Stranger

by Simon Clark

  I shot him the devil of a grin. “Trust me, Ben. We’re Vikings now. We can do anything.”

  Forty-five

  When people—or the goddam world in general—push you around it makes you unhappy. When you lose control of your own life you feel powerless. You feel dead from the neck up. Believe me, that’s one thing guaranteed to saturate your life in complete and utter misery.

  Live like Vikings! So far that was all I’d been able to tell them, but as they funneled gas into the Jeep back at the garage their faces shone; they laughed, cracked jokes. They were happier . . . they were taking control of their lives again. Suddenly they were optimistic about the future.

  After the confrontation over those paltry gallons of gas, they’d really locked themselves into the dream I’d sold them. By now it was evening. Zak had already ridden back to the cabins with the news: We were going to crack open the Aladdin’s cave stocked with more food than we could ever eat. Those half-starved devils had cheered him. With an almighty grin pasted across his face he’d returned with more guns and ammo. For a while we worked on the Jeep, pumping air into the tires. I greased up the cable linkages in the engine. Michaela and Ben checked the guns.

  Tony still tended to question everything I suggested. But it seemed now more from habit than any real desire to wreck my scheme. “Why don’t we use the bikes? They’re more maneuverable than the Jeep. They’ll use less fuel as well.”

  I slapped the hood of the Jeep. “Because I’m going to need dynamite—lots and lots of dynamite. More than the bikes can carry.”

  “How’re you going to blast a way into the bunker, Greg?” Michaela’s dark eyes looked searchingly into my face. “The walls are thick enough to withstand nukes.”

  “There’s a way, trust me.”

  The question bug catching, Ben looked up from where he loaded a rifle. “And I still don’t see how you’re going to just turn up in Sullivan and ask for dynamite. Those people aren’t going to hand over their stuff because they’ll be too busy ripping your head off.”

  I smiled. “You’re thinking like a nice middle-class boy, Ben. You’ve got to think like a warrior who drinks his enemy’s blood from his shattered skull.”

  “Yeah.” Ben grinned. “Silly me, I never thought of that.”

  Michaela chipped in. “So who is the enemy, Greg?”

  “That’s easy. Everyone.” I wiped my hands on a cloth. “Everyone who stands between us and survival. . . . Now, let’s see if this little beauty’s going to deliver.” With the battery long dead I slotted the starting handle into the engine socket that exited through the radiator grill.

  “You think it’s really going to start?” Ben asked.

  “It’s going to have to,” Zak said, looking through the open door. “Here come the bad guys.”

  Got to make this work, Greg, I told myself. We’re using the last of our precious supplies on this venture. At best we go hungry if it fails. At worst . . . well, fill in the blanks.

  There they were. Hornets. Lots of fucking ugly hornets. Big, bad and monstrous, just like they’d come lurching out of your worst nightmare.

  “Jesus,” Ben breathed. “There are hundreds.”

  Zak looked at me, then at the Jeep. “Is that old junk pile ready to run?”

  “It’ll work. These babies were built for battlefields.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right.”

  “Don’t worry about me. You get the bikes.” I ran to the front of the Jeep. Glancing out through the doors, I saw the road that ran up through the forest. It was thick with hornets. They shuffled forward in the evening sun. If the wind had been in the right direction you could probably have smelled their greasy hair alone. In a little while the Twitch would set my stomach muscles jumping. Ben, Zak and Tony fired up the bikes and eased them through the doorway onto the driveway that led to the road. Michaela hopped into the open-topped Jeep in the driver’s seat.

  “Make it quick,” Tony shouted. “They’ve seen us!”

  I glanced back through the doorway. They were still two hundred yards away, but all those feet were raising a dust cloud nearly as high as the trees. They’d spotted us, all right. They were coming this way. And as the saying goes, they were walking like they meant it.

  I swung the starting handle. It made a puttering sound.

  “Lightly press the gas pedal,” I called. “The carb’s dry.”

  I tried again. This time it made a sharp coughing sound. Only it didn’t fire properly. Instead, the misfire yanked the starting handle from my hand and whipped it backward so the iron handle cracked against my forearm. Pain blistered white hot through the bone. Shit. I whispered a little prayer to my guardian angel that the blow hadn’t snapped a bone.

  “Are you OK?”

  I glanced up to see Michaela anxiously looking through the windshield. I shook my hand. My fingers tingled like crazy.

  “Fine. She misfired, that’s all.”

  I wish.

  Once again I took a grip of the starting handle. My arm didn’t hurt any more intensely. Come to that, it didn’t hurt any less, either, so I figured I hadn’t broken a bone.

  “I reckon you’ve got fifteen seconds to get moving,” Zak called. He cocked the shotgun.

  “Fifteen seconds is plenty, buddy.” Gritting my teeth against the pain, I swung the handle again. This time the engine roared. With a thumbs-up to Zak, who sat astride the Harley, I jumped into the passenger seat. Michaela hit the gas and the little ’Nam vet Jeep bulleted out the doorway like it was rocket-powered. The three bikes kept just a little ahead as we swung onto the main road, then powered away. I glanced back to see a dozen or so hornets break away from the pack to run after us. The rear wheels of the Jeep flung dirt into their faces and we were gone.

  As soon as we were well clear of the hornets we settled down to around forty. Now I had a chance to sit in the open-topped vehicle and enjoy the breeze shooting through my hair, and to feel a good meaty slice of satisfaction. I’d done good work on that old engine. OK, so it ran with a throaty roar, but everything functioned a hundred percent. Every so often Zak or Tony or Ben would glance back to give a thumbs-up sign. The roads were clear. What debris the Jeep couldn’t ride over it nimbly sidestepped. Beside me, Michaela’s dark eyes locked onto the road. She had the concentration of a hawk. There wasn’t a stone or a bottle on the road she missed. I found myself gazing at the waves of dark hair rippling in the slipstream. In fact it was so wonderful it was hard for me to look away. And here’s the craziest thing: I felt this big, goofy smile on my face. Michaela was something else.

  When she realized she was being watched she turned and shot me a warm smile. Once she even reached out to rest her hand on my knee.

  For a while I allowed myself my reward: to ride in an open-topped Jeep through a forest wilderness. Beside me, a beautiful woman with raven feather hair and eyes black as onyx. Now that’s a good enough reward for any man. I took that hour’s ride as the sun set and cut it free of a lousy past and a dangerous future. I just wanted to live in that moment.

  But here’s the brutal part: I couldn’t for long. Because I knew I’d lured these people into something called hope. At the best of times hope is as fragile as a butterfly’s wings. Sure, I knew we were headed to Sullivan to collect the dynamite. Sure, I knew I planned to bust my way into Phoenix’s concrete fairy castle, with its treasure house of food stocks that would keep our bellies full for years. But by doing that I’d forced this little bunch of hunted teenagers to gamble what little resources they had. They’d use up their gas and their ammo on this scheme of mine. If it failed, at best they’d go hungry. At worst . . . well, you’ll recall what I said about filling in those blanks . . .

  We camped out on a hill overlooking Sullivan. The town was probably no more than ten minutes’ ride away. There were no hornets in the neighborhood to give us a sleepless night. And no way would we get any surprise callers from Sullivan. That little community was locked down tight. No one went in, no one came o
ut; those were the rules. They were broken on pain of death. After we’d made camp beneath the trees I noticed Ben standing on the edge of a bluff, looking down over the lake toward the town. With the time before midnight, Sullivan’s lights still burned out of that vast sea of darkness. Hell, that darkness had encompassed the whole country. Because make no bones about it, every other town and city that had ever existed had been shattered to their foundations. Only Sullivan had streetlights that lit the roads. Across the black lake water there’d still be some kids in the diner. Or maybe some held a party by a pool, complete with a barbecue and a tubful of cold beers. Maybe a little of Mel’s weed was being smoked, too. Just for a moment I thought I heard music. Any night could be party night in Sullivan. Hypnotized, we stood there in the warm night air and watched

  At last I saw Ben shiver like something cold had just crept over his grave. “You wish you were still back there, Ben?”

  “Of course I do. I wish I was sipping a beer and listening to Hendrix. That would be enough right now.”

  “Sounds like paradise!”

  “You can say that again.”

  “But you know the place was going rotten, Ben.”

  “Maybe it would have held together.”

  I shook my head. “The people are so paranoid they’ll wind up burning each other in the streets. Remember what happened to Lynne?”

  “They were just scared, Greg.”

  “Yeah, so scared they were prepared to murder their own neighbors.”

  He still stared out across at the town’s lights. “You can’t go back there. You know that, don’t you?” His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “I can dream, buddy. I can dream.”

  Lightly, I slapped him on the back. “Come on, buddy. Time to turn in. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

  Forty-six

  “You’re out of your mind, Valdiva! You’re getting nothing!”

  “I need two hundred pounds of dynamite. Detonators. Fuse wire.”

  “Valdiva, if you don’t get the hell out of here all you will get is shot. OK?”

  “Mike, we need that dynamite. Believe me, we need it to keep people alive out here.”

  “Get away from here, Greg. You’re not welcome in Sullivan. Neither are your friends.”

  Ben squatted beside me in the ditch that ran within a hundred yards of the high fence that separated Sullivan from the outside world. “See? I told you they wouldn’t give you any dynamite.” His hands shook as he clasped the rifle to his chest. “Did you really think they’d say ‘Oh, welcome back, boys. Here’s what you need’?”

  “No, but they’ll give it to us in the end.”

  “For crying out loud, how, Greg?”

  We squatted low in the ditch with the dirt wall ending just above our heads. Sullivan must have had hornet trouble, because around a dozen hornet corpses with bullet holes in their chests rotted down here with us. The stink felt strong enough to peel the top off your skull.

  “Jesus, Greg, I’m gonna throw up if I stay here any longer.”

  “Come on, Ben, I need you, buddy. We’ll get the stuff.”

  “Some time, never. Aw, Jesus, I’ve been kneeling on a head . . . what a smell! Christ, it’s full of maggots.”

  I let Ben alone as he complained. He had some cause to. This wasn’t going to be easy. OK, so the first part had been simple enough. At sunrise Ben and I had come down here on foot. No way was I going to give any trigger-happy guard on the gate an easy target, so we’d crept as close to the gate as we could along the drainage ditch. I didn’t count on rotting dead men for company, though. I’d recognized the guard on the gate as Mike Richmond. I didn’t figure he’d shoot if he saw us: we were his old beer buddies, after all. But he was vicious enough when he saw our faces. And when I’d asked for the dynamite he turned us down flat. What’s more, he must have called out the Guard. Coming up the road rolled a fleet of trucks and police cars, sirens whooping.

  Ben looked over the top of the ditch. “Oh, fuck, Greg, he’s invited a shooting party.”

  “Perfect. It gives us chance to talk to the boss.”

  “They won’t talk, they’ll fire. . . . Jesus, this stinks. I can’t breathe.”

  When the dust raised by the tires had blown aside I eased my head up above the ditch top. The townspeople weren’t tossing caution to the wind either. I saw a line of heads just above the vehicles. In the morning sun I could see the glint of gun metal, too.

  “I want to speak to someone in charge!” My voice echoed back at me.

  A bullhorn crackled. “I’m in charge, Valdiva. Speak to me.”

  “Recognize the voice, Ben?”

  He gulped. “Crowther junior. You know he hates your guts. You’ll get nothing from him.”

  “Crowther,” I shouted. “We need two hundred pounds of dynamite, fuse wire and detonators.”

  There was a pause. Then in a friendly voice, Crowther said, “Come right up to the gates, Greg. We’ll see what we can do.”

  That was enough to make me duck my head back down into the ditch, out of sight. “Crowther! I’m not falling for that one! Your people will blast me to kingdom come the second they get a clear shot.”

  The bullhorn boomed back. “Suit yourself. Either get away from here right now or we’ll come out there and blow you to shit.”

  “You won’t do that, Crowther. One: You’re too chicken shit scared of infection. Two: We’ve got guns. You won’t get through the gate in one piece.”

  “OK, Valdiva. Stalemate. But you’re not getting what you want.”

  I risked a glance over the ditch. Damn . . . the dust kicked up by the wheels had reached us. I got an eyeful of dust and ducked back down again. And Christ, that smell of rotting meat was worse than ever. My stomach heaved.

  “Greg,” Ben hissed, “let’s get out of here.”

  He’d seen this stink was working its black magic on my guts, too. I waved him away. Then, without lifting my head, I yelled, “I’m here with Ben!”

  “That geek? You’re welcome to him.”

  I wiped the grit out of my eyes, but more blew across as I heard vehicles pull up on the far side of the fence. Sullivan was mustering an army. They came in such numbers, I could even smell aftershave on the Guard.

  With a deep breath I shouted, “Here’s the deal, Crowther. We leave you alone in return for the dynamite.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding, Valdiva. You can sit out there in the ditch until Thanksgiving for all we care.”

  “Crowther, there are ten of us out here. We’re armed with military sniper rifles. If you don’t give us the dynamite we will sit out here until Thanksgiving. And whenever any of you or your neighbors walk out into the open we’re going to blow their heads clean off their shoulders. We’ll keep doing that until you give us the stuff. OK?”

  “You’re bluffing, Valdiva.”

  “Try me.”

  Beside me, Ben, edged away from a corpse with a hole in its head you could have waggled your fist in. He kept swallowing, his eyes watering. I rubbed my stomach as it gave a queasy squirm.

  I’d expected some response from Crowther, but it became quiet. I guess the guys were in conference all of a sudden. Time to make my contribution to the debate. Carefully I eased my head up above the ditch. More dust carried downwind, creating a golden mist. With luck the guardsmen who were keeping watch might not see me through that swirling filth.

  My stomach muscles bucked. Christ, that smell of rot had gotten itself deep down into the pit of my belly. I held out my hand. “Ben, pass the rifle.”

  Wiping the back of his mouth, he handed it to me. I chambered a round. Raised it to my shoulder. Looked through the telescopic sight. Sullivan had grown soft and careless. Magnification bloated the heads like beach balls. Sitting in the center of the crosshairs I saw Mike Richmond looking up over the top of a car. There were others I recognized, too. Finch, the old cop whose daughter Lynne had been murdered by the townsfolk. There was Mel, who grew the marijuana, toting an Uzi. Ever
y so often she lifted her head above the back of a truck, an easy target. A tempting target as well, bearing in mind that she’d snitched on me that I was hiding a stranger in my cabin. But life’s short anyway. I allowed the crosshairs of the telescopic sight to slide over one target after another. I counted six heads I could get a clear shot at. And even though I’d lied about the number of marksmen we had I knew we could leave a couple of our people here who’d turn this side of town into sniper’s alley. Lifting the rifle a little, I could even get a clear shot of the main street. I could pick off townsfolk as they went to the mall or the courthouse.

  I lowered the rifle. The veil of dust was thinning. Gold specks settled on my bare arms. Make this quick, Valdiva, I told myself. They’re going to see you any moment now.

  Once more I traced the line of vehicles. When I reached a truck I stopped. Although I couldn’t see him I saw the bullhorn protruding from behind the front fender. Crowther had shielded himself. Even so, the bullhorn poked out like a bird’s tail from behind a bush. I panned the rifle until the crosshairs sat squarely on the bullhorn; then I gently squeezed the trigger.

  The sound of the bullet striking the bullhorn was amplified by the thing’s mike into a shriek of feedback. The bullhorn flew out of Crowther’s hand to the ground.

  This time a hail of lead came back in our direction, but we were well hidden by the time it did. Once the dirt stopped erupting from the lip of the ditch there was silence again.

  When Crowther spoke next it was without the aid of the bullhorn. But to be honest I didn’t recognize the voice. Fear squeezed it into a high squeal.

  “Valdiva! OK! You’ve got what you want! But you’ve got to promise that you won’t come back here.” The voice rose even higher. “Do you hear that, Valdiva?”

  I smiled at Ben. I could picture Crowther all sweaty and scared and still rubbing his tingling fingers from when the rifle bullet had smashed the bullhorn from his hand.

  “Valdiva! Did you hear me!”