Rings of Ice

by Piers Anthony

  “Cats and I understand each other,” Gordon said, lifting the little feline without protest. “Come, dear—take my arm.”

  “Gee,” Floy said, flattered. She took firm hold of him and walked with much less difficulty.

  Zena turned to find Karen already looking at her. Both were amazed. This was a talent Gordon had not had opportunity to show before.

  “What are you going to be when you’re adult?” Gordon inquired as they stepped into the rain.

  “A dancer,” Floy confessed shyly.

  Zena bit her tongue.

  “I know something about dancing,” Gordon said. “Have you ever seen the Drunken Sailor’s Hornpipe?” He leaned away from her and did an intricate little step, with the cat waving precariously. The whole thing was ludicrous, in this downpour. “Or did you mean ballet?”

  “Ballet!” Floy cried, laughing. “You crazy?”

  “Only when the wind is north-northwest.”

  “That’s Shakespeare,” she said. “You thought I wouldn’t know.”

  “You caught me!” he admitted. “By the way, Floy— we’re almost out of gasoline. Do you know where there’s another station, close?”

  “There’s gas right here,” Floy said.

  Zena shook her head. “Pump’s empty, and so are the big tanks out back.”

  “Under the ground,” Floy explained. “Pump won’t bring it up because the power’s off. I heard them talking about it, through the wall. You have to work it by hand.”

  Zena clapped her hand to her forehead. Power off—of course! Naturally the pumps weren’t operating.

  “My dear, you have sharp ears,” Gordon said. “Come meet the others. Watch the step, now—it’s slippery.”

  “The guy’s a genius,” Karen exclaimed as the two disappeared inside the bus. “Kooked, but smart!”

  Zena continued to stare after them. “He must have empathy. He says he’s miscast in his body, and she’s handicapped in hers. It’s a lesson to me.”

  It took them more than an hour to break open a pump, decipher the mechanism, and crank the gasoline out by hand. But when it was done, they had eighty gallons of gas in their two tanks, plus sixteen more stashed in assorted cans. Enough to take them well into the mountains, even if they never found another refill. Floy, however accidentally, had already done them an enormous favor, and earned her keep.

  Now they were six, plus the cat—and it was crowded. The motor-home was designed to accommodate six, but the manufacturer had obviously not intended them all to be confined to it for twenty-four hours a day without relief.

  Two were always resting or asleep on the rear couches, and two were always in the seats up front. That left two—and Dust Devil—in limbo, awake and active with nothing to do. The cat seemed to feel that all comfortable furniture was reserved for him, and he was ready to battle for his rights. The flooded sections of the highway were almost a relief.

  Zena washed some clothing in the bathroom and hung it over available edges for whatever drying it could manage. Her legs were tired from standing while the bus jolted. But Thatch was sleeping on the dinette-alcove bed. He could have used the one that came down from the ceiling above the rear bed, but Gus didn’t like anyone there when he was with Karen. That left Zena the sodden floor.

  “I’m awake,” Thatch said. “Sit down.”

  “Thanks.” She sank to the edge of the bunk, relieved to get the weight off her feet.

  He swung his own feet to the floor. He was dressed, of course; night clothing was pointless in this circumstance. They had fallen into the habit of changing whenever it was necessary to go outside, so that each person had a dry set of clothing waiting inside. Zena had thus seen more of the others than she liked, and shown more of herself. Gus’s eyes did not help.

  “Some dream!” Thatch said.

  “Dream?” He seldom volunteered anything, and it had not occurred to her that he would have dreams. Now she was curious.

  “That I was home with my family,” he said.

  “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “I don’t have a family. Never did. Only foster homes.”

  “You were an orphan?”

  “Not exactly. Illegitimate.”

  She found herself both gratified and upset by this confidence. She was glad he now felt free to talk about himself, but appalled at the bleakness of his background. Still, it helped her to understand him. He had never had a normal family, no real roots. Thus, never a chance to develop the sense of security or interdependence of a family relationship.

  Gus must have become that family. Dictatorial Gus, like an arrogant father, giving orders that were not to be gainsaid. Yet Gus was weak, too—like some fathers—and that side of him brought out Thatch’s loyalty. Thatch’s entire lost childhood, the good and the bad, given a twisted fulfillment through this odd subservience.

  So she had a comprehension of the man, of sorts. Still, it twisted something in her gut. What was comprehensible was not necessarily acceptable.

  Thatch misunderstood her silence. “I did have a father. I just never knew who he was, so I never missed him. And my mother—”

  Zena sat up straight. “Mother!” she exclaimed.

  Thatch looked perplexed. “Something wrong?”

  “What have I been thinking of? My mother lives on the coast!”

  “So does mine,” Gordon said from the driver’s seat. Zena had forgotten that he and Floy were within hearing. They had not been snooping; it was almost impossible to hold a private conversation here.

  “This flooding—” Zena said.

  Gordon slowed the vehicle, so that he could pay more attention to the conversation. That was one of the little ways he showed his priorities. People always came first. “Do you think the sea itself will rise? I assumed that there was only a limited amount of water available to circulate, so that it had to be rising into the atmosphere from the ocean as fast as it falls on land. When this disturbance passes—”

  Zena sidestepped that. “The runoff will wash right through the coastal cities. Supplies will be cut. There’ll be looting. I want to get my mother out of there!”

  “I see your point. Where is she?”

  “Jacksonville. It’s almost on our route.”

  “My folks are in Norfolk.”

  “Maybe we couldn’t drive all the way in, but we could get close enough to hike the rest of the way,” she said eagerly. “Fetch her out—she’s a widow, my father died two years ago.”

  “What nonsense is this?” Gus demanded, coming up from the back room.

  “With all our driving problems,” Gordon said, “we never thought of other people. Our relatives—”

  “We can’t go looking for relatives!” Gus exclaimed. “We’ve got six here now—a full crew!”

  “My mother will die, alone in that city!” Zena cried.

  “What city?”

  “Jacksonville.”

  “We’re past Jacksonville! Can’t turn back now.”

  “What?” Zena asked. “We can’t be.”

  “You think we’ve been standing still while you’ve been sleeping? The intersection for Jacksonville was at the Suwannee crossing, where we rowed the bus. We’re in Georgia now.”

  “We can’t be that far along,” Zena said. “There are other roads—”

  Karen came up. “She’s got a point, Gus. We have to make a side trip for food supplies, too.”

  Why was food always on Karen’s mind, especially sweet food? If she really had that big a hunger, she should weigh two hundred pounds, Zena thought resentfully.

  “If we go wandering into flooded cities, we’ll never make it to high ground!” Gus said. “We have to save ourselves; we can’t do any more than that—but we could do a hell of a lot less than that by diverting our energy and wasting time.”

  “Do you call saving lives wasting time?” Zena cried, beginning to sound distressingly hysterical in her own ears.

  “How many people live in Jacksonville?” Gus dem
anded. “A million? You want to save one old woman and let the rest wash out to sea?”

  “That’s heartless!” Zena said, feeling tears in her eyes. She saw Karen nodding, and felt a surge of gratitude for that silent support. After the way she had spoken to Karen, and thought about her…

  “No, it’s practical,” Gus said. “We can’t save the world; we can’t save even a fraction of it. If we load ourselves down with useless people, we won’t even save ourselves.”

  “Useless people!” Zena cried. “You mean anyone who won’t haul on a pulley or serve as a sex object?”

  “No!” Gus said, growing heated. Then he paused. “But looking at it your way, maybe the answer is yes.”

  “My way!”

  “Now we’re fighting among ourselves,” Gordon said. “Believe it or not, I can see both sides—and both have merit.”

  “What both sides?” Zena demanded. Her body was shaking.

  “His side: we have to get to high ground as rapidly as possible, so we can park without danger of getting flooded out, and can begin foraging for survival supplies. We can’t delay even a day, because that might get us trapped behind deep water and an impassable current. And all our members have to be young and healthy, or the group will be too weak to stand up.”

  “Good summary,” Gus agreed. “This is the second deluge, you know—literally. According to the Annular Theory—”

  “We aren’t all strong or healthy,” Zena began. But even in the heat of argument she couldn’t speak the obvious about Karen and Floy.

  “Your side,” Gordon continued, turning to Zena. “Survival of this small group is no good if it is accomplished at the price of dehumanization. We can’t preserve our bit of civilization by ruthlessly writing off relatives and ignoring the plight of those most in need. And somewhere in Jacksonville there are bound to be supplies that we shall need for the long haul.”

  “That’s it!” Zena exclaimed. “You think just like a woman.”

  “Thank you,” Gordon said. “Hardly surprising, since I am a—”

  “Don’t start that again, either!” Gus cried.

  Gordon paused, and it was almost as though his lip curled. “I propose a compromise. We head for Jacksonville —but only if the road is open and unflooded. If we make it there, we search for Zena’s mother. If we can’t find her within six hours, we give it up. We give up all relatives—mine included.”

  “But that—” Gus started, realizing the scope of the compromise.

  “Put it to a vote,” Gordon said. “We’re a democracy, aren’t we? Maybe it was something else when it started, but everybody has something to contribute to our survival and so everyone has a fair say.”

  Gus wanted to protest that too, but Karen put her hand on his arm. “I think that’s fair, don’t you?” she murmured to him.

  Gus glanced at her, obviously unwilling to set her against him. Again, Zena felt that turn in her stomach. What means was Karen using to achieve what ends? Was she trying to help the group, or Zena—or herself?

  “I proposed the vote, so I’ll exclude myself,” Gordon said. “Ladies first. Floy?”

  “Gee—” Floy began, flattered at the designation.

  “Oh, go ahead and see Jacksonville!” Gus said. “But you’re making the same mistake as before.”

  That was another strike at Zena: the lost hour when they had searched in vain for the black girl.

  “I’ll turn east at the next interchange,” Gordon said. “We’ll find it.”

  The chance came within two miles. Gordon turned, and they were soon on a two-lane road. There were traffic lights here, but all were dead, and there was no other traffic. Gordon drove on through without pausing.

  Then they approached a city or town: no road signs remained visible, but stalled cars blocked the road, forcing maneuvering. Zena peered through window and rain at the buildings, and thought she saw faces peering back at her. Children’s faces, but not animated. The effect was eerie.

  “Look at that!” Floy cried, pointing ahead.

  It was a store, a supermarket—and it was burning. The rain stifled the flames outside, but the interior was gutted. Several shapes lay before the broken glass frontage. They resembled human bodies.

  “There must have been a battle royal,” Gus said. “They got hungry and fought over food—and now it’s all gone up in flames.”

  “None left for us,” Floy said wistfully.

  A man ran out before the bus, waving his arms in the air. Gordon slewed to avoid him, then gunned the motor. They heard a faint shout over the rain-beat—and saw other figures emerge from buildings ahead.

  “Suddenly I don’t like this!” Gordon said. “They’re crazed—and if we stop, they’ll get aboard—and we may not get moving again.”

  Glass shattered. Then they heard the sound of the gun. Someone had shot out the kitchen window.

  “Turn around!” Gus screamed. “Get us out of here— before they hit the motor or tires!”

  Abruptly Zena saw the utter futility of her effort. They had hardly come five miles toward Jacksonville, and already they were under fire. They could never make it— and the chances were that her mother, trapped in a worse area than this because of the denser population and lower terrain, was dead already.

  Gordon turned the bus around, skidding on the slick pavement. Figures were all around them, brandishing sticks and pistols. Gordon backed up rapidly, and there was a bang and a scream. He plunged forward—and another figure went down. The bus jerked violently, first the front, then the rear.

  Zena clawed her way toward the bathroom, but didn’t make it. She vomited on the hall rug.

  Now Gordon was speeding well above the safe rate, back through the half-living town, one hand on the horn almost continuously. “Gloria could cry,” he muttered wistfully.

  “To think,” Karen said as she hung on to the kitchen sink, “that this was once a typical, peaceful, conservative suburban community—three days ago.”

  A hand came down to help Zena up. It was Gus. “I didn’t mean it to be like this,” he said. Then he lurched into the bathroom and spewed the content of his own stomach into the little sink.

  Zena understood.

  Miraculously they escaped with no worse damage than the broken window. Thatch put cloth across it, and they resumed travel on the comparatively safe interstate. They had won through to higher ground. The dancing lakes of the lowlands were replaced by the ugly erosion of the slopes. And mischief of another nature.

  Gordon was driving again, Floy keeping him company. They had settled into shifts: Gus and Karen, Gordon and Floy, Thatch and Zena. Night was coming, though this made less difference in the rain than it would have ordinarily. At the moment the non-driving shifts were confused, for Gus and Thatch were snoozing at the rear. Zena was playing honeymoon bridge with Karen in the alcove.

  “One diamond,” Zena bid, considering her dummy.

  “One h—” Karen responded as a tire blew out.

  The bus lurched. Gordon had been doing twenty-five, his maximum safe speed in the rain. But as the vehicle slewed about, it seemed like seventy.

  A second tire blew. The bus bumped to a halt.

  “Something in the road,” Gordon said. “Glass or nails—had to happen sometime. We’ve been lucky until now.”

  “You’re too damn philosophical!” Floy complained. “If you aren’t going to swear, do you mind if I do?”

  Gus and Thatch came up, single file. “Blowout?” Thatch asked. “I can fix it.”

  “No you don’t!” Gus said. The others looked at him. Was Gus actually volunteering?

  “Think it through,” Gus continued. “Glass from an accident—and no dead cars in the road? Why didn’t the rain wash it out?”

  “We don’t know it’s glass,” Zena said.

  “All the same, don’t go out there till we’re sure!”

  “How can we be sure what it is without looking first?” Floy asked.

  “Not what, who!”

>   “It’s a paranoid suspicion,” Zena said. “We haven’t seen any other people since—”

  “Since this morning,” Karen said.

  “Find weapons,” Gus said. “We’ve got hammers, screwdrivers—”

  “I’ll change those tires myself,” Zena cried, disgusted. Gus would rather invent fantastic outside conspiracies than face the prospect of work. She stepped down and pushed open the door.

  A heavy hand fell on her shoulder, hauling her into the night. She screamed. Another hand clamped over her mouth. She bit it.

  Then it was a wild nocturnal struggle. She threw someone over her shoulder, but was borne down by another. Figures tumbled out of the door.

  There was a snarl, whether animal or human she could not guess. A man screamed, horribly. Zena’s attacker jerked away and ran off through the rain.

  Zena stood. Another shape loomed, framed by the lights of the bus. She settled into a defensive posture.

  “Zena?” It was Gordon’s voice.

  Her body suddenly felt weak. “Yes! Are the others—?”

  “Yes. Only Floy and I came out. Didn’t want to risk fighting among ourselves. I think there were only two ambushers. You’re quite a scrapper!”

  “I was terrified! You drove them off.”

  “Not I,” he said. “Gloria wields a wicked hatpin, but I use my fist—and that scream came before I could mix in.”

  A yellow streak went up the steps and under the dinette table. “Dust Devil!” Zena said, comprehending the scream. “What an ally in a night fight!” She followed the cat in to see what it carried. The object was small and whitish under the blood. “Oh-oh!”

  “Let me see that!” Gordon said, putting his hand on the cat. “My God!”

  “What is it?” Karen demanded.

  “An eyeball,” Gordon said.

  “Nonsense! That little creature couldn’t have—” She paused looking at Floy. The girl was licking off her fingers.

  “Let’s get those tires fixed before the ambushers come back,” Gus said. “You see, I was right.”

  Thatch already had a wrench. He went to the front.

  “And post a guard!” Gus said.

  “I’ll stand guard,” Zena said.