Sol Survivors | Book 2 | Nashville Nightmare

by Benton, Ken

  Ricky managed a chuckle. “Thanks, I guess. I’m no diurnal. And probably not whatever them are. Haven’t had the slightest urge to be out in the daytime since everyone went nocto or di after the sun flare. Although I’ve occasionally come home late from fishing and got caught in the first morning rays for a hundred yards or so.” He glanced at the cots again. “Sleeping in this place doesn’t strike me as comfortable, either. So I was looking out at the yard, thinking how it’s those di bastards who put me in here.”

  “And it didn’t bother your eyes?”

  “A little. Not like I thought it would. My name is Ricky.”

  “I’m Carlin. I tried peeking outside like that a few days ago, out of boredom when I was up for my mid-day smoke. Freaked me out and I almost went blind. It’s … interesting how you can handle it. They say extreme emotion or adrenaline gives a person resistance to the effects of the opposing solar cycle, so maybe there’s something to that. I’m not one to get worked up over much, so not much chance of me ever making a go of the daylight. Do you mind if I ask why you are here?”

  “Theft.”

  Carlin nodded. “That’s the most common charge against us noctos. For food?”

  “No. A damn tackle box and fishing rod that I arranged a legitimate trade for.”

  “You mean you made a trade with a diurnal, and then afterwards he accused you of stealing the item he traded you for?”

  Ricky thought about his answer. “It’s not quite that simple. But essentially, yes. We had a future deal for the stuff I was taking, and I brought another big catfish for it.”

  Carlin breathed out a stream of smoke. “Sounds more like a misunderstanding, then.”

  “Yes—one with unfortunate timing. And then he opened the tackle box and the eggs he found inside pushed him over the edge, I think.”

  “So you were stealing food. Or at least, unilaterally sweetening your end of the trade.”

  Ricky tilted his head. “I suppose that’s what it seemed from his point of view. It should have been no big deal, if it wasn’t for the prejudice they all have against us.”

  “Still,” Carlin said as if continuing his last thought, “taking a few eggs is hardly a punishable crime in the current times. Most neighbors of people with hens are guilty of as much on both sides of the clock. What we need to argue is the fact you had a trade deal in place, and believed you were acting in good faith on that. If the nests were right there, it was simply an irresistible attraction and not premeditated.”

  “We need to argue?” Ricky asked.

  “I don’t mean to be presumptive. If you have other counsel arranged, and are confident of their arrival for your tribunal, then no. Otherwise I’ll be representing you. I’m the designated nocturnal public defender here, for the time being.”

  Ricky only scrutinized him cockeyed.

  “It’s my sentence,” Carlin explained. “Long story.”

  * * *

  Chili took a deep breath and lowered the dark sunglasses over his eyes before pulling the makeshift curtain away from the window.

  “Close that damn thing!” Mort’s voice instantly said from behind.

  Chili let go of the curtain and took off the glasses. Even with the protection, it took his eyes a moment to adjust from the quick flash of sunblind. When they did, he saw the barrel of Mort’s fearsome automatic pistol pointed closer to him than was comfortable.

  “Easy man,” Chili said.

  “I couldn’t tell who it was,” Mort replied. “What’s with you looking out? Shouldn’t you be catching some Zs?”

  “I heard shouting. Someone’s been chained to the tree by the rotunda.”

  Mort lowered his weapon. “I guess my cousin left us another gift. Some fool probably cheated at his game.”

  Chili smiled. “So we’ll have entertainment tonight.”

  “We’ll have dinner, anyway. Entertainment requires at least two guests. How is it you can stand to look out into that bright afternoon sunlight, Chili? You got some special ability the rest of us should know about?”

  Chili frowned at the exaggerated tone of suspicion. “I used these.” He raised the sunglasses. “Even then, I can only take it for a quick second. Is there a problem?”

  “You’ve been acting squirrelly lately. A couple of the others are bothered by it.”

  “Squirrelly how?”

  “Like when you were cleaning up the museum the other day and hanging gold records back on the wall. As if some tourists were coming.”

  “Is there a rule that says we have to live in a pile of trash? You should be happy someone cleans up. This place gets disgusting, and rats are moving in.”

  “I guess no one else gives a shit,” Mort replied. “Which makes you stand out as the odd one.”

  Chili shrugged. “You can’t please everyone, so you’ve got to please yourself.”

  “Save it for the stage,” Mort said.

  “That’ll be the day.”

  Mort frowned. “You trying to be funny again?”

  “No. But I do think we need a night of entertainment. It’s been a week since the last one. That’s why tensions are high and people are getting weird about stupid stuff like a guy who cleans up a little. Who says we need more than one contestant?”

  “Because we do!” Mort snapped. “Otherwise there is no point to it. They must have a real sense of hope, or they don’t perform to their ability.”

  Chili made an exasperated motion and instantly regretted it. The last time he did that he could tell it aggravated Mort.

  Sure enough, Mort’s eyes narrowed and he formed a cold stare.

  “I think you’re right,” Mort said after an uncomfortable minute elapsed.

  “About what?”

  “About needing a show. You know a lot of songs, don’t you?”

  Chili felt an expression of terror form on his face and he began to shake his head. “Mort, no. I’m sorry…”

  “Sure you do. Don’t worry, man. You’ll be a heavy favorite. Your opponent won’t know you’re a shill. Of course, if you don’t want to perform, all you have to do is go out at dusk and find us another contestant.”

  * * *

  “Any others show themselves?” Mick asked crawling back through the hole in the bushes. Sammy’s motionless figure was still in the same position against the riverbank.

  “No,” Sammy replied. “Never saw the two who ambushed us, either. There may not be any others. I think they’re done with us, and have what they were after. Already backed their truck away.”

  Mick glanced up through the leaves at the bridge overhead. “I’m surprised you’re still sitting here like this.”

  Sammy looked him in the eye. “You find a way up?”

  “It can be climbed,” Mick replied. “But not without being seen from the bridge.”

  “You’ll have to chance it. The sooner the better.”

  Mick stared back at his curly-haired friend, whose hair was beginning to dry, and felt the familiar spirit of despair consume him once again. He blinked several times and looked Sammy up and down.

  “You’re hurt?”

  Sammy nodded. “My leg. I can limp on it, so I don’t think it’s broken. But I can’t climb any farther. You’ll have to go back for help.”

  “Back … where? Back to Joel’s?”

  “That would be ideal, yes.”

  “And leave you here?”

  Sammy gave him a forced smile. “This cubbyhole isn’t a bad spot. Not easy to get to. I’m concealed, and it’s defensible.” He raised the blunderbuss. “You take the pistol and the rest of the ammo. If you can catch the asshole before he gets the tire changed on that Celica—”

  “Sammy…”

  “The more we debate it the more time he has to get away.”

  “Maybe I can pull you up with a rope harness,” Mick suggested. “Maybe if I can find a boat of some kind we can get out by river. Maybe your leg will feel better enough to make the climb after you rest it.”

  “The rop
e in the bag isn’t long enough,” Sammy said. “And all these maybes require that you climb the bank anyway. As long as you’re up there, you may as well see if the Celica is still … available. If it is, you can make it back to Joel’s before dusk, most likely. No offense, Mick, but the best of your ideas involves getting me out using a longer rope—and I like my chances better if Joel is involved in the rescue.”

  Mick breathed a long sigh and blew upward on his bangs. “So do I.”

  “If you make it, tell him I’m really sorry about this. But Mick…”

  Mick tilted his head. At that moment two gunshots fired, about three seconds apart, somewhere in the distance—but they were noticeably closer than the other occasional gunshot sounds in the city.

  “You know what, forget it,” Sammy said. “Forget it, man.”

  Mick frowned.

  “Forget it,” Sammy repeated. “I was being selfish. I can’t ask you to risk your life any more on my account. Or Joel. Especially Joel, now that he and Debra are … he tried to warn us, too, dammit. No, I’m not dragging him to this godforsaken place. And I’m not sending you into another shootout. What was I thinking? Must be the pain in my leg talking. I’m sorry. Forget it, Mick.”

  “Well what, then?” Mick asked.

  Sammy tried to stand. Mick sprung up to help him, but Sammy waved him off. He grimaced, but did make it upright, with the help of a willow branch.

  He took a step forward, on the good leg, hunched over by necessity in this undercut, and then tried to put weight on the bad leg.

  For a moment he stood there and nodded. The moment extended. Sammy’s facial expression became less aggravated. The injury might be manageable.

  But he wasn’t making it to the top of the riverbank. Mick could see that.

  “Good,” Mick said. “Now sit back down.”

  Sammy looked at him quizzically.

  Mick grabbed the backpack. He rummaged through it until he found a baggie of dried fruit and the box with the remaining .38 shells. He poured the shells into the dried fruit bag.

  “It isn’t that bad,” Sammy said. “If I rest it a while, like you said, it may get better.”

  Mick didn’t answer right away. He shortly became aware that Sammy was watching him with the demeanor of an utterly helpless person waiting to learn his fate; someone who had run out of things to say to try to influence it.

  Mick checked the rounds in the revolver and snapped the cylinder shut. “That’s encouraging,” he finally said. “Maybe if you alternate between resting, stretching, and putting pressure on it, it will keep from getting stiff.”

  “I don’t want to end up spending the night here alone,” Sammy stammered.

  “Can’t say I blame you.” Mick shoved the baggie in one pants pocket and the revolver in his other. “But if you do, you are decently supplied, and you’re right, it’s not a bad spot. I’m going to make that climb and have a look around. Maybe I can find something that will help us. I’ll probably be back soon, unless…”

  “Unless what?”

  Mick pointed up the bank. “Keep your ears open. If you hear three long car horn honks, it means I won’t be back for a while and you may as well get some sleep.”

  Chapter Eight

  The vulture leaned into the wind, widening his circle and beginning what he hoped would be an inconspicuous descent.

  Recently, the power which governs the universe had granted it both permission and opportunity to feed upon the upright creatures placed in authority over the earth. The vulture didn’t quite know what to make of the offering at first. Of course, it had no choice but to taste of it. Birds instinctively understand the pecking order of all natural things as well as the function assigned each of their subspecies. The vulture’s subspecies had a job to do. Doing it was the only way their appetite was satisfied, and thus the only way they could continue living.

  But to feed on the creature at the top of the food chain was something to be approached with curiosity. That curiosity ended when the meat proved tender. Much of it had to be picked from between bones and cartilage, an easy task for a strong curved beak. Vultures were used to secondhand carrion, often only given the opportunity to feed after more ferocious animals had their fill and relinquished the carcass.

  That’s the other thing which made this recent development uncanny. The more ferocious animals feeding first were the same creatures. They were eating each other. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. A vulture is fully prepared to eat his parents given their demise. But it is rarely seen among other species.

  The first few “leftover” carcasses the vulture had the opportunity to partake of were a virtual buffet, rich with choice sections of protein including organ meat and intact respiratory tracts. But lately, the remains were becoming sparser with many of those sections already gone. No doubt the upright creatures discovered they were neglecting some of the more delectable portions. Seeing as the vulture had now acquired an irrepressible taste for this specific flesh, which grew stronger with every such meal, it was a logical conclusion that the creatures feeding on each other had done likewise.

  At least they hadn’t discovered the best part yet: the eyeballs. Those were always left intact, and the first vulture to land on a discarded carcass was always rewarded with them.

  The current situation on the ground below was unusual in that an entire fresh carcass appeared to be left unattended. Two of the living upright creatures had dragged it a short ways from the unnatural pathway littered with so many of their transportation objects. But then they left it in a small clearing and moved away. The vulture could see them rummaging about in the brush nearby. Were they no longer interested in this feast?

  The scene was one to be cautious of. No competitors had yet spotted it. The vulture would be first to arrive, and be blessed with not only the eyes but first pickings of the whole smorgasbord. Something about it was too good to be true, so with the two living ones still in the vicinity he chose to make an erratic and inconspicuous approach, descending in asymmetrical patterns.

  When he was down to treetop level and the two living ones had still not returned, he could resist no further and dove to the ground. A perfect landing with minimal flapping placed him next to the head. One second later a delicious fresh eyeball squished wonderfully between his upper and lower beak. Ten seconds later it was in his throat and the other eyeball sat in his mouth, connective tissue dangling.

  That’s when the two living creatures showed back up. One of them shouted, who now carried a pile of wood in his arms. The other took one of the wood pieces and threw it at the vulture. It bounced off the ground and landed on the chest of the carcass.

  The vulture scrambled back to flight. It would have to wait for the rest of its meal, and be content with whatever remained later.

  But at least it got the eyes.

  * * *

  The President of the United States traversed the corridor in the underground bunker with one Secret Service agent in front of him and one behind, knowing he was the last to arrive. The agent in front of him was female, an attractive forty-something brunette—but no one you wanted to meet if you were in a place you were not supposed to be. When they came to the door of the room she turned aside and stood with her back against the wall. Her partner took the other side of it and the President entered the room.

  It was half as full as usual.

  “Stay seated, please,” the President said as they all began to stand. All but one caught themselves before becoming upright. The one who came to full attention was General Langston of the Marine Corps, one of the three Joint Chiefs of Staff present. No surprise there. He was not the kind to do anything halfway, and marines never miss an opportunity to show full respect to a superior.

  Half the Joint Chiefs were joined by slightly more than half of the President’s appointed Helios Recovery Task Force. All totaled eleven for this meeting, including renowned psychiatrist Dr. Raymond Bauer, a man in his late seventies who looked and acted as someone
twenty years younger.

  “You too, General Langston.” The President plopped into the oversized Presidential office chair, the lone chair on this side of the long curved meeting desk. “Though I appreciate the salutation, as always. I want to cover several issues in the short time we have today, so we’ll skip the formalities and get straight to business.”

  He waited until he had regained everyone’s full attention.

  “First off, I can see the curiosity in your eyes as to why we are assembling with only half the normal group, and in the afternoon instead of dusk as has been our custom. This is intentional. I wanted to have a chat with just the diurnals. Later, shortly after nightfall, I will be meeting with the nocturnal members in like manner. And the reason is I want to see if there are things we will say when they are not present, and vice versa.”

  The President motioned towards the visibly disturbed Dr. Bauer. “Doctor, you’re already scowling.”

  “My apologies, sir.”

  “Don’t apologize, just tell me what’s on your mind. Let me guess, you think this is a bad idea and will create unnecessary divisions among us.”

  “Yes,” the doctor replied.

  “I’m only planning on doing it this one time. But I do want to know if anyone present has any gripes or reservations with any of our nocturnal team members. Or even any ill feelings about the team being mixed in the first place. Please be honest.”

  The President looked around the room. Most of them broke eye contact when his gaze landed on them. General Langston remained an unblinking statue, as usual.

  “Because,” the President continued, “it’s been nearly six weeks and I’m told there are no signs of this diurnal-noctural division abating and people returning to normal, even with the lingering magnetic effects from Helios now almost completely gone and the ozone layer showing signs of patching itself. It would seem to be a fact that the newly-created classes of diurnals and nocturnals simply don’t care for each other. Am I wrong, Dr. Bauer?”