by Adam Hall
But I was ready now.
The activator was a cylindrical spigot, not very different from a press-button but two inches across, its surface grooved to mate with the grooves I’d seen on the timing-mechanism. The extent of travel was less than half an inch, the extent by which the activator stood proud of the casing. Thumb pressure would suffice: the mechanism of the timer had been sensitive rather than heavy. I put my thumb on the grooved surface.
The organism was at this point in a state of excitation: the blind instinct to preserve itself was in fierce conflict with the will. I think it would have been easier for me if I’d been in fit condition: there wouldn’t have been this need to drive a bruised and terrified subconscious into contributing to the final act of extinction. In the confused cerebral state there was only one area with any kind of ability to reason, and here the technician in me was observing the situation in his own terms, and noting things like the complementary factors of requirements and facilities available, the requirements being to press the activator and detonate the device, the facilities being my thumb and its motor nerves.
At some time this idea became linked with philosophical considerations containing a marked awareness of self: the activator has to be pressed, therefore all we need is pressure; I can exert pressure with my thumb, but I’d rather it were something else because if I press this thing with my thumb it’s going to kill me.
Cerebration is very fast and I doubt whether more than half a minute had passed before the whole idea took shape. I could still hear them cackling, and another sound, a kind of secret laughter, gloating and vengeful, rising from the vortex of my own subliminal.
Vaguely aware that I was laughing at the birds out there, the horrible sounds inside me echoing theirs, but not a lot of time to think about it, the need was to move back from the edge of clinical hysteria and perform acts.
The first was to remove my thumb from the detonator.
Of the various objects on the flightdeck I thought the carved teakwood statuette was most suitable. For a little while I held it, feeling its shape with my fingertips. It was a couple of feet long, the carving quite good except where the tool had slipped and one of the feet had been narrowed; or it could have been damaged at some time and the break smoothed off. It was Nahudian, obviously a god, wide nosed and with tribal. markings on the forehead, a burning brand held at the side: perhaps it was N’Gami, god of lightning.
Other material was available and I wedged the nuclear device on its flat end between the seats and moved the throttle levers parallel with each other, driving the feet of the statuette between them to inhibit lateral movement. At the other end I used the parachute packs as lateral guides, so that N’Gami’s body lay horizontal, his head resting on the grooved activator. And while I made these simple arrangements the unnerving muted laughter went on inside my skull, echoing the noise of the birds outside, perhaps defying them.
Because it would be difficult to do, what I would have to do now. I had done it before, to save my life; and I would do it again, to save my life; but this time it would be more difficult because I would have to make myself do it, in cold blood. Nevertheless, I would do it.
The daylight struck in as I slid the door open, and for a minute I stood listening, my eyes closed against the glare. But the noise of the birds overlaid the more distant sound and I had to go outside before I could note the difference in volume: the helicopters had moved westwards and were flying the same north-south pattern. I could see them more easily now because they were nearer, but their configuration was much larger than mine and I discounted the immediate risk of my being seen on the ground.
On this side of the freighter, the lee side, the sand had barely drifted across the top of the cabin, and I climbed them, feeling the solidity of the mainplane root somewhere under me. As I dug with my right hand, bringing the sand away, I saw that Tango Victor had been overtaken by a storm and had turned to head into it, sometime before landing blind: the flightdeck windows were abrased to the point of opaqueness. But they were translucent, and that was all I needed.
Then I came down and looked at the birds against the glare coming up from the sand, nausea starting in me and bringing doubts whether I could do it. The heat pressed on my back and I stood swaying, watching them.
All right, they were merely feeding and we all do that, all living creatures have to feed; but it was their ruby-red eyes and the fact that their meat had once been man.
Sleep was trying to blot everything out: fatigue plus the soporific after-effects of the gas, and this was dangerous because there was a chance of staying alive if I made an effort, pity to let it all, slope of sand and my hand to break the get up spin of the blinding sky get up you bloody fool, near one.
That was a near one all right.
Stupid bastard, get moving, do what you’ve got to do, think where you are: no more water left and the tissues already drying out, helicopters moving closer, a matter of half an hour before they’re over here, you going to stand here till you drop, stay here till you fry, Christ sake put some effort into this thing or you’ve had it and you know that.
Still hadn’t moved but now I did, going down the slope towards them, jerk jerk, cackle cackle, towards them.
When I was within a dozen yards of them the nearest one flew up, shrieking its alarm cry. The others chorused it instinctively, some moving away but all turning to face me, one lifting its ragged wings and waddling towards me, threatening.
I dropped on to my knees and rolled over and lay face down with the sand’s heat burning under me and the sun’s heat on my back. Already their cry had changed from the alarm to a desultory cackling and the one that had flown up came drifting across to rejoin the others. I lay watching them, catching their fetid stench on the air. There’d be no danger if I fell asleep. If I slept, they’d wake me.
Cackle.
Very close and in front of me.
Sense of deja vu: I’d lain here on the sand before, in this or another lifetime, and the bird had come for me, cackling. It voiced again and I opened my eyes and from between my fingers I saw the thing standing close to me on its wide-straddling legs, the head forward and the hooked beak open, the wings raised, menacing, the guttural racketing in my ears.
Difficult not to move, not to yell at it, not in some way to show defiance. But I mustn’t even show life.
Others were coming, encouraged. They came waddling, their heavy bodies moving from side to side under their bald white necks and heads, their red eyes brilliant. It was the .biggest of them that had come over to me first, and now it came closer, taking a single hop with the black wings spreading and folding again as it landed and stood over me. I felt the draught it had made, and began taking slow shallow breaths because of its smell. It voiced again, uncertain of me, knowing that minutes ago I’d been alive and moving. As the sound rattled from its throat I saw the sharp red tongue stiffened in the gaping beak and the small eyes glaring.
Lie still.
The others came waddling and I heard the hiss of the sand as their feet displaced it; but the big one, standing over me, gave a low cackle and lifted its head; and they stopped. This was the leader, and according to the protocol of the flock it would be the first to take meat.
Lie still.
Peck.
Shocking in its force, part pincer and part hammer blow, numbing my wrist. I didn’t move. I could do it now because the thing was close enough but it was still uncertain, hopping back after taking the first trial peck in case I reacted. Now it came closer again, more boldly, the hooked beak half open for the strike, this time to feed.
Then I took it.
The beak struck but I went for the legs and got a grip on their scaly hardness and held on and tried to stand up but its weight stopped me and I rolled over and buried my face against an arm as the shrieking broke out and the wings beat in a frenzy to churn the sand and send it clouding and scattering, the strong legs tugging as I held them and one pulling free and its talons hooking at my
face and hooking again, the gross body swinging from its single tether while I found a purchase on the sand and stood up, lurching and snatching for the free lag because the talons were murderous and if the other leg snapped and the thing got free and flew away I was done for.
Then I got it and held on and let it struggle, the wings thrashing and the beak striking and striking again and again at my wrists and arms as I walked with the thing to the aeroplane while the rest of the flock wheeled screaming overhead.
I had left the sliding door to the flightdeck fully open and now I hurled the bird inside and shut it in and came away and dropped to the sand and began walking, began lurching into some kind of a run towards the rock outcrop, hearing the mad shrieking behind me as the thing battered at the windows for escape.
Cerebration minimal now but I knew that I’d done what I’d meant to do: the rest would depend on chance. If the flightdeck had been totally dark the bird would have fluttered aimlessly, disorientated, and that would have been dangerous. I’d cleared the windows so that it could see the daylight, and for a while it would beat uselessly there until its frenzy tired it, leading it to look instinctively for a perch.
N’Gami, are you a god for me or for them?
The screaming was fainter now because of the distance.
I took the transceiver from the niche among the rocks and cradled it against me and tried to run with it but couldn’t manage, had to make do with a shambling lurch through the sand, stopping sometimes to listen. I could hear the distant cries of the flock as they circled the freighter, disturbed by what had happened to their leader. The one distinctive cry, with its note of panic, was no longer audible. Perhaps the bird was tiring now.
A throbbing was in my head as I made what pace I could, in my head or in the sky, and I stopped again, turning to look back.
The helicopters had broken off their search and were moving into the target area at dune height: they’d seen the vultures and knew from desert experience that there must be carrion below, or some kind of living prey. When they landed I would go back there and talk to them, a voluntary captive parched for water, and show them the freighter, telling them what I’d found inside it, and arranging at the most convenient moment that the little god should summon his lightnings.
I thought I was already beyond the residual radiation range but I turned and went on again because if they landed I would hear them. I would give myself until then.
The weight of the transceiver was dragging me forward and I fell twice, the second time pitching down off balance and lying prone, a flashing in my head as I got on to all fours and dropped again, sudden rage rising, can’t stand being feeble, Christ sake get up, trying again and hanging on the sand like a dog, get up and get on, trying again, no go, trying again as the dunes in front of me turned dazzling white and I squeezed my eyes shut, dropping again and groping for the transceiver, hitting the switch.
Slowly the white light was dying.
Beneath me the desert shuddered.
Mission completed.
They would hear it in Kaifra. Loman was waiting for it and until it came he’d be staying open to receive. There wasn’t any hurry because the sound would take nearly a minute to reach there, but I called him up straight away because I didn’t know how long I could last out here in the burning sand, under the burning sky.
Tango.
He didn’t answer immediately. Wasn’t expecting a signal.
Tango receiving you.
About time.
I did the bang.
Of course he started asking a lot of questions but I cut him short, told him where I was, north of the rocks, told him to pull me out.
The End
