Harry reached down and took hold of one of Sully's arms, yanking him up. Quickly he pulled the mask aside and examined the interior, as well as the man's red face.
“Are you all right?” he inquired of Sully.
Sully cringed, thoroughly wet and thoroughly miserable. “I can't swim, I tell you, I can't swim. You was trying to drown me!”
Harry balled a fist on his face. “Shut your damned mouth! I wasn't trying to drown you, you dumbbell — you didn't get your face wet, did you?”
Sully put dripping hands to his face in surprise. “I… no.”
“All right. And you was breathing all the time, wasn't you?”
“Yeah, I guess so, Harry.”
“All right then, this thing works. You can swim underwater with it.”
“Not me, Harry, I can't swim. You ain't gonna make me swim under the river Harry, you ain't!” He jumped away.
“Shut up — nobody said you was.” Harry turned to peer at the corporal with shrewd speculation. “Thought you was pretty foxy, didn't you? Thought you was better'n the rest of us. Thought you'd sneak across underwater and leave the rest of us over here holding the bag. Well kid, you ain't as smart as old Harry is, 'cause you're the guy left behind. I'm just gonna take your fancy mask and you can go find another'n.”
“Harry — you ain't gonna leave us here?”
The leader stared at Sully contemptuously. “You expect me to play nursemaid all your life?”
“But Harry — what'll we do?” he asked imploringly.
“Rot for all I care.” He reached for the man. “Take off that stuff.” He yanked the straps over Sully's head with a rough eagerness and unhooked the belt holding the breathing apparatus. Sully did his best to help, glad to skin out of the gear. It was then that Harry collided head-on with his first problem. He stood there with one foot in the water, swinging the mask in one hand and clutching the shotgun in the other. Yet he needed both hands to don the gear.
Gary grinned at his predicament.
Harry hesitated for long seconds puzzling over the situation and finally made up his mind who to trust. He crooked a finger at the silent partner standing on the bank.
“C'mere.”
The other came down to him.
“Take the gun" — Harry handed it over—”and keep it on that smart-aleck kid. If he makes one move, plug him.”
The partner nervously pointed the barrel at Gary.
Both hands free, Harry quickly pulled the mask over his face and wriggled into the short and tightened shoulder straps. He buckled the belt about his waist and held himself still a moment to check his breathing and make certain the thing was working. Then, regaining his earlier air of bravado, he stoutly clapped the shoulder of the man holding the shotgun and turned to plunge into the water.
Sully took a few steps after him. “Harry…”
Harry met his second problem squarely and lost.
He swam for a few yards beneath the water and paused for breath, unused to the exertion. Harry promptly bobbed to the surface and discovered himself slowly floating downstream. He faced himself upstream, unconsciously took a deep breath and went down again. This time he gained a few more yards before coming up, but this time he came up voluntarily because he couldn't see where he was going while underwater. As his head broke the surface he found himself staring at the three waiting on the bank. Burning with an impotent rage, he ceased swimming and promptly sank.
Gary laughed aloud. “Hell of a poor swimmer, that Harry!”
Sully glanced at him in nervous fear while the other toyed uncertainly with the gun.
Harry finally bobbed up once more, downstream. He thrashed his way back to the bank and climbed out, shaking mud and water off the shoes he had neglected to take off. With savage force he ripped off the mask and let it dangle about his neck, to discover Gary laughing at him.
“What's so damned funny, wise guy?”
“You are,” Gary said. “Might as well give it back to me — you'll never get across.”
“I'll be damned if I will! Maybe you think you could get across that damned river.”
“Yes — I could; I can swim it easy enough.”
“Well, you're not going to get a chance, not with this outfit, you ain't.” He walked closer and seized the shotgun again. “Come on, let's move away from here. Somebody's apt to find us.”
Gary turned about with relief and headed for the comparative security of the field; he had been afraid the old fool would never realize the danger they were in. They had been exposed on the river far too long for comfort, a tempting target to a curious sentry across the stream or a predatory prowler on this side. He knew the raging Harry could not be relied upon to think fast enough or shoot straight enough in the event they were surprised; if the man were startled by something or someone in the night he was likely to blast away in any direction, heedless of the safety of his companions. The four men moved back through the soggy ground.
That shotgun was a powerful and deadly weapon, whatever make it was. He wanted it. Stripped of his own arms, Gary felt a deep sense of unease and emptiness based on the sure knowledge that the three scavengers would not protect him in case of trouble. He had to get that shotgun.
Upon reaching the field again he sank quickly to the ground and burrowed in, making his body as small a silhouette as possible. Harry followed clumsily and flopped down near him, muttering. Gary knew without looking that the man was fussing over the gear, forgetting to keep him covered with the gun. He clasped his hands behind his head and regarded the darkened sky overhead with a bland smile.
If Harry didn't discover the proper way to cross the river soon, he'd have to do a little prodding.
Twice more that September night Harry attempted to reach the Minnesota shore. On the second try he was spectacularly successful.
The first renewed attempt was a similar failure to that earlier fiasco and the man only floundered wildly in the water, unable to remain beneath the surface and never sure of his bearings. Too, he was making a racket that was undoubtedly heard across the river, as well as along the banks of the contaminated side. Gary remained alert for any other movement in the night, wanting no unexpected interruption to his plans. The always silent third member of the band was holding the gun again but Gary was sure he could reach it in time if a prowler should discover their hiding place in the field. Both scavengers were staring anxiously into the night after their would-be-escaping leader.
After the better part of an hour Harry came stumbling back, searching for them in the darkness. Wet, shaking with exertion and angry frustration, he fell to the ground and cursed the swimming gear, cursed his own physical shortcomings and the vagaries of the current which defeated him. Remembering Gary, he turned on him a florid flow of profanity, blaming him for first dangling a paradise before his eyes and then denying him the ability to reach it. Ignoring the manner in which he had come by the gear, he blamed Gary for deliberately setting a trap, and then taunting him with the unreachable bait. It was all his fault, everything was his fault.
Gary waited until the man had exhausted his foul vocabulary and his breath.
“Still want to make a swap?” he asked quietly.
“Shut your damned mouth.”
“Harry — listen to me. You've been running around like a fool all day; you've made enough noise to arouse every soldier on the other side and attract the attention of every thief on this side. If you weren't such a stupid jerk you'd have realized hours ago that I can't swim that current underwater any more than you can. Now think about that for a minute.”
Harry was incapable of that much thought. “So what?” he asked instantly, weakly defiant.
“So I know how to get across without bucking the river and without making noise. If you had waited and watched me this afternoon, instead of jumping me, you'd have seen how I was going to do it. Now — do you want to swap?”
“Swap for what?” Harry muttered, half convinced.
“I want that shot
gun. I'll tell you how to cross over.”
There was no immediate answer. Gary lay back and waited, counting on the greedy desire in the man. The silence of the night had fallen over the river and the surrounding fields, while somewhere far off a nightbird was crying. Gary absently wondered if it were a bird, or a prowler's signal. The two scavengers had crowded in close, listening to their heated conversation.
“How?” Harry said grudgingly.
“The shotgun,” the corporal calmly reminded him.
“Now wouldn't I be a blamed fool to give it to you now? You'd grab the mask and beat it.”
“I want the gun — it's a good one. I can go back to that store and get me another mask tomorrow.”
Harry shook his head, not realizing the gesture was lost in the darkness. “Nothing doing, I don't trust you that much.” He clutched the weapon tightly. “And I don't give it up until you show me.”
“Then let your partner hold it,” Gary said savagely. “Dammit, Harry, we can't sit here and argue all night. Let him hold it until you come back, if what I say is wrong. But if you do get across — if you're not back here by daylight, the gun is mine. That's my deal, take it or leave it.”
Harry accepted it after the proper examination for trickery and loopholes. There was little else he could do for reaching the other side of the river was the one and only ambition left in his life, his constant and only goal other than food to stay alive each day. What happened to his partners and the gun once he reached the other side was of no concern to him — so to hell with them.
“Okay,” he growled, “spit it out.”
“The gun,” Gary reminded him again.
Harry passed it over to his voiceless partner. “Give it to him in the morning, Jonesy, if I ain't back. Now come on, come on, I can't wait all night.”
Gary explained about the underwater cables, running from one shore to the other.
“How do you know them cables are there?” Harry demanded excitedly.
“I helped put ’em in,” Gary lied. “I was working with the Western Union construction gang. The cables are there, all right. We put ’em in eight or ten years ago. Just look for the signboard—”
Harry was off like a flushed deer.
Sully quickly climbed to his feet and made as if to follow, only to totter a few steps and sink down again. The skinny old man sounded as though he were crying. The silent Jonesy fondled the shotgun and sighed. Harry's passage through the field was an incautiously noisy one; so eager was he to reach the bridge and the cables that he made no attempt to conceal himself or mask the sound of his movements.
Gary waited until the last hasty footfall had faded into distant silence. He turned. “All right, Jonesy, I'll take that shotgun now.”
The scavenger handed it over without a word.
* * *
More than an hour had passed since the overeager Harry had shot out of sight, when the silent Jonesy spoke for the first time. “Eh… kid?”
“What do you want?”
“I'd like to talk to you, if I may.”
“You're doing it.”
“You didn't fool me, young man. Poor Harry — yes, but not me.”
“Poor Harry is a damned fool,” Gary retorted. He lay outstretched on his belly, chin buried in the dirt and the treasured shotgun cradled in his arms. Gary's senses were alert, his eyes and ears directed toward the distant river “So?”
“I have watched you, of course, since we came upon you. Army, weren't you — or perhaps the Marines? You could have jumped Harry a dozen times today — there were plenty of opportunities. And you could have taken the gun away from me any time you wished. But you didn't, you deliberately held off. Why?”
“I wanted Harry — or somebody — to tackle the river,” the corporal answered.
“I realize that. I realized what you were trying to do when you introduced the marine gear and yet passed up an opportunity to seize the gun. But why? Why didn't you swim across and let us go hang?”
Gary grinned and the macabre humor of it was reflected in his voice. “I'm no test pilot, Jonesy. I think up the ideas and let somebody else try them out. If Harry makes it, I can — later on and at another bridge.”
“And if he doesn't?”
“Then I'll know the soldier boys over there are wise to that angle, too. And I'll have to figure out another way.”
“I see,” Jonesy said and lapsed into silence.
“This gun,” Gary said after a while, “where did he get it?”
“From my store.”
“Your store?”
“A sporting goods store where I worked before the… the disaster. Near here, so to speak. Harry wanted a good shotgun and I selected that one for him.”
“Where's yours?”
“I don't have one — Harry wouldn't permit it. And I've never fired a shot in my life.”
A short distance away the thin old man lay on the ground, openly weeping and oblivious to those around him.
Gary asked in annoyance, “What's the matter with him?”
“Scared, lonely, lost. He is Harry's father.” The former merchant paused in speculation. “I suppose I'll have to look after him if Harry doesn't come back.”
Gary fingered the stock of the shotgun, tracing it with his fingertips. “This is a new one on me. What is it?”
“The gun? A Browning Automatic, one of the best of my stock. You'll find it an excellent weapon: full choke and the very best steel, the magazine holds five shells in addition to a sixth in the chamber. The retail price is a hundred and twelve dollars.”
“Knock it off, I'm not going to buy it. Got shells?”
“Yes, quite a few. In Harry's bag, there…”
“Thanks,” Gary said dryly.
“I'd like to ask one more question if I may?”
“What?”
“This afternoon when we came upon you sitting there in the field, fussing with the underwater apparatus… eh, you knew we were behind you, didn't you?”
“Heard you coming a mile away.”
“I rather thought so,” Jonesy commented. “While you acted as though you had been taken by surprise, still—” He broke off, startled out of his wits as the night sky lit up with a burning incandescence. The night was bright and white around them, reflecting the varied emotions on their faces. “Good God! What's that?” Jonesy sat up.
Gary froze to the ground, unmoving, searching the field with narrowed eyes. Both Jonesy and the old man were stiffly upright, staring at the brilliant light in the sky.
“Hit the dirt, you damned fool!” Gary snapped.
The darkness was split with light and sound.
A rifle cracked suddenly on the other side of the river, half a mile to the south of the field where they lay hidden. A heartbeat later the first machine gun cut loose to shatter the night with its rapid song, followed instantly by another. Gary listened to the guns, recognizing their make and caliber by memory. There came a flurry of whistles and the guns stopped firing. In the new silence a belated rifle spoke once and was still. Very slowly the hanging light faded from the sky and night took over its rightful domain.
“What was that?” Jonesy demanded again in a shaking, frightened voice. The older man had sidled near him.
“That was your friend Harry,” the corporal answered. “He made it all right.”
“They… they killed him?”
“Those guys weren't shooting fish, mister.”
“But what was that big light?” He was trembling.
“Magnesium flare — Harry fell over a trip wire and set it off, I guess. It means they got the shore wired. I'll have to remember that.” He burrowed deeper into the soil and moved the shotgun to a more comfortable position, preparatory to dozing off. “Yessir, poor old Harry actually made it. I didn't think he had it in him.”
So they had the shore wired — at that point. They surely didn't have it wired the entire length of the river — counting all the crooks and turns the damned thing must be tw
o thousand miles long or more. The army didn't have that much wire. No — only the weak points were booby-trapped. They had wired the immediate area about the bridge either because the structure itself offered concealment to anyone attempting to sneak across beneath it, or because they were aware of the underwater cables and knew someone would eventually discover them. Such as poor old Harry — short of wind and not too sound of limb, but he had made it after a long time. And a baited trap plus patient prodding.
Why hadn't the army simply cut the cables?
He could think of only one sensible answer to that: they were still being used. Used, say, by those government people still alive and operating the underground fortresses beneath the Pentagon, beneath the rolling Virginia hills. And used perhaps by the survivors still clinging to Governors Island, the remnants of the First Army. The eastern and western halves of the nation evidently remained in communication. A point to remember.
The night's events somewhat narrowed his future plans. He knew now that all the cables still intact would be heavily guarded, wired and trapped. They would be waiting for him and any other like him at every cable snaking across the river, while Harry's spectacular ending had neither helped nor hindered his own future chances. Harry had been a competent test pilot, not only showing the stream could be crossed, but also that such crossings were expected. As yet, then, he had not broken his promise to the schoolteacher in Florida: he had not done any cable-crawling. A sucker had taken care of it for him. Whether or not the promise would be kept in the future remained to be seen. It all depended on whether or not he could find still another way to cross over.
The September night carried a chill. He pulled his coat tighter, turning away from the old man's sobs.
* * *
Gary was awake and moving before dawn, not wanting to be caught asleep in an open field when daylight came. He rifled the scavenger's bag for shotgun shells and a box of matches he found there. His two companions still slept, huddled together for warmth. Gary looked down at them for a moment and then swiftly stooped to place his revolver near the old man's hand. In the cold, stilly darkness he quit the field and left the sleeping men behind.
The Long Loud Silence Page 9
