by neetha Napew
"Cards, son?"
"Sure, sir?"
"Would that be five-card draw poker, by any chance? Playing for scrip at the base store?"
"Surely would, sir."
Zelig sniffed and smiled. "It would pass the time."
"GUESS THAT two little ladies and three smiling tens is enough to take the pot over those three sevens and a couple of aces. Thank you, gentlemen. It's been a financial pleasure."
"Damnation!" The ex-Marine with the fuzzy blond mustache who'd suggested the game shook his head sadly. "Guess that Wendy from the bakery at the base is going to have to take a rain check on tomorrow's Christmas present, General. You cleaned me out. Still, don't they say somethin' about if you're unlucky in cards then you're lucky in marriage?"
"Something like that, son. You know, it slipped my mind for a while that tomorrow is Christmas Day. Perhaps we should try and arrange some sort of a ceremony."
"That'd be nice," said the skinny black soldier sitting on Zelig's right.
"Yeah," agreed someone else. "The first proper Christmas after we got us organized from Earthblood. Kind of first Christmas of the new life."
Zelig folded his winnings: the hand-printed slips of paper that passed for scrip at Aurora. With a show of satisfaction he put them into the breast pocket of his uniform.
"Not much to celebrate yet, son."
"We're alive, sir."
Zelig smiled. "Can't argue with you. I suppose that— Listen! Is that the recon patrols?"
It was.
With bad news.
"Just no way through or over or around, General," reported Major Lorraine Stotter. "Went as far as we could, but it looks like they've had a much worse fall of snow in these parts than we've seen yet."
"No life?"
"No, sir. Truck with half a dozen corpses in it. Two adult males and four children. Looked like they probably starved to death, trapped in drifts."
"And to the rear?"
"Forked farm road not shown on our high-scale map, General. But it looks like it might take us in the right direction to pull back onto the highway south."
Zelig tapped his finger against his expensively capped front teeth. "Hell, why not?" he said. "Get everyone ready, and we'll give it a try. Just hope that Jim Hilton and his party haven't run into really turbulent weather."
JIM WAS AT THE WHEEL when the group passed over the state line into Oregon. There'd been problems as they found themselves cutting farther inland, into worse weather. But they were now close to the coast, driving parallel to the Pacific, with the salt spray on the breeze fighting the snow and leaving sections of the highway completely clear.
They stopped in the middle of the afternoon for a food-and-comfort halt.
Jim walked to a point where the blacktop skirted cliffs above the sea. He stood and looked down and out, across the dull water broken only by wind-whipped combers. Hearing steps, he looked around and saw Carrie Princip.
"How's the patient?" he asked.
"Sukie is making a great recovery, Jim. If it hadn't been for those drugs and Nanci's knowledge in identifying what was needed, then…" She let the sentence trail away.
"Yeah. Could have been the last straw for Mac, as well. He's looked twenty years younger today."
Carrie stretched, putting her hands to the small of her back. "The sleeping pods on Aquila were more comfortable than that horse trailer."
"Want to drive awhile?"
"Sure. Be glad to. Tonight…do you think we could maybe get it together again? I really…"
Jim shook his head. "Not with Heather there a couple of feet away from us, Carrie. Sorry, but I just couldn't."
"No. I understand."
"Truth?" He smiled at her warmly.
Carrie smiled back. "If we, when we get to Aurora, I guess I'd quite like it if we could have some sort of privacy and spend some quality time together, Jim. I know we're thrown together here in this strange world, but I'd still…"
He kissed her on the cheek, very gently, one hand touching the back of her neck and drawing her closer to him. "I'd like to give it a try, too, Carrie."
"But there's still a long way to go."
"Sure. At least we don't seem to have run into any more of the groups of traveling killers that are loose in the country. Probably all busy putting up their Christmas decorations."
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The high, thin little voice of General Zelig had a strange majesty and resonance to it.
He had called all of his men and women together a few minutes after nine in the morning, everyone except the six perimeter guards and the single radio operator.
The tracked vehicles stood silent in the lee of a ruined cafeteria on the outskirts of a small, deserted township south of Yakima.
"Today is the birthday of Our Lord, Jesus Christ," he began. "I know that not all of us are practicing members of the Christian faith."
The snow had stopped, and the sun, dark orange, peered through some fragile wisps of white clouds. South of them was a more menacing bank of darker cloud, with thunder tops, promising dirtier weather.
"Indeed," continued Zelig, "I imagine that some of us have no notable religious beliefs. Considering the mess that God seems to have made of our planet in the last year or so, that wouldn't surprise me one bit."
A flock of crows, stark against the sky, circled a thousand feet above the congregation, cawing noisily.
"But let us join our hearts here in this bleak and inhospitable place in the wilderness. Let us look to a meeting with some old and trusted friends from way back when, and let us look to the confusion and destruction of our enemies from the dark land of Mordor. The Hunters of the Sun."
Somehow it was as though even the mention of the hated name had cast a heavy shadow across the feeble sun, making the land seem colder.
Zelig coughed, patting himself on the chest. "Well, we won't have any chestnuts roasting on an open fire or sleigh bells jingling in the snow. Although we have the snow." A few smiles and muted laughter greeted his words. "But we have each other—loyalty and friendship—and we have good memories and the hopes of a good future. Let's just stand together in a minute's silence to think about those two things. Loved ones who have gone before, and the prospect of better days to come."
The sixty seconds dragged their feet across the harsh, wintry land so slowly that a number of the men and women were glancing surreptitiously down at their watches before General Zelig clapped his hands.
"That's it, my friends. Oh, and a very merry Christmas to you all."
THEY HAD ALL AGREED that nobody would even try to give any sort of present to anyone else for Christmas.
As they assembled to eat a satisfying hot breakfast, there were handshakes and embraces. Jim even found himself hugging Jeff Thomas and wishing him all the very best for the festive season.
Sly went around and kissed everyone, his broad face wreathed in the widest smile any of them had ever seen.
"Me dreamed about Dad last night," he told the others. "He had a big white beard like God does and he laughed and me and him went out for a burger and soda in Heaven."
They had risked a small fire and they delayed their departure from the overnight campsite while they sat around, drinking an extra mug of coffee.
Heather squeezed her father's hand. "Is it wrong to remember the good Christmases we used to have when Andrea and Mom were still alive?"
"Of course not. The older you get, the more you come to realize that much of life is the memories."
"I remember when Andrea had that rabbit, Mr. Twitch, and she got all emotional on Christmas afternoon and went and let it go into the wasteland above the reservoir. You said that the coyotes would eat it in five minutes flat."
"Well," Jim said defensively, "they probably did."
"I guess my strongest memory is how you and Mom always did a reading from that old Dickens book each year."
"A Christmas Carol?"
"Yeah. You were Ebeneezer Scrooge and you kept sna
rling 'humbug' all the time. Mom did all the other parts. She was real good at acting, wasn't she?"
"Sure was. Lori never got the breaks she deserved. Trouble was, she looked too young for her years. Casting agencies said she was too pretty to play mothers and too old for the romantic parts. Didn't seem fair."
Nanci Simms, at his other side, leaned closer. "Know my strongest memory of Christmas, Jim?"
"No."
"I was working out in Central America. Kind of undercover stuff. Destabilization and political subterfuge. I hated it. Never loved hot jungles."
On the other side of the dying fire, Henderson McGill was leading all of his family in hesitant versions of some of the favorite Christmas carols. Nanci talked on through the nostalgic singing.
"I was in this hut. Had a fever and I had to answer a call of nature. Staggered off into the edge of the trees and squatted. My skull was like a helium balloon, and I didn't know which way was up. The counterinsurgents came calling." She laughed, shaking her head. "They could have been the insurgents, I guess. They changed their politics a lot more often than they changed their shirts. They'd heard there was a yanqui spy around—me. Christmas morning. There was a priest there from the city, leading the whole village in communion."
"Tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy, Oh, tidings of comfort and joy," chorused the McGills, but their singing was soft and ragged, as if touched by the memory of those who could no longer sing along with them.
Jeff Thomas had stood up and was rubbing his hands together, his breath hanging in the air around the thin, rather petulant lips. Jim wondered again what was going on inside the intelligent, devious mind.
Nanci continued, the closest to being sociable that Jim had ever seen her. "Actually promenading along the line of kneeling figures, everyone in their Sunday best, girls in pretty white confirmation frocks. Offering the host and the wine from an engraved silver chalice. I was still down in the undergrowth, wondering if the world was going to fall out of my bottom."
Sukie sat on Jeanne's lap, sucking a thumb and smiling at the other members of her family, nodding her tousled head from side to side in time with their singing.
"Of all the trees that are in the wood, the holly wears the crown."
Nanci saw where Jim was looking. "Really on the mend, isn't she? Where was I?"
"The priest was offering the chalice."
Sly was next to Heather and he caught Jim Hilton's words. "Me remember the old, old vid we had. Mom didn't like it. Her friend…" he looked puzzled. "Me don't know his name. He threw my vid away, Jim."
"What vid?"
"Chalice from palace has brew that's true and flagon with dragon has pellets of poison."
Nanci laughed. "I know that, Sly. Danny Kaye vid. I like it, too."
The teenager clapped his hands. "You show it me, Nanci, will you?"
"No, Sly. I don't have the vid. But if I ever see it and we can find a machine to watch it, then I promise you we'll watch it together. Just you and me."
"Be shit-hot, Nanci. Shit-hot to hit spot."
"Finish the story, Nanci," said Jim.
"Sure. Not much more to tell. The other side came out of the trees on the far side of the clearing. Didn't waste time. Threw a dozen frag grenades and a couple of ignites. Few jars of napalm. And goodbye was all she wrote. Ten seconds later, and there weren't more than ten people alive in the place. And most of those had terminal third-degree burns. I headed out and never went back. That was a Christmas to remember, Jim, I tell you."
"All was calm, all was bright...."
Heather joined in, her voice soaring, high and pure, above the others. Jim and Carrie also started to sing, and after a shrug, Nanci followed suit. Only Sly, swaying contentedly backward and forward, and Jeff, by the leading horse trailer, didn't join in the final carol. After the last echoes had faded away into the stillness around them, they all started the final preparations to get back onto the road again.
ONE OF THE MECHANICS responsible for servicing the supply-carrying Chinook had been caught asleep when he was supposed to be working on the stranded machine. Margaret Tabor decided that it would be no bad thing to make an example of the middle-aged man to encourage the others.
So at ten-thirty on the morning of December 25, she had him brought out in front of everyone and made to kneel naked before her in the snow. She shot him once through the back of the neck, the pale flabby corpse twitching in the crimsoned whiteness.
She had herself a merry little Christmas.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
As the two tractors, stopping for frequent refueling, rumbled their way northward throughout the long Christmas Day, the weather began to improve.
It became noticeably warmer, with a bank of dark rain clouds sweeping across the region from the northwest. It brought with it a torrential downpour, tasting of the ocean salt. Coming in from across the Pacific, it melted snow and turned roadside gutters into foaming streams of brown water.
Carrie was at the wheel of the first tractor, opening up the plastic side flaps and tying them up to give herself some needed ventilation.
Paul McGill drove the second one, whistling merrily to himself. Everyone's spirits were higher since they were making such good progress toward the Cascades.
Sukie was maintaining her improvement with the course of drugs, and was even well enough by late afternoon to ride with her father at the wheel of the tractor.
The high spot for Sly Romero was when Jim allowed him to drive their tractor himself. The lad kept giggling and clapping his hands together when he was told he could give it a try.
Heather had been unhappy until her dad suggested that she could have the second shift at the wheel in the morning. She stood by the front observation window in the horse trailer when Sly took his turn, whooping her encouragement.
"Slow and gentle. Keep your foot light on the gas pedal, Sly." Jim was perched behind the seat, ready to grab at the wheel or the emergency brake if it should become necessary. But Sly showed a surprisingly good touch, not rushing it, steering cautiously in the center of the blacktop, pulling around the occasional derelict car or truck.
"Dad sees me here, Jim," he said.
It wasn't clear whether it was a statement or a question. Jim answered him anyway. "He sure can, Sly. And he'll be smiling that big special smile he had—he has—just to watch you, the king of the road."
"Mommy Alison and… me remember his name. Randy. Slept with Mom in big goose-feather gypsy rover bed to stop her having bad dreams after Dad left. She wouldn't have let me drive like this, Jim."
"Guess she wouldn't at that."
"Someone ahead."
"Where? Put the brake on a bit, Sly. Slow and easy. The autogears will handle it. Steer to the right… that side, and keep slow."
The touch on the brakes warned Jeanne McGill, following on a dozen yards behind, that there could be a problem up ahead. Nanci Simms, immediately sensitive to the change in speed and the slight alteration in the pitch of the tractor's engine, called to find out what was happening.
Jim replied, shouting over his shoulder and not taking his eyes off the figure at the side of the highway about two hundred yards ahead of them. "Someone pushing a baby carriage loaded with stuff. No cover on either side, so it doesn't look like an ambush of any sort. I got the Ruger out and ready."
"I'll cover him with the Port Royale from here. Tell Sly to pass by nice and steady."
He passed the instruction on to Sly, who nodded, his whole body tense with the effort of concentration. "Don't stop unless I tell you," warned Jim. "No matter what happens, you only take your orders from me. Got it?"
"Over and out, Captain," replied Sly, feeling important.
Now they were less than a hundred paces from the ragged figure, who was moving along at a little above walking pace. Jim had heard Nanci relaying the message back to the McGills about the stranger on the road and he knew that they'd all be ready for any kind of unexpected threat.
Sudden
ly the person stopped, still hanging on to the handles of the baby carriage, and turned around to look at the approaching miniconvoy.
"It's a funny man," gasped Sly. "With a funny sort of face with holes and stuff."
Jim didn't speak, stricken by the bizarre appearance of the person they were passing. From the black, damp-stained clothes and the way of walking, his assumption had been that the lonely vagabond had been male. Now, as they crawled past, he could no longer be certain.
The clothes were the tattered remnants of what had once been a classy dress suit, complete with dark purple silk cummerbund wrapped around the skinny waist. A silvery bow tie decorated the wattled throat. But the material of the suit was speckled with patches of green mold and seemed to have a shawl of brown spiderwebs across the shoulders. One foot was enclosed in the torn residue of what had been an elegant patent leather shoe. Hardly the best footwear for such bitter weather. The other foot wore only a baseball sock, stained and filthy.
The face that turned up toward the cab of the leading tractor was androgynous, with a cropped halo of mousy brown hair smeared with lumps of clay. The cheeks had been daubed with white paint, the eyes circled in dark blue, and a slash of crimson across the bloodless lips.
The carriage had only three wheels and squeaked so loudly that Jim Hilton could hear it above the roar of the tractor's powerful diesel engine. It was filled with parcels of all shapes and sizes, mostly wrapped in brown paper and tied with neatly knotted lengths of twine.
Where the nose should have been, there was only a dark, suppurating hole, fringed with ragged fronds of pale green skin that was oozing a nameless liquid down over the mouth. The person had lost all the teeth, and there was another weeping ulcer on the left cheek, below the half-closed eye.
The sunken eyes locked with Jim's, and one hand came off the carriage. As he tensed, ready to open up with the Ruger Blackhawk Hunter, Jim realized that the creature was simply waving to him, the palm of the hand flapping to and fro. The thumb and three of the fingers were missing.
