Rings of Ice

by Piers Anthony

  “Better be a man,” Gus said. “One look at your silhouette and they’ll jump you.”

  “Leave my silhouette out of this!” Zena snapped, realizing that her shirt had been torn in the fray. “But I don’t think they’ll be back.”

  Gordon came up with a broom. “I want to be sure that road is clean.”

  Zena could tell just by walking that nails were scattered across the highway. This had been an ambush, all right. Probably the men had slept nearby, waiting for the sound of blowouts. Lucky they hadn’t had guns.

  Gordon came up to her. “Take this,” he said, putting something into her hand. It was a hatpin—the wickedest she had ever held. The point was super-sharp, and the thing was a good eight inches long.

  “Remind me never to fight with Gloria!” she said.

  “Don’t fight with Floy either,” he murmured. “I believe her coordination improves when she acts instinctively— and she has a killer instinct, same as that cat.” He moved on, carefully sweeping the wet pavement.

  Yes indeed, she thought. Innocent, clumsy little Floy— and a scream in the night, part beast, part human agony. A girl licking off her fingers, and a cat chewing contentedly on an eyeball. That pair could take care of themselves.

  Gloria, too, with her murderous hatpin. How quickly the predator manifested in adversity!

  But she had to give Gus credit too. He had been the first to suspect the ambush. And the first to gird for an indefinite rain, by setting up with the bus and heading for high ground. And he had been right twice about the perils of turning back—for any reason. He had his faults, which were colossal—but he also possessed those devious qualities of leadership and foresight necessary to form this group and get it to safety in time.

  In fact, this ill-matched little party might be destined for survival after all.

  It looked as though Thatch were finishing up, so she went over. “Did you speak to Gus about Karen?” she asked.

  “Yes.” He knocked a nut tight and stood up, pocketing a patching kit. It must have been quite a repair job under these conditions, yet he had not complained.

  “And?”

  “He said he’d take care of it.”

  “What does he know about drug addiction? Have you seen how lethargic she gets? And this darn preoccupation with sweets. If he lets her off, there’s no telling what will happen in the next emergency.”

  “He knows what to do.”

  “Why don’t you ever know what to do, Thatch? Your brain is as good as his.”

  “No. I never went to college.”

  “That’s irrelevant! Look how you fixed these tires.”

  Thatch shrugged and started to walk toward Gordon, who was now detectable only by the continuous sounds of sweeping.

  “You do all the work,” Zena continued, pacing him. “While he—didn’t you see what he and Karen were up to, last time we used the pulleys?” That reminded her of another thing. “What steps do you think he’ll take to stop her drugs, when she’s giving him that?”

  But Thatch didn’t answer, and she felt cheap. He didn’t need her to aggravate the situation!

  They came up to Gordon. “I think it’s clear, now,” Gordon said. “Most of the nails are behind us, anyway, and there won’t be more traffic along this stretch. I just wanted to be extra sure.”

  Thatch nodded, and the three started back. “I’m really beginning to believe that this rain will never stop,” Gordon said. “I know some of you have maintained that fact all along, but you can’t blame me for being skeptical. I got to thinking, while I swept—if it doesn’t stop, and if civilization is wiped out—we may be stuck with each other for a long time.”

  Zena wanted to comment, but didn’t dare. Gordon was coming to grips with the reality. Thatch hadn’t been asked a direct question, so he did not respond.

  “In that case,” Gordon continued, “we should have to begin pairing off. That’s not so hard for the rest of you; Gus and Karen already have, and the two of you—”

  “What?” Zena yelped.

  “But for me, it’s difficult, because I’m in the wrong body.”

  “Floy’s in the wrong body too,” Thatch said.

  “Yes. So it would seem to be up to you,” Gordon said.

  “What are you talking about!” Zena exclaimed indignantly.

  “Carrying on,” Gordon said.

  “What does that mean?”

  But they had reached the bus, and Gordon elected not to elucidate. Zena had to stew by herself.

  Inside, Floy had found some food coloring and fixed up green and blue breadcrusts. “It’s Dust Devil’s birthday,” she announced. “He’s one year old along about now.”

  In a moment Gloria appeared from the bathroom. “Happy birthday, DD!” she cried.

  With an eyeball for an appetizer, Zena thought. The shape of things to come?

  Chapter 4: Raid

  The long drive continued. They stopped and scrounged for food wherever they could, alert for ambushes, but had little further trouble of that nature. Once again a tire blew out, but that turned out to be from a weak patch Thatch had put on. Floy and Dust Devil turned out to be excellent advance guards, for the cat reacted with loud hostility to the presence of any other living creature and the girl had acute perceptions. Gloria did most of the cooking, for she seemed to have a special talent with the dubious items available.

  They encountered few other people, and those contacts were wary and hostile. Where had all the rest gone? Zena wondered, but she did not pursue the subject avidly. Most of those trapped in the cities, like her mother—here Zena clamped her teeth down hard and forced herself to continue her train of thought—most of those trapped when the rain started would have left soon, either because of the flooding or because of hunger. Many in the suburbs would have hidden in their houses until the foundations washed out—and they too would have had to eat. With the civilized supply mechanisms in disorder, anarchy would have come very quickly, as they had seen. It was the sheer luck of this party that they had stayed with the interstate despite the flooding that had driven most others away, and that this highway avoided cities. Even those waiting to ambush moving vehicles would have had far richer pickings elsewhere.

  Karen was sweating. Zena noticed this, because it was not that hot in the bus. They were not wasting fuel on such luxuries as heat. Nervousness?

  “I’m hungry,” Karen said.

  “You know we have to ration food,” Zena replied tiredly. “Nothing till suppertime.” As if they didn’t have major problems to worry about, instead of minor neurotic hungers!

  “There must be something,” Karen said, standing up. Then she swayed, and had to catch herself against the table. Zena put out a hand to steady her, and felt a racing pulse. Karen’s skin was clammy, and she was pale.

  “Is there something you want to tell us?” Zena asked. If this were a drug reaction, how much better to get it out into the open!

  “I wish I were home!” Karen said.

  “With your husband?”

  “Yes. He understands.” She shook her head. “But I’ll never see him again.”

  Zena would have tried to reassure her, but knew the very effort would be hypocritical. Better to let the ugly truth stand. Karen was probably a widow already.

  Karen sat down again and looked at Zena. She was breathing shallowly. “Sugar,” she said.

  Zena blew out her breath in disgust. “No sugar!” Here she had thought the woman was suffering an emotional trauma because of separation from her spouse…!

  “No sugar.” Karen echoed faintly.

  “What is this thing about sweets?” Zena demanded. “Don’t you have more serious concerns than spoiling your teeth?”

  “I’m sorry,” Karen said. And began trembling.

  She just wasn’t about to admit she was an addict! Well, maybe she was trying the cold-turkey cure, and those candy bars had become a counter-fixation. Unfortunately the candy was gone already, used as food for the group. Karen ha
d eaten more than her share. Distraction was best, now.

  Zena brought out the battered cards. “Honeymoon bridge again?”

  “Yes!” It was like grasping a liferaft.

  But the game did not go well, though Karen was ordinarily a good hand at it. She misplayed frequently. “Can’t you even see the cards?” Zena asked sharply. “You just threw away an ace from your dummy, dummy!”

  “I thought it was a deuce.”

  “A deuce! You’re seeing double!”

  “More like a blur,” Karen admitted.

  “Karen, are you sure you don’t want to say something?”

  “What?”

  “You’re shaking, you’re panting, you’re cross-eyed. Are you ill?”

  “I’m hungry! Some sugar…”

  “Forget the darn sugar!”

  Gus looked back from the front seat. “You mean ‘damn,’ don’t you?”

  “Damn!” Zena cried with feeling. It was a better word. “Karen, I asked you a question!”

  Karen looked confused. “What question?”

  “Are you ill? Or is it—something else?”

  “Something else?”

  Zena threw her hands up in an overdramatic gesture that cost her half her cards. “You’re evading the issue!”

  “I wonder where it is?” Karen murmured, standing unsteadily.

  “Where what is?”

  “The issue.” Karen leaned over to peer under the table. “Not here.”

  Zena, sure now that she was being mocked, was silent.

  Karen tried to stand erect again, but lost her balance and spun sidewise, half-falling against the table. One hand struck the wall that enclosed the adjacent shower-stall. Zena was shocked to see blood welling from scraped knuckles. This had passed beyond the joking stage!

  But Karen didn’t seem to notice. “Got to go home,” she said, trying again to stand.

  “You can’t go home! Look at your hand!”

  She looked. “Oooo, icky! Must wash it. Take a shower.” She started to undress.

  They had undressed in semi-public many times, but this was different. No one was going out into the rain now. “Stop the bus!” Zena cried, alarmed. “Karen’s sick!”

  Thatch obligingly slowed the vehicle. Gloria appeared, in her nightgown and curlers. Zena noted that only passingly: hair curlers for a wig?

  “Who are you, miss?” Karen demanded.

  “You know Gloria,” Zena said. “Gloria, Gordon, our cook?”

  Karen whirled around, letting her shirt fling wide, and fell against Gloria. “Hello, Gloria Gordon! What kind of a lesbian are you?”

  Gloria looked puzzled, but automatically caught her. The sight of Karen’s genuine bosom against Gloria’s false one disgusted Zena. “Are you feeling well?” Gloria asked.

  “No,” Karen said, and began to cry. “Zena’s been teasing me.”

  “She’s been getting worse—” Zena said, stung. “I think it’s withdrawal.”

  “Sugar,” Karen blubbered.

  “Sugar,” Gloria repeated. Then, abruptly: “God, yes! Get her some sugar, right away!”

  Thatch shook his head. “We don’t have any. She ate it all before.”

  “Well, something sweet!” Gloria cried. “Quick, it’s an emergency!”

  “This is no time for candy—” Zena began.

  “Can’t you see,” Gloria said. “It’s hypoglycemia.”

  “What?”

  “Low blood sugar. Insulin shock. This girl has diabetes!”

  “Diabetes!” Zena echoed, mouth open.

  Thatch dived into the breadbox. “Here’s an old sweet roll.”

  “Break off a piece with icing and put it in her mouth. Hurry—before she goes into shock!”

  Thatch obeyed. Gingerly he pushed a fragment between Karen’s teeth while Gloria held her upright. “Chew it, dear,” Gloria said. “Swallow. Don’t choke, now! That’s it!”

  Karen did so. They fed her another piece.

  In less than a minute she straightened and looked around. “What am I doing here?” Karen asked. “Why are you holding me?”

  “She couldn’t recover that fast!” Zena said.

  Gloria let Karen go, and made a warning motion to Zena. “You were about to pass out, dearie.”

  “Nonsense. I was playing cards with Zena.” She paused. “Sugar.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us you were diabetic?” Gloria demanded.

  Karen sat down. “I see I banged my hand.”

  “Don’t you remember?” Zena asked, still suspicious of these strange symptoms.

  “That’s right, I don’t remember. I never do.”

  Thatch looked concerned. “How often does this happen?”

  Karen took the rest of the sweet roll from his hand and began munching on it. “Only when I take insulin and then don’t get enough to eat.”

  “Insulin is dangerous,” Gloria said. “You could have gone right on into shock and died, because we didn’t know. You should have told us!”

  Karen looked at her. “Did you tell the folks about your condition—right off?”

  Gloria’s face froze. Then she smiled, a trifle grimly. Zena realized that shaving the chin must be a vital part of the Gordon-Gloria changeover, for any suggestion of a beard would have destroyed the effect. Gus and Thatch were getting to look like hoboes, but Gloria’s cheek was smooth. “I see your point.”

  “I don’t see it!” Gus said. “Changing clothes won’t kill anyone. Going into a coma like this—”

  “Not a coma,” Karen said. “Shock. There’s a difference.”

  “Different names for the same thing, aren’t they?” Gus insisted. “You pass out—”

  “With insulin shock I pass out because there is not enough glucose in my blood. With diabetic coma there is too much. Sugar wouldn’t stop the coma.”

  “So you kept silent because you were embarrassed,” Zena said.

  “Not precisely,” Karen said, licking the last crumbs off her fingers. “I realized from what you said that it would rain for a long time, and I didn’t want to be stranded.” She looked out the window, and the beat of rain seemed to become loud. “I have plenty of insulin, but without shelter or food—”

  “What do you think we are!” Zena exclaimed.

  “Practical people,” Gloria answered for Karen. “Diabetics require more food, when they’re on insulin—and they need it on schedule. She’s a liability. Right, Gus?”

  Zena was affronted. “How can you say a thing like that!”

  “We can’t put her out,” Gus said, alarmed.

  Then Zena realized Gloria’s purpose. Gus was the one most likely to demand selection of the fittest—but he had already been subverted by Karen’s sexual offerings. Gloria had challenged Gus and brought an automatic denial—and now it would be extremely difficult for Gus to reverse himself or to enforce an inhumane standard for the rest of them.

  Unkind politics, but better than putting a sick woman out to die! No wonder Karen had been eager to be obliging. She had known that one day soon her life might depend on it.

  “Get on with the driving, Thatch!” Gus said irritably.

  On through the rain. Floy amused herself by trying to dance—and the result was pitiful. In the confines of the bus she only bruised herself against the furniture and made a racket. Sometimes Gordon danced with her, holding her very close so that she could not go astray—and that bothered Zena because she remembered Karen’s ‘lesbian’ comment. Gordon was male, but viewed himself as female, and this body-flush-to-body motion with the awkward child—but of course she was inventing hobgoblins, Zena told herself. Floy would have driven them all crazy, if Gordon had not taken her in hand and found positive outlets for her graceless energies.

  But what bothered Zena most was not external but internal—the subtleties of group interaction. Thatch drove, Gloria cooked, Floy and the cat stood guard at night, Gus exerted his peculiar type of leadership. Karen kept Gus happy. Every person was finding his func
tion. Except Zena.

  She tried to participate, but somehow found herself excluded. The foraging parties no longer included her, and there wasn’t much to do inside the bus except play cards. She felt useless.

  Not that the others held it against her. They were all oddly solicitous of her needs. She was not being shunted out of the party; rather she was being set up for some very special position obvious to everyone except her. What could it be?

  They had reached high ground. The rain still came down, but there was no further concern about flooding. It would take weeks for the water to reach this height at an inch an hour.

  “We’ll have to get as far up in the mountains as we can,” Gus said. “So we’ll need a real load of supplies— grain, canned stuffs, medicine.”

  “It’s all been raided,” Thatch objected.

  “Not by a long shot. Smart people are saving it. We just have to find their cache.”

  “Hey,” Floy said, delighted. “We’ll raid the raiders!”

  “That’s about it,” Gus said grimly. “And they’ll be tough cookies. But it’s that or starve.”

  They kept watching for likely prospects. As they skirted a city—there was no way to tell which one it was, as all signs and landmarks had been altered by the storm—they saw lights at one large building. Only a temporary thinning of the attendant fog enabled them to see the glow from a distance. “Warehouse,” Gus said with satisfaction. “Whatever they have in there, we need—you can bet on it.”

  “It’ll be guarded,” Thatch said. None of them bothered to raise moral objections any more; they had all long since recognized that the survival of the most competent was the new morality. “Guns, probably.”

  “And booby traps,” Gordon said. “Otherwise it would have been raided and cleaned out by now.”

  “All of which makes it an excellent place to avoid,” Zena said, growing alarmed.

  “Which is what everyone else must have been thinking,” Gus said. “By now they must be getting careless. Most of them sleeping, while only one or two guards are on duty. Distract those, and we can take our pick of what’s inside—so long as we make it fast.”

  “Fine, in theory,” Gordon said. “But what’s going to distract a couple of armed men looking out into the rain?”