Dancy said eagerly, “You look much better, really you do, Captain Slaughter.”
“Your good nursin’, ma’am,” he drawled with a small mocking bow.
“No, I’ve prayed all the time for you,” she said earnestly. “That must be it.”
He ruffled her hair as if she were an endearing small puppy. “You’d know a lot more about that than I would, Miss Dancy Doodle.”
Dancy’s eyes widened. “My—my grandmother Tessa Kai used to call me that.”
“Yeah?” he said gravely. “Your mom told me about her. I sure am sorry, Dancy. I won’t call you that again.”
She thought about it, and Victorine watched her curiously.
Dancy hadn’t mentioned Tessa Kai to her, not once, since her death. Then Dancy said slowly, “No, it’s okay. I—I don’t mind.”
She made a little face. “Guess I just look like a doodle, huh?”
With great gravity he replied, “Yes, I’m afraid you do.”
She poked his arm, and he grimaced horribly. “Well, you look like a corpse,” she said with relish. “A zombie . . . that died of tuberculosis.”
“That’s because I’m wearing this silly dress.” He sighed. “If I had on my uniform, I would look like a mighty warrior again.
So—could I have my clothes, please? Slow as I’m moving, it’s gonna take me ’til tonight to get dressed anyway.”
“You don’t have any clothes, Captain,” Victorine said crisply.
“And that is not a dress. It’s a gentleman’s lounging robe. I went and got it for you, and it wasn’t fun, so I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t complain.”
“Wait a minute,” he said slowly. “What do you mean, I don’t have any clothes? Where’s my uniform?” He looked wildly around the tiny one-room apartment. “Hey—where’s my shotgun? And my gear?”
Victorine sighed. “Captain Slaughter, the clothes you were wearing, as you’ve obviously forgotten, were sliced to ribbons and dripping with blood. As for your gun . . .” She frowned and gave a quick, cautious glance at Dancy. But that was merely one of the old habits left over from the old life. In this life, she couldn’t—and shouldn’t—try to shield her from the harsh realities. “I went outside yesterday as soon as it was light to get your shotgun. But it was gone. And so were the gun and the knife the dead man had. All three bodies had been—rifled. And I figured you had a pack, so I looked around a little for it, but I didn’t see it.”
He stared at her. “You mean—since I’ve been out of it, the gangs have been back?” He cast a look of concern at Dancy.
“They didn’t—”
“No, I haven’t seen a soul in the last two days,” Victorine said.
“I think I know what happened, though. I haven’t seen any of these stinking male gang members yet wandering around without a woman or two. I think there must have been a woman with those three the other night, hidden, watching. When you killed her buddies, she probably stole everything and took off.”
“Blast!” he grated. “I’ve worn a uniform for the last seventeen years. Especially now I don’t like the idea of slinking around in civvies like a coward.” Neither Dancy nor Victorine had an answer, so he grumbled, “Ma’am, please tell me that at least I’m not going to have to wear this dress.”
“No, I got you some clothes from—another one of the condos here,” Victorine said dully. “The hospitality manager here was— is—about your size. Your height, anyway.”
Dancy said quietly, “Mom, I know Gerald’s dead. You don’t have to keep trying to hide it from me.”
Victorine nodded dumbly. Dancy may have known Gerald was dead in her little weird way, but she had no idea how badly he died. Victorine hadn’t really realized it until she’d gone into Gerald’s condo. The gangs had evidently broken in and probably beat him before hanging him. The wooden door was splintered as if with an ax, the condo was wrecked, and there was blood smeared in a long, terrible path out the door.
Con was watching Victorine curiously. Then his face hardened, though his voice was light. “So, ladies, I’ve got a new wardrobe for the first time in seventeen years. I’ll be a real dude if this dress is any indication.”
“It’s not a dress,” Victorine repeated with exasperation. But Dancy’s woebegone face lightened, and that was enough for Con.
Victorine set about heating some water and lighting a candle in the single bathroom, since Con insisted he was going to wash and dress. Dancy, meanwhile, removed the dressings from his chest and arm. Unfortunately Con was left-handed, so he had trouble doing much of anything with his right hand. And though it had been hard for Victorine to admit to herself—or allow—Dancy seemed to have a soothing touch. On the now-rare occasions that Victorine had a migraine, Dancy was the only person she could stand to touch her, put a cool cloth on her forehead, smooth back her hair, or stroke her hand. Victorine, she knew, had an ungentle touch. That was just the way it was for both of them.
The White Dunes condos were very small, one-room units with a tiny open loft above that barely held a double bed. The bathroom was downstairs, and while Victorine was puttering around in there, arranging Gerald’s—now Con Slaughter’s—clothes and some men’s toilet articles, she listened to the two talking as Dancy took care of him. They were—to Victorine’s disgust—practicing belching. It had at first dismayed her that the two seemed to be growing so close. Victorine had not yet met a man that she trusted with Dancy. But it didn’t take a genius to see that it had never entered Con’s mind to think of Dancy as anything but a child. He’d never, by look or gesture or word, acted otherwise.
And of course, there is the fact that he’s—that I—that we— “Stop it,” she hissed to herself. There is no “we.” That first night, after such a trauma, it’s only natural for two people to feel closeness and intimacy. It’s not real. It’s artificial. I don’t even like him.
But Victorine Flynn Thayer, though she did at times have tunnel vision, was not a dishonest person. That’s not true. I do like him . . . even better, I respect him. And evidently I must trust him. I just wish . . . I just don’t want to have to take care of anyone else! So there it is, God! If that’s being selfish, so be it!
Such was Victorine’s prayer for the day.
Con washed up and shaved, and Dancy reapplied clean dressings while Victorine cooked lunch, such as it was. Because the condos had no fireplaces, she kept a small fire going in the stainless steel sink. Gerald had had a good supply of Proto-Syn lava rocks, so the smoke was kept to a minimum. She fixed a beef stew from bouillon cubes and dried beef strips and canned vegetables. There were rye crackers and raisins and four old satsumas in Gerald’s pantry. The skin on them was leathery, but the fruit was still surprisingly sweet and juicy.
Con, meanwhile, was trying on his new wardrobe, and he kept calling out to Dancy from the bathroom. “Wait’ll you see me, Miss Dancy Doodlebug. You’re going to have the laugh of the day,” he grumbled. “Man! These breeches are—oh, forget it. I’m Airborne, Screaming Eagles, I can hold my breath for a day or two. But I’m afraid I’m gonna walk like a duck. Uh—you’re sure these aren’t girl’s clothes?”
“Stop griping, big man,” Dancy said, her eyes bright. “C’mon out, I want to see.”
“I’m comin’. I’m comin’.”
He came out slowly and breathing a little heavily. Victorine sighed; he really was still weak. No doubt about it, they were going to have to move slowly and probably help him if they left tonight.
“I look,” he announced sadly, “like an idiot.”
“What are you talking about?” Victorine snapped. “It’s a black turtleneck sweater—and a really nice one, of real silk and wool that I wish I had—and black Ty-jeans! What’s so idiotic about that?”
“I dunno,” he muttered. “I just think I look like that Ultimate Reality star, the one that’s s’posed to be so bad. You know, the Invincible Vampire Hunter and the One-Man S.W.A.T. Team.”
“Marcus Iago,” Dancy supplied with deli
ght. “But he’s the quirk, a real slay, Captain Slaughter. You don’t look at all like him.”
“Gosh, thanks,” he grumbled, looking down at himself. He studied Dancy—who was wearing her would-be commissar outfit— and then Victorine, who was wearing black Ty-twill pants and a shapeless charcoal gray sweater. “Well, at least we’re all color coordinated,” he said with a lisp. “We can have our own gang. The Deadly Nightshades or something like that.”
“That’s not funny,” Victorine said sharply.
“Aw, Mom, we’re just fooling around,” Dancy said.
“Just fools is more like it,” Victorine muttered, stirring the thin stew savagely.
Dancy came up behind her and slid her thin arms around Victorine’s waist, laying her head against her back. “I love you, Mom. So much.”
Victorine dissolved; who wouldn’t? “I’m gripy, aren’t I?”
“Yes,” Dancy whispered. “But I know why. It’s okay, Mom. It’s going to be okay.”
“I hope so, darling,” Victorine sighed.
Neither of them saw the look on Con Slaughter’s face. In fact, no one had ever seen the like of it on the tough soldier’s craggy, desert-hardened features. It was gentle, with much sad longing, and it did not soon pass away.
“They’re commissars,” Victorine whispered in Con’s ear.
He was angry that Victorine had had to belly-crawl up to the little tussock by the side of the road so she could see who was on the bridge. He was a soldier, blast it! And he was good at things like covert night surveillance! And here he sat like a great lump, letting this poor overtaxed woman do all the dangerous work!
The fact that Con couldn’t belly-crawl anywhere unless he wanted to reopen the long gash on his chest and probably bleed to death made no difference to him.
“Am I bothering you, Captain Slaughter?” Victorine hissed viciously. “Did you hear me?”
“Yes, I heard you,” he grunted. “Sorry. Commissars? Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. I know one of them.” Dancy, who was huddled close to Con, perked up. “It’s Mitch Day, Dancy,” Victorine told her. “You remember him? Greek food and sandalwood incense in his room.”
“Oh, yeah. And long-legged blondes,” Dancy said.
“You’re not supposed to notice things like that,” Victorine intoned.
“Can’t help it,” Dancy said, shrugging.
Con was thinking hard. So the bridge is held by commissars? I don’t trust them, either . . . If I’m going to just sashay up to somebody and turn myself in, I want it to be our military. I could get court-martialed for desertion, I guess . . . if there is a military here . . . but I’d rather take my chances with them.
So what are our options here? Double back, go through the scrub and down to the waterway? Can we cross it? Bloody well can’t swim it, not in this weather. Boat? Maybe, maybe not . . .
“I think we ought to ask them to help us,” Victorine said firmly. “At least they have some semblance of maintaining order. Presumably they’re here to aid refugees and maybe contain the gangs on the Key.”
“You didn’t see any Germans? None? And no civilians who might be Germans?” Con asked.
“How the heck do I know what Germans look like?” Victorine asked crossly. “I mean, they don’t all look like Aryan supermen, do they? Anyway, there are no civilians. Just commissars.”
“Are they armed?”
“They have side arms but no rifles that I saw. And, Con, there’s the truck.”
“Truck? You mean, it’s running?” Con demanded.
“Yes, it’s idling.”
“That’s not good,” he intoned. “Far as I know, the Germans are the only ones who still have toys that work. What did it look like?”
“It’s just a truck. No markings,” Victorine said impatiently. “And have you forgotten about the American planes?” They’d seen two more of the big transport planes in the last two days.
“Yeah, there is that . . .” Still, Con was hesitant. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like the smell of it or feel of it or something. “I think we ought to try to go to Pensacola on our own.”
Victorine was quiet for a long time, frowning. Finally she took a deep breath and said evenly, “Dancy and I are going to go to the commissars, Captain Slaughter. You, of course, can do whatever you like.”
It was too dark to see the niceties of expression, but Dancy must have sensed his intent. “Captain Slaughter,” she whispered softly, “I would really like for you to stay with us. Please?”
After a moment’s silence he muttered to Victorine, “How do you ever say no to this girl?”
“Rarely,” Victorine sighed, “and with great difficulty. So how do we—um—turn ourselves in?”
“If we’re gonna do it, then let’s just do it,” Con growled in a normal tone and stood stiffly. “I’m trekkin’.”
He walked up to the bridge, followed by Victorine and Dancy.
The four commissars who were carelessly guarding that end of the bridge came to attention, then fumbled for their pistols. “Halt!” one of them—a young woman—cried out.
“Stay frosty,” Con grunted, holding up his hands in the universal gesture of surrender. “I’m unarmed. Unfortunately.”
Victorine pushed forward and called out, “Commissar Day?
Do you remember me? I’m Victorine Flynn Thayer, the hospitality manager of Summer Sea.”
Mitchell Day lowered his pistol and squinted in the darkness.
Then he took a small flashlight and shone it on Victorine’s face, then on Dancy, and finally on Con. “It’s okay,” he said at last. “I recognize them. They’re hospitality managers for the diversionary facilities on the Key. She’s who she says she is, and that’s her daughter, I forget her name. C’mere, sweetheart, it’s okay. And the big guy is Gerald Ainsley; he’s at White Dunes.”
And that was how no one ever knew that Con Slaughter was a captain in the 101st Airborne (Air Assault), Fire Team Eclipse. He didn’t have to cower, and Victorine and Dancy didn’t have to lie.
They hustled them across the bridge, Mitch Day escorting them, talking all the time. Victorine had never exactly been friends with the gregarious young commissar, but she had found him less offensive and demanding than most.
“We’ve done a pretty good sweep from Pensacola. We’ve already picked up about two thousand refugees and arrested a couple of hundred looters and criminals,” he told them confidently. “We’ve been driving the gangs east. Bet the Key’s no place to have fun these days.”
“No, it’s not been fun,” Victorine agreed ironically. “Where are you taking us?”
“We can do some initial processing here, at the temporary camp down at the other end of the bridge,” he replied. “Then we’ll take you to Pensacola NAS. It’s where we’re processing all refugees.”
“Processing?” Victorine said cautiously. “What does that mean? And what do you do with us after we’re processed?”
“Just keeping track of everyone, Vic,” he said, swaggering a little. “And protecting innocent civilians. We’ll take care of you people. Don’t worry.”
“Gee, I feel so much better,” Con growled under his breath. Dancy grabbed his hand—his injured one—and squeezed it, glowering up at him. “Ow,” he mumbled, but said nothing else.
Mitchell Day, who seemed to be trying to impress Victorine, took them personally to a mobile trailer and told a gum-chewing woman commissar inside with a Cyclops drone who they were. She typed fast, then without looking up or saying a word, printed out three small cards and laminated them. They had their names, their Social Security numbers, and another long code number printed on them. Day presented them to Victorine with a flourish. “Keep this with you at all times,” he said with importance. “You can go over to the mess shack and have some coffee and something to eat.
Some cots, too, if you want to catch some z’s.” He squinted up at Con Slaughter’s gray-tinged face. “You don’t look so good, big guy.
&nbs
p; Some gangster jump you?”
“Three of ’em did,” Con answered darkly. “They’re gull feed.”
Dancy, behind Day’s back, gave Con a look that might have withered fresh flowers.
Day was twenty-two years old, had never been to college, and never expected to be anything better than a commissar; but then again, he wasn’t a blind fool. He stepped closer to Con and searched his face carefully under the mercury vapor lights in the trailer. Con stared back at him defiantly.
He’s busted, Victorine thought, and she was a little taken aback at how frightened she was. Day must not have ever really had a conversation with Gerald Ainsley, or he wouldn’t have taken Captain Concord Slaughter for the slightly effeminate and much more slender man.
Someone had to do something. And it sure didn’t need to be Dancy.
Victorine stepped forward and laid her hand on Day’s arm.
Softly and prettily she murmured, “My Commissar, I must thank you so much for taking such good care of me and my daughter.
We’ve been so very frightened.”
Day was a low commissar, and had no right to the courtesy title. Victorine, of course, knew this, and Day probably suspected that she knew it. Still, he was flattered, and he responded to Victorine the way most men did when she took the trouble to seek their attention. “Victorine, it’s been my pleasure,” he said, covering her hand with his and pressing it fervently. “I must report back to my post, but could I escort you to the mess tent first?”
“Oh, yes, I’d appreciate it,” she replied, taking his arm snugly.
They left the trailer, Day having forgotten all about Gerald Ainsley and Dancy, too. But Victorine hadn’t. She cast a look of pure disgust behind her at the captain, and he grinned and winked at her. Almost flouncing, she turned back around and smiled oh-so-warmly at the smitten Day.
Fallen Stars, Bitter Waters Page 10
