by M B Wood
A cup appeared in Fred's hand. "Yeah. This living in the woods sucks. The damp aggravates my arthritis. Everything seems to get dirty twice as fast." He blew into the cup. Steam rose.
"Camping is a lot more fun with hot showers and clean beds."
"Or if the House of Pancakes is just around the corner."
"Hah, you got that right." Taylor had to smile at the image.
"Y'know, I was thinking, there're park shelters in this valley. It wouldn't take much to move one up here."
"Y’think so?" Taylor cocked his head to look at Fred.
"Sure. Shelters are pole barns without sides." Fred waved his hands. His voice got louder. "Even if we hafta cut the poles off, there'll still be plenty of headroom."
"Shush, Fred," Maria called. "You'll wake the children."
"Momma, I'm already awake." Albert's voice came from under the plastic awning. "I can't sleep any more."
"Well, I guess that means it's breakfast time," she said. "Excuse me, I need the fire."
"Yeah, sure," Taylor said. "Come on, Fred. Let's go and check out one of those shelters you were talking about."
#
"Dad," Albert yelled. "There're men coming, on horseback."
"Where?" Taylor asked.
"On the road by the river."
Among the trees, riders in plaid shirts bobbed in and out of view. They stopped at the bottom of the hill and waved something that looked like someone's old underwear tacked to a garden stake. "Taylor MacPherson," a voice echoed.
"Yeah, I'm here," Taylor called.
"Can we talk?" a horseman asked.
"Come on up." Taylor stood and pointed to the trail.
The riders hunched forward on their horses as they jolted up the steep track. Two of the riders had rifles in scabbards.
"I'm Taylor MacPherson. Who're you?"
"I'm Shel Weitzman." The man in front was slight of build, with dark hair starting to recede and a touch of gray at the temples. His face, narrow and dominated by a long, straight nose, carried a full harvest of worry. He dismounted and held the reins with hands that never stopped moving.
"Harvey Cubich is my nephew. I want to thank you for freeing him from those horrible people." His eyes flicked back and forth to the guns held by Fred and Chris. "My wife and I feared something terrible happened to him. He's like a son to us."
"You're welcome," Taylor said. "You didn't make this trip just to say thanks. What's on your mind?"
"Well." Weitzman frowned. "I was talking with John Phelps. He lives down the street from me." A hand fluttered toward the south. "He told us how you ambushed that gang and got their guns and ammunition. We want to buy ammunition." The lines between Weitzman's eyebrows deepened. "We'll pay a fair price."
"I'm sorry." Taylor held up his hands. "We have no use for money, and, we can't part with the ammo."
"Surely you got plenty from the gang."
"We got some guns, but no ammo." Taylor sighed. "We didn't search them. I just wanted to get rid of them."
"We've got to get more guns and ammo," Weitzman said. "The gang from Berea just torched two more farms. They'll be back."
"Yes, they will," Taylor said. "If you live alone on a farm, your days are numbered. The gangs will pick you off." He looked into the distance. "I left my home because I knew I wouldn't last long there."
And for other reasons, too, he thought. "You should pick a farm that's easy to defend and move into it with your neighbors. There's safety in numbers." The memory of the killing came back. He was afraid to count how many had died.
"We don't want to leave our homes. Besides," Weitzman said with a sigh. "The horse farms weren’t designed with defense in mind. They're spread out, y’know, with out-buildings."
Taylor shook his head. "It's your choice. This hill is the most defensible location I know and I'm still worried."
"Can't you even spare even some twenty-two ammunition?" Everyone knew that twenty-two ammo was the most common variety.
"No," Taylor said. "Band together, build defenses. Then you might stand a chance."
"I'll talk to my neighbors." Weitzman's lips compressed into a thin line. "Can we visit again?"
"Sure. Just make sure you show a white flag."
Weitzman got on his horse. "We've got to do something." He backed up his horse and as he turned around, he saluted. "Bye."
"Good luck," Taylor called as the horsemen left. He turned to his group. "Time to get back to work. Albert."
"Yes?"
"Guard duty." Taylor winked. "Keep up the good work."
"Yes, sir." Albert beamed as he trotted off.
"You know," Fred said. "We ought to ask those horsey folk if they want to join us here, on the hill."
"Oh, sure. They can join you under the awning."
"Look, I'm serious. We could use the Park shelters for housing. That might solve the problem of working in an exposed area since there'd be more of us, right?" Fred's voice rose.
"I hear you. Do we really want others joining us? I came here to be alone, to hide in the woods. I don't need anyone. I can disappear into the woods anytime I want to. Now you want me to take even more people under my wing?"
"Taylor, I don't know what the hell is your problem." Fred put his hands on his hips. "There're a lot of good people who're suffering through no fault of their own. Now, I know you've been generous, but didn't you just get through lecturing those horsey folk about banding together in a defensible location?"
"You made your point," Taylor said. "Well, that may help if the gang comes back. Maybe we've got to grow to survive."
"If they come back, we'll talk to them about it--"
"Dad, Dad." Albert ran up. "There're more people coming."
"From which direction?" Taylor reached for his Colt rifle.
"Down Cedar Point Road, from Mastick." He pointed west.
Five men in faded work clothes were at the bottom of the hill. One shook out a white cloth, almost self-consciously.
"Taylor MacPherson," a voice called. "It's me, John Wylie."
"Wylie, come on up." Taylor hadn’t recognized him. The five men who climbed the trail didn’t have any weapons. That, he realized, could be either good news or bad news.
"Hello, Wylie, what brings you up here?"
"Hi, Taylor. I hate to admit this, but you were right."
"What d'you mean?"
"You got one bunch of bullies off our backs. We weren't ready for that group yesterday. They attacked without warning. They killed Marty Colagrossi and gang-raped Jenny Pokopac.”
"Sweet Jesus." Taylor tightened his jaws.
"It was horrible." Wylie shook his head.
"We heard the shooting and saw smoke your way."
"Yeah, they burned Colagrossi’s house." Wylie had pronounced bags under his intense green eyes. His gray hair looked stringy and greasy. "We heard the shooting on the hill. Until young Frank Colagrossi came back and told us what happened, we figured you were a goner, too."
"Yeah, well, I guess we surprised 'em."
"I'd have enjoyed doing the same thing to them, too," Wylie said with a trace of bitterness. "Let me get to the point. Earlier, you offered us a chance to join you on this hill. Does that offer still stand?"
"Er, as a matter of fact, we were just discussing something like that." Taylor beckoned to Fred.
"We were fools to turn down your offer. We had no idea how bad things were. We've got to move to a safer place, like this hill. We'd like to join you folks, if we can."
"Well." Taylor hesitated. "How many of you are there?"
"Thirty-four. Eight families."
"That's a lot of people. What's your condition?"
"Well, two men and a woman took a beating from that gang. And they stripped us clean. If we'd only had more guns.” Wylie sighed. "We didn't stand a chance." His shoulders sagged as though deflated. "We'd like to join your group."
"Let me talk with Fred and Chris," Taylor said. "I didn't know you had so many in your group.
Excuse me." He rejoined Fred and Chris. "Well, Fred? Is this what you want? Have the hill overrun by refugees?"
"Aw, shit, MacPherson, where's your spirit of charity?"
"Charity, my ass." Taylor grimaced. "Where do we put them?"
"We'll put up some buildings."
"Oh, sure. That's easier said than done."
"Aw, come on, it's not difficult." Fred spat on the ground. "I do it all the time, I'm a journeyman carpenter."
"Chris, what d’you think?" Taylor asked the thin teenager.
"Me?" Her eyes widened in surprise. "You want my opinion?"
"Yes. Take them in or tell them to take a hike?"
"We could defend the hill if there were more of us," Chris said slowly. "Shortages of ammo and food are problems."
"Chris," Taylor said quietly. "Don't worry about ammo, worry about taking in the Mastick Road folks. Well?"
"Well, overall, we'd be better off with them," Chris said after a pause. "We'd be safer. So I guess that's a yes."
"John Wylie," Taylor called. "Welcome to the Hill."
In that instant, something softened that raw, empty feeling he had each time he thought about his dead wife and abandoning his home.
"You're sure?" Wylie's frown eased.
"Yes. Let's get moving. I want everyone over here in one day. Otherwise, you'll be vulnerable to attack during the move." "Can you let us have some gasoline?" Wylie asked hesitantly. "The gang took every drop of ours."
"Use Fred's van. It's a big all-wheel drive unit."
#
The van's first load brought three injured people. Taylor examined them on picnic tables under the awning area. None were conscious.
When will this end?
"Franny," Taylor called. "Come here, I need your help." Christ, what do I do now?
"Me?" Franny looked up, eyes wide.
"Yes. Help me with these people, please." His voice softened and he pointed to the injured. "Please bring me some clean water, the boiled kind, we need to wash their wounds."
"Yes." She put her hand to her mouth when she saw the woman. "I understand." She swallowed hard.
Taylor removed the dressings on the battered woman.
Franny gasped. She bit her lip, paled and hurried off.
#
By late afternoon, all the people from Mastick Road arrived. They erected plastic sheet awnings and dug another set of latrines.
"Welcome to the Hill," Taylor said from atop a picnic bench. Clusters of families stared at him, faces pale and drawn, amidst the jumble of piled-up possessions. "As a condition for living with us, I ask all of you to work together as a group. We are, in effect..." Taylor hesitated, seeking the right word. A memory of something that his father had told him about his Scottish ancestry came to him. "A clan, an extended family, banding together for mutual protection and survival."
Faces looked at one another, eyebrows rose. "You mean like those fuckin' Ku-Klux--" a voice said.
"Don't impugn my ancestry by comparing me to those bigots," Taylor said. "An extended family, like a clan in Scotland."
"Yes," Wylie said loudly. "An extended family, a clan.”
"Yeah, sure," a voice said without much enthusiasm.
"If you don't like it," Taylor said. "You're free to leave." He lowered his voice. "In the meantime, supper is ready." He pointed to tables set up in the clearing in the pine trees. Steam rose from hot food in the cold air. "Let's eat."
#
At dusk, a lone horseman with a white flag appeared at the base of the hill. "Hey, Taylor," the horseman called. "Can we talk?" It was Shel Weitzman.
"Sure." Taylor waved him to come up and led him to the fire. "Hi, Shel. What's on your mind?" He pointed to a seat.
Shel shook his head and remained standing. "This morning, the Wisnofskeys were burned out. I discussed your ideas with my neighbors. We can't stay on Barrett Road any longer."
"Yes?" Taylor waited for him to speak.
"Can we join your group, here on this hill?"
"Hmm." Taylor hesitated until he caught Fred's barely concealed grin. "How many are in your group?"
"Twelve families, thirty six people. And fifty horses."
"Fifty horses?" Taylor hesitated. "We can't keep fifty horses on this hill. They'll need pasture, won't they?" An idea came to him. "Wait a minute, what if we set up a communal farm in the Oxbow section of the park? It's just upstream from here."
"That's not on this hill." Weitzman frowned. "How will that be safer than a farm?"
"It's surrounded by water and we're on your northern flank. There's pasture for your horses, too. If we work together and pool our resources, we should be too much for the gangs."
"It might work," Weitzman said, "I'll talk to my neighbors."
#
A line of figures, silent and gray, appeared like apparitions in the early morning fog. A damp white cloth hung limply from a stick propped on the lead horseman's saddle. They stopped with a clatter of tackle. The horses snorted and stamped their hooves, steam rising from their flanks.
"Taylor," Weitzman called. "We came to join you." His voice echoed off the steep walls of the valley. Silently, the snake-like procession resumed its slow movement up the hill. Their numbers almost equaled those of current Clan members.
Chapter 11
A Day in the Life
"You what?" Mata ChaLik BuMaru said.
"I discarded the propulsion tube. It was eroded from the acceleration phase. I replaced it with a spare."
Bilik stared at the room behind Mata ChaLik. It was like a swamp in Ma; Podu trees perched on spindly elevated roots and its symmetrical branches laden with dense yellow-green vines dripped water. It reminded him of a scene from an erotic story.
"There are two spare tubes left."
"You launched it into space. Why?" Mata ChaLik’s head crest rose in anger. "Our resources are limited, irreplaceable."
"It had no further use. It was worn, its walls so thin it would not last through a sustained burn--"
"Even so, it could have been used in an emergency." Mata ChaLik’s head crest engorged. "You wasted resources."
The cold claw of fear clutched Bilik. That was a serious charge. "I sought a use for it, but its wear made it too dangerous." And you, builder of sumptuous bowers, Bilik thought, complain of wasting resources. "I decided, as engineer in charge of the propulsion system, safety considerations outweighed the benefits of keeping it. So I got rid of it.”
"Its velocity makes it dangerous to anything in its path." Mata ChaLik paced left and a pool came into view. It was like he was flaunting his new quarters. "What if it strikes an inhabited planet? Have we not had enough problems with hostile aliens?"
"Its course will take it through Kota's outer cometary belt. The navigator told me it is unlikely to collide with debris in that orbit."
Well, Bilik thought eyeing the pool, he really does have a place to get wet. Perhaps the rumors are true. Maybe Mata ChaLik does know other males who want to get wet and share erotic experiences. Another rumor was he tortured young males into gender change. None of the crew appeared pregnant or abused so it was product of idle chatter. With so much time on our claws, we grasp at any rumor.
"Should it reach a planet, it would burn up before reaching the surface. I believe I acted responsibly," Bilik said. "Besides, discarding mass reduces the energy demands of deceleration."
"You always seem to have a clever answer," Mata ChaLik said. "Remember, our resources are limited. In the future, consult me before you make any decisions." His voice had become loud, his head crest swollen with anger. "I know our needs better than you."
Yes, I'm sure you do, Bilik thought. You, who take our scarce resources and build a palace for yourself for doing who-knows-what. You know how to take care of your own needs far better than I do. Because of your activities, some varieties of foods are no longer available when you and your fellow Defenders created dwellings in the biozone by eliminating rare food plants. Now there are more Podu
trees with vines--a classic mating setting. It’s obvious the ecological flora is unbalanced.
"Yes, Mata ChaLik BuMaru," Bilik said in a formal manner. "I'll consult you before I scrap another propulsion tube."
"You know well what I mean." Mata ChaLik’s head crest grew larger, pulsating. "I shall remember your insolent attitude." His voice rumbled as though he was about to make a battle cry. "For a long time."
"Yes, Mata ChaLik BuMaru." Bilik flattened his head crest. Oh, Egg, now I've done it. I'd better report this conversation to DalChik. Even as spokesperson for the Keepers-of-the-Egg, DalChik might not do anything. Since departure, Mata ChaLik had taken control of the Egg-that-Flies, rendering the Keepers impotent. There was no effective counterforce to the Defenders.
The holographic image of Mata ChaLik disappeared.
#
"Did you know that DuKlaat YataBu actually ate some of MikLak's decorative plants?" Cha KinLaat referred to an incident that had taken place at a social gathering. "It's almost as though his diet is unbalanced. Maybe that's causing his aberrant behavior."
Cha KinLaat brought up a holograph of surf breaking on a sandy beach. He changed it to that of a steamy swamp. He stared at it for a moment and then went back to the surf. The roar of breaking waves grew louder.
"You think so?" Bilik wondered if he would be sane when the voyage ended. Minor items often became major sources of social condemnation. If one fell out of favor, it could mean exile from the daily discourse so essential to sanity. Even these quiet meetings in Cha KinLaat’s resting area had an element of strain.
Every detail, every plant in the pale green room was familiar to the point of tedium, including every strand of the sleeping nest upon which they sat. "Does the medical staff have data on this? It could be important."
"Well, it could be," Cha KinLaat said. "You'd think someone like DuKlaat would show some restraint."
"Do you know why certain foods are no longer available?"
"Don't ask that question," Cha KinLaat said. The holographic image with which he had been playing abruptly contorted into the test pattern that blocked surveillance. "You know the answer. I told you some time ago. Those responsible know more about fighting than you or I.”
