In those confused, dislocated moments between sleeping and waking—in that transitory place between the subconscious and conscious levels of being—had he dreamed? Only imagined that he had seen someone or thing on the rim of his awareness? Or had there been an actual presence: a figure with feral eyes, lurking out there in the misty distance at the very edge of visibility?
If it had been a dream or nightmare, then like the majority of dr
eams its contents on waking might have been at once forgotten. But if it was reality?…Garth had found himself shuddering, shaking like a leaf. For real or unreal he knew who he had seen—or imagined he saw—out there in the mist. And the more certain he became of it, the more stark and vivid the recollection had become.
But now—as he got himself under control, shooting darting, narrow-eyed glances this way and that—now there was nothing; just the gradually brightening light and melting ground mist, a dawn chorus from a surprising number of birds, and the rustling of small unseen creatures as they awakened in the underbrush.
A nightmare, then: it must have been a nightmare, but by no means unwarranted. And as he slowly relaxed and his heart stopped its pounding, Garth had considered it best left unmentioned. He would not speak of it to his father, and most definitely not to Layla!
Unable as yet to put it entirely from his mind, however, he had made one final patrol, inquiring of each man of his team as he came upon them with regard to any incidents that might possibly have disturbed their watch. But no, thankfully, not one of them had had anything to report; all had gone well. And in addition—when the sun’s welcome light had come filtering through the trees, and Garth’s long, single whistle blast had signalled his team to stand down—then, on returning to the encampment, he had sought out “gangling” Garry Maxwell.
Maxwell, too, had been carrying out his intermittent patrol of an inner perimeter closer to the stationary vehicles. In the event of an alert—if fly-by-nights had found a way in through the watchkeepers—it would have been his dogs’ job to let him know about it, and Garry’s to wake the armed standby squads and the camp as a whole. But:
The long-limbed dog-handler, on the point of settling down to sleep for a few hours after his night’s work, had been only too pleased to report nothing of any consequence. “My sniffers were maybe a bit jumpy, uneasy from time to time,” he had said stifling a yawn, “most likely because they could hear or sense you and yours out there on the perimeter. But I kept ’em quiet on behalf of them who were sleeping. It only takes a couple of dogs to start in barking and the next thing you know the whole place is in an uproar!”
Still more than a little uneasy himself, Garth felt he had to be satisfied with that and made his report to Big Jon Lamon based on that decision and not on the contents of a nightmare. In any case he could hardly admit that he had fallen asleep!
“Well done, Garth!” the leader had been glad to accept his report, “And a very good night’s work—your first in your new job! But then again, any quiet night is a good one, right? Bert Jordan and Don Myers were just here; they seem to find you acceptable, likening you to your father! Only thing is, Zach could be a hothead on occasion, a bit impetuous; though rarely without good cause. Anyway, from what I’ve seen of you you’re much more evenly balanced, and I’m well pleased with you. So let me say again, well done—and now you can go and get some rest.”
Which was easier said than done; Layla had not been at all inclined to let Garth rest! At least, not for an hour or so…
This time, however, when at his young wife’s insistent shaking and calling his name he had cried out and started awake, Garth had known for sure that it was only a dream. Layla’s warm, comforting arms around him had guaranteed that much. But no amount of comfort could dispel the disquieting nature of this…but this what? This recurrence? For it had been in fact a repeat of what Garth had thought he’d dreamed—or seen?—out there in the mist on the rim of the woods. In short, he still wasn’t one hundred percent convinced one way or the other.
And it had been in great clarity that his subconscious mind had conjured once again that vision of Ned Singer. But a Singer very different from the man Garth had known. For the expression on this Singer’s face had been dazed and oddly vacant, as if he stood in some weird dream of his own; and his eyes like a cat’s had burned silvery-yellow in a gaunt, almost corpse-like face.
“What was it?” Layla had wanted to know. “You were gurgling and trying to speak. And while your body had gone cold, yet you were sweating!”
And when Garth had been able to speak: “It was…it was a dream, a nightmare,” he had told her. And then lied, saying: “I can’t…can’t remember the details.”
Drawing him closer Layla had herself shivered, telling him: “It’s your work, of course. Out there in the darkness, watching and waiting for those terrible creatures, why, that’s enough to give anyone bad dreams—including me, and I’m safe back here!”
The time had been only a little after two in the afternoon, but Garth had had more than enough of troubled sleep. Dressing, he had gone out from under the discreet tent-like awning he and Layla had erected beneath the extended lead panels of a trundle. And he was no sooner up than a runner, a boy only half his age, passed by with the news that Big Jon Lamon had called a meeting at his command rauper.
Garth had cried out after the runner: “Hey, you should stay well out of the sunlight!” This despite that the trees offered reasonably good cover. But the boy had called back:
“No need, Garth! Not today!” And then he was gone into the leaf-dappled light. Other folk were already on the move toward the head of the column; encouraged by their obvious excitement, and with Layla waving him on, Garth had joined them…
The people of the clan had ample reason to be excited; rumours had always spread quickly among their comparatively small community, and some word of what was in the offing—wonderful news apparently, whether accurate, somewhat enlarged upon, or exaggerated beyond all reason—seemed to have reached them even in advance of the runner! But as they had gathered at the leader’s armoured rauper—everyone hoping against hope that the rumours were true but not daring to speak their thoughts aloud for fear all might be snatched away—they desired only to hear it from Big Jon himself.
He had not kept them waiting. Seated on the vehicle’s rusting flank along with head tech Andrew Fielding, the leader had worn a smile as broad as his face as he commenced his address:
“People, today is going to be remembered as a very special day, for we’re in receipt of two items of marvellous news! Give me just a moment and I shall tell you about the least of these. But first—” Pausing he had turned to Fielding, only then continuing: “—first I must mention our most remarkable head tech here,” with which he had clapped the other on the back, setting the much smaller man rocking where he was perched, coughing until he seemed close to choking, “who has been busy since first light taking radiation readings. Now, we’re talking about ultraviolet radiation, of course—the sun’s harmful rays—about which all previous knowledge was restricted to the locality of the Southern Refuge and thus limited in scope; radiation which to our understanding has been at lethal levels for over a century and a half, ever since atomic warfare poisoned the atmosphere. However, according to head tech Fielding’s readings, taken just an hour ago…but no, it’s only fair that I let him tell you of this himself. Andrew?”
Fielding’s coughing fit had occasioned some nervous, sympathetic laughter from the crowd, which had quickly tailed off as finally he controlled the spasms and his thin, reedy voice took over from Big Jon’s deeper, booming tones:
“Honoured by our leader’s comments,” he began somewhat hesitantly, “still I find myself in an unenviable, at best awkward position; perhaps because I feel unduly honoured. The last time I voiced opinions and made statements such as I’m about to make now, they rebounded and came back to haunt me! That happened in the town with the car park, the church, and the well. It was my belief then that we had driven into more benevolent latitudes—the result of wishful thinking as opposed to scientific observation—which raised high hopes that were all too soon dashed: an error of judgement on my part, and one that I’m reluctant to repeat. But…I can only report things the way I find them!
“Since leaving that ill-omened town I’ve been taking solar radiation readings on the hour, each and every day, and yesterday I was obliged to give our leader some bad—though not t
oo bad—news. In short I reported that the sun’s ultraviolet radiation appeared to be fluctuating, in my opinion as a result of a layer of particles high in the atmosphere which is constantly on the move, sometimes blocking the lethal rays while at others parting to let them through. Which was true yesterday, and also for a few hours this morning when the levels were a little high…since when these atmospheric changes seem to be working very much in our favour! Let me explain:
“As Big Jon Lamon has told you, I have been out since first light, and hour on hour my readings have steadily improved. Indeed, in less than a day they’ve improved to such a degree that they are now better than those I took in the town of the fly-by-nights—much better than at any time since we left that place—and better than I have ever imagined or dreamed possible! Alas that there’s no way I dare estimate the future duration of this change—at least, not the immediate future—for I certainly have no wish to repeat the errors of only a few days ago! But—”
At which point the leader had held up his huge hand and cut in: “—But, let me remind everyone how wonderful it was during those few days: to be able to travel by daylight and rest up by night! Yesterday after I heard Andrew’s disappointing report, I admit to having felt despondent—but no longer! The gloom has been dispersed! I now feel buoyed up and eager to get on! Which we will, and very shortly, just as soon as we’ve heard the head tech out…” And having turned again to the slight technician—who had winced as he shied away from Big Jon’s heavy hand:
