He must have thought I might have qualms about that, for he added, ‘It will be safer for you if you’re carrying a gun. My men are scared. They might not be too hesitant about shooting a stranger walking alone. The rifle will be like a safe conduct, I guess.’
He stared directly at me.
The rifle was offered as a talisman, not a weapon.
‘Thank you,’ I said, not for the rifle.
I had never shot a man. 1 didn’t know if I could. But it would be comfortable to have the option.
* * * *
XVII
‘Jack! Thank God you’re all right!’
The front door of the jail had been locked and when Jerry opened it he stepped quickly back. He had a gun in his hand. I looked at his gun and he regarded my rifle. Mary spoke from behind him and, a bit sheepish, Jerry holstered the gun. Just a bit sheepish, like a thin veneer laid over grim determination. He said, ‘I had a look for you at the Red Walls; place was swarming with...patrols, I guess. But they wouldn’t tell me anything.’
‘They don’t know much.’
Jerry was locking the door again; said, ‘Do you?’
‘Yes; most of it.’
I leaned the rifle against the wall. I was drained with the tension of that solitary walk back from the compound, my nerves like vibrant webs under my skin. Jerry was waiting for me to tell him what I had discovered. Mary did not look so eager to hear it. I gazed out the window at the dawn through which I’d passed. It was a glorious morning, with sunrise ringing golden blows against the shield of dusk. A fan of pale light spread out in the eastern sky, opening slowly, as if reluctant to reveal the day. These things were better wrapped in darkness.
’You’ve seen Elston?’ Mary asked.
‘I saw him. And Larsen. I’ve been in the compound; I saw some other things that... I’d rather not have known.’
‘What in hell is going on?’ Jerry asked. He was lingering the bolt on the door. ‘They’ve had vans down here with loudspeakers, telling everyone to stay inside and keep the doors locked.’ He slid the bolt back and forth, as if playing a game of chance with the lock. ‘I got a special visit from one of Larsen’s men...polite sort of guy...but he sort of told me to stay right here and keep out of it. Whatever it is.’
‘And he heard shooting,’ Mary put in.
’There’s nothing you can do, Jerry,’ I told him. ‘It’s better to stay here. And keep Mary here. This thing...well, it’s a highly contagious disease ... of a sort. . .’
‘Of a sort?’
And then, with Jerry swearing from time to time and Mary’s eyes growing huge and frightened, I told them what I’d found out and what I’d seen. I was grabbing words in clumps and throwing them out, glad to be rid of them; but they left hollow impressions behind. When I finished we stood silent for a time. I could feel the pattern of my nerves tingling; felt as if the schematics of my nervous system were visible, glowing through my flesh.
Jerry twisted his hat brim. ’I wonder if they really would have done that?’ he mused. ‘If they really would have used it as a weapon?’
I said, ‘Probably not. The people who develop these things aren’t the ones who have the say on using them.’
He nodded, holding his hat so that his head dipped from it, exposing a wrinkled brow. He said, ‘I was in the army. Didn’t mind the idea of fighting. Never would of wanted to do a thing like that, though; ain’t no enemy deserves a thing like that.’
‘If only Elston had been more...courageous,’ Mary said. ‘A strange men, Elston. I’m not sure...’
‘Well, I reckon we’d best get Mary off the island,’ said the sheriff. He had slipped into his redneck accent; I wasn’t sure if it was deliberate.
’I doubt they’ll let anyone leave until. . .’
’Hell, they can’t tell me not to go to the police cruiser. I’m still the law here...outside the compound, leastwise.’
‘They wouldn’t let me use the Coast Guard boat,’ Mary said.
’Different thing, that is.’
’We could try,’ I said.
‘Why, sure. Anyone tries to stop us, I’ll arrest him.’ He gave us a grim smile. ‘I’ll run you two over to the Keys. Guess I ought to come back, myself...although I can’t say I’m too damned keen on the idea.’
‘There’s no reason to; nothing you can do.’
‘That’s not the point, so much. Just that the sheriff hadn’t ought to run out on a thing like this.’ He was still mangling his Stetson; it was on the back of his head now, battered and twisted. His dedication was twisted, too; his sense of duty and obligation. I knew how he felt. Some insane part of my mind was telling me that I should stay on Pelican and see this out. It was more than getting a story, far more than a dedication to my work, but the turnings of such a resolve were too devious to follow, too sigmoidal to trace through the mind. I wanted to go.
Jerry said, ‘There’s no antidote at all, eh?’
‘They’ve not found one.’
‘And no one knows how long it will take for this thing to run its course?’
‘No.’
He shook his head. ‘Hell of a thing to do to a nice little island like this. Nice people. Well, let’s go down to the boat, let’s just see if we can...’
‘Jerry ... if they let us leave ... I don’t want you to come back here,’ Mary said.
‘Aw .. . we’ll talk about that later.’
He moved to the door, drew the bolt and hesitated; then he threw the door open and stood back, with his gun ready. The street was empty. From the doorway we could look across the waterfront and out into the harbour. A large swordfish was hanging on a scale on the dock, hoisted up to be weighed and measured. Flecks of blue and green glinted in the drying skin. It would never be weighed now, never mounted. It seemed a shame. It was a big one; it had been caught at the wrong time, a death so vain it did not even bolster a fisherman’s vanity. The harbour was jammed with hobbling boats and there were navy boats crossing back and forth across the approaches. Jerry stepped into the street and looked both ways. A patrol was moving down the front, going away from us. There was no one else in sight. Mary and I moved out behind Jerry. I had forgotten the rifle; I went back for it. I followed Mary out and, as I did so, a loudhailer boomed from a naval gunboat.
‘Turn back! This island is under quarantine! Turn back at once!’
We saw the gunboat but we couldn’t see the reason for the command. Then, as we watched, a fishing boat slid into view, coming from the south. Jerry squinted at it. He said, ‘Why, that’s John Tate’s boat. What’s he doing out there?’
I said, ‘Tate? He told me he often ties up at one of the coves to the south, instead of using the harbour.’
‘He still does that? Old Tate! Used to do some free trading. Never very much; little rum or Havana. Hasn’t run a thing in ten years but he still clings to the image.’
Tate’s boat continued on its course.
I could see him on the bridge, a spindly old man with one eye and plenty of memories. The gunboat had veered towards him, intersecting his course, a white bow wave breaking from the grey prow. Tate spun the wheel and his wooden boat cut sharply to starboard. I had only met him the one time, but he’d left an impression. I could imagine him grinning with ferocious glee as he pitted his seamanship against the power of authority once again. He had run contraband past customs before and it was just like the old days - except he must have thought it a game, now, when he was doing nothing he thought illegal and could toy with them without fear of punishment or confiscated cargo. His small boat seemed to stand up on its stern as it changed course. The gunboat cut back, ponderous by comparison, and massive. The two vessels were dangerously close. The loudhailer sounded again. I couldn’t make out the words. Beside me, Jerry cursed violently.
‘They’re gonna ram him!’ he shouted.
‘Oh my God!’ Mary cried.
I saw Tate raise his fist, shaking it vehemently at the man on the bridge of the gunboat. He didn’t beli
eve they were serious, I thought; he believed that some inexperienced navy captain was misjudging his approach and playing the game too close. Tate waved his gnarled fist, scolding the gunboat. The nimble wooden boat ducked down into a trough and the bow of the grey gunboat reared up. Tate’s fist came down; he still thought it was a mistake, but he realised it was a serious mistake. Then the gunboat rammed him.
* * * *
Tate’s fishing boat went down within minutes.
The gunboat had taken the stern right off and veered away, like a bull hooking into a matador. I couldn’t see Tate. He must have been knocked down by the impact. Fragments of wood and rope dragged back from the gunboat, festooning the high prow and the bows of Tate’s boat pointed up to the sky and slid back and under. The water sighed as it closed.
The gunboat continued on.
Sailors looked back from the rails, but the boat never stopped. Jerry’s head was thrust forwards, the cords in his thick neck standing out like dark ropes, his throat rigged by rage.
He said, ‘They aren’t going to pick him up.’
‘No,’ I said softly. ‘They wouldn’t take him aboard ... that wasn’t the idea.’
We looked, shading our eyes, but Tate never surfaced. Then we looked at one another.
‘So much for that idea,’ Jerry said.
We went back to the jail.
* * * *
Mary had begun to sob hysterically. The sheriff put his hand on her shoulder and she clasped her own hand over his, her body vibrating. The tremors ran down Jerry’s forearm.
‘John Tate,’ she whispered. ‘Old pirate. He would have loved to live through this, wouldn’t he? It would have made such a fine story...better than how he lost his eye...how he eluded the navy gunboat. . .’ She smiled sadly.
‘Or how he helped hang a man in the Red Walls,’ I said, not knowing why I said it; it seemed such an insignificant thing, viewed against the backdrop of his own death.
Jerry began to pace the room, like a prisoner in his own jail.
‘We’re safe enough here,’ he said. ‘We’ll just have to wait it out.’
‘But how long?’ Mary sobbed.
We had no answer to that.
Jerry said, ‘I guess it could be...days...maybe weeks, even.’ He looked at me for confirmation. I didn’t know. He said, ‘We could always lock ourselves in the cell; they couldn’t get at us there.’
‘Weeks...’ I said. ‘What about food? Supplies?’
‘Lord! I never thought of that. We’ll have to get some stuff in here.’
The thought of preparing for a seige was not appealing.
‘They may decide to evacuate...’
‘Yeah, and they may not. We’d better not take a chance...that chance. There’s a shop just down the front.’
‘I think, if we’re going out again, we’d better do it now. This is likely to get worse before it gets better...liable to spread until...well, I’ll go with you.’
‘No, you stay here with Mary.’
‘Nothing I’d like better than not going out there again. But Mary will be safe enough here, with the door barred, and the two of us can carry a lot more. There’s no sense in making more than one forage. And ... we can watch each other’s backs.’
‘He’s right, Jerry. I’ll be okay here. Just...don’t be very long.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered. Jerry regarded her for a moment, then he nodded.
‘Let’s go,’ he said, and we went.
* * * *
XVIII
I stepped deliberately, as if my footfalls were ticking off the moments, punctuating the passage of time. Jerry preceded me through the deserted streets. The low sun blocked sharp patterns on the buildings, as clearly defined as the light in the whitewashed room, but my own shadow dragged reluctantly at my heels, as if cast from a different source - thrown from me by the glow of my fear. A low fog was clinging against the walls and a heavier fog came rolling out from a sidestreet, curling like a cat across Jerry’s boots. He stumbled, as if he’d tripped on the mist. He held his gun at his side, pointing down. I quickened my pace to catch him up and we moved on together. The walk was a hundred yards, no more. It seemed eternal. We met no one.
* * * *
Mendoza’s Market was a dusty storeroom with shelves and glass-fronted counters stocked with tins of almost everything. The door wasn’t locked. Jerry stood just inside the entrance and shouted for Mendoza, who lived above. There was no response. We looked around the gloomy room.
Jerry said, ‘We should of made us up a shopping list. Well, grab one of these boxes and fill ‘er up with whatever takes your fancy; might as well dine to our taste.’
He began plucking tins from the shelves. I crossed to the other side of the room and began raiding the shelves myself, paying little attention to what I took, just tossing things into a big cardboard box. I didn’t expect we’d have much appetite. The box was quite heavy when it was full; I had to tuck the rifle under my arm and use both hands to lift it. Jerry had filled his box before I finished; he held it easily under one arm. We moved back through the cluttered room, the tins rattling in the boxes. At the door, I paused.
‘How about tobacco?’
‘Why, yes ... we might feel the urge to do some smoking, at that. I think Mendoza keeps the tobacco in the counter at the back. Might grab a couple bottles of rum from back there, too; can’t do any harm to have some rum. Might help, even.’
‘I’ll get it,’ I said.
I lowered my box to the dusty floor and stepped to the back of the room. I saw a variety of tobacco, in all forms, in a glass display case. The rum bottles were on a shelf behind. I filled my pockets with tobacco and stepped around the end of the counter...and a white face loomed up from the shadows!
* * * *
I tried to scream.
My vocal chords rebelled; they stiffened like frozen iron in my throat and only a strangled gasp came from me. I recoiled. The butt of the rifle struck the glass case, shattering it. I distinctly heard each splinter of glass fall out, the tinkling sounds echoed by the rattle of tins as Jerry shifted the box. He was shouting something from the door and I think I was shouting then, too; I know my mouth was open and a rushing filled my ears. I swung the rifle up before me, not aimed as a weapon but crossed against my breast like a crucifix against a vampire.
Jerry shouted again.
‘Move!’ He was advancing towards me along the shelves.
But then I slumped against the broken case, my vitality sucked from me in the deflation of sudden terror. Jerry was behind me, one hand on my shoulder; the other thrust the pistol past me. I could feel the big man tremble. I shook my head. It took great concentration, my skull was heavy, my neck limp. By then I’d realised there was no danger...horror, yes, but no danger. The face had not moved towards me; I had inclined my head towards it as I reached for the rum and the white face had seemed to rise, thrown from the dark shadows as if buoyant from a heavy sea.
The man was dead, spread-eagled behind the counter as if nailed there by his final convulsions.
Jerry let his breath out slowly.
I was hollow. My energy, my life force, my very bones seemed to have been sucked from me into the vacuum of fear. I was still shaking my head - an act of inertia. I had thought the man alive, reaching for me - and I had been unable to flee, had never thought to use the rifle...had waited for his touch...
‘Mendoza,’ Jerry said.
The hand that had been trembling on my shoulder was firm now, solid as a stone, but the hand that gripped the gun had begun to shake as he lowered it.
He moved me aside and leaned over the corpse. He did not touch it.
‘Looks like he might of died of natural causes,’ he said. ‘Heart attack, maybe ... he wasn’t young . ..’
‘Yes, it looks that way.’
Jerry looked at me, face as white as Mendoza’s.
‘Isn’t it remarkable?’ he said. ‘Here and now ... a man dying o
f natural causes ... it makes you see that life goes on.’
He paused, wondering if his statement had been absurd ... or profound.
‘I never killed anyone,’ he said. Nor had he yet. But the gun was in his hand ... he would have; he might have to. He was peering into my face. He said, ‘Harland, do you think these...things...will go to heaven?’
I gaped dumbly at him and he flushed; the question had been genuine.
‘Yes,’ I said. I held no brief for the hereafter, but I said, ‘Yes.’
And he said, ‘I’d like to think so...’
Dark Terrors 5 - The Gollancz Book of Horror - [Anthology] Page 74
