But the others were far more positive. Zena expected Gus to say “I didn’t know you had it in you!” but she was spared that. “It was a sign of God!” Gus said. “That the plants may not procreate, but man will continue!”
“Not necessarily,” Zena said. “This dates from before the Mindel canopy.”
That surprised and dismayed Gus. Apparently it hadn’t occurred to him that Zena could have engaged in such activity that early. It was satisfying to have kept the secret from him, and proof that Thatch did not engage in locker-room talk. But if it had not been for the gasoline-raid fiasco, Gus would have been right.
They did have a little party, breaking out the last bottle of cheap wine in their supply. They sang songs of the old world, the world of four months ago. The night was warm and bright, for Mindel now brought light around the globe, as though to make up for what it subtracted from the daytime. And Zena felt a little better.
Canopy Mindel/Riss loomed dark and low, so thick that daylight had become dusk and even the haloes had faded. Zena harvested the last of the chive and checked the ground in case she had missed any of the small turnips. Soon, now, Mindel would let go, and all vestige of the little garden would be washed out forever.
She heard a hammering back at the camp. Alarmed, she hurried back; Thatch and Gordon were out in the bus on a final foraging mission, not home yet.
It was Gus, using the sledgehammer to pound in a row of stakes. Zena stopped short and stared. Gus—working on his own?
“Come on,” he yelled, seeing her. “Help me get these in.”
“But why?” she asked, setting down her burden.
“I saw strangers scouting us. They know Mindel’s going to let go soon. They want the bus.”
“So you’re building a palisade?”
“For defense. I figure they’ll strike as the rain starts. I only hope it holds off until we get the bus in and the wall finished.”
“I haven’t seen any strangers.”
“That’s because you were working, not watching. They’re there, all right—and they have guns.”
Zena felt a chill. Gus had been right too many times before. He was lazy, but he didn’t make many mistakes. That was how he earned his keep. If he took this threat seriously enough to do physical labor himself, she had better help!
But it took a great many stakes to make even a short wall, and Gus had not had time to prepare enough. Zena used the saw to lop off hard pine branches, and a hatchet to make points on the stakes already standing. It was awkward, fatiguing work.
Floy appeared with cat. “Hey, there’s men around here,” she said. “Dust Devil spotted them. I don’t know what they’re up to, but I don’t like it.”
“Then haul wood!” Gus said. “All our firewood has to be inside this stockade before the bus gets here.”
They were still hard at work when the bus arrived. “Didn’t like the look of Mindel,” Gordon said as they pulled up. “We’d better buckle up for the deluge.”
Foundling bounded out the door, a healthy and aggressive dog. His hackles rose as he sniffed the air. “He knows something,” Gordon said, “and it’s not the dragon in the sky he smells! Has anyone been snooping around here?”
“Yes,” Floy said. “Dust Devil saw—”
“I think we’d better gird for an attack,” Gordon said. “Nobody’s bothered us before, but many people know we’re here and the bus is a nice residence—particularly when it gets wet out. And someone may envy our women, too.”
“Everybody carry a weapon,” Gus said. “And stay inside the palisade. Don’t give them a clear shot.”
They had three firearms. Karen carried the pistol, while Gus and Thatch had the rifles. Zena and Gordon wore knives. Nervously they went about their preparations, completing the palisade and covering their firewood and other stores.
Nothing happened. Mindel hung on to its massive mists, and no attack came. Night advanced, darker than before; but the monstrous serpent writhed in the sky, bearing its own illumination. The guard was set, watching the eerie quiet. Zena slept nervously, one hand on her abdomen where the new life was forming, the other on the hilt of the knife.
In the morning Thatch made a small fire so that they could roast morsels of wild cow, conserving fuel for the bus’s range. The odors drifted all over the neighborhood, but no strangers came forth. Still Dust Devil stalked about, hissing at nothing, and Foundling growled.
“I’m about ready to go and get them,” Gordon muttered.
“That’s what they want!” Gus said. “We’ll stay right here.” Then he looked at Gordon, considering. “Maybe you’d better change.”
Gordon smiled grimly. “Yes. In case they come in peace.”
He converted to Gloria, as fetchingly female as ever. There was no sign of knife or hatpin, but Zena knew they were handy. She remembered how shocking Gordon’s first revelation of transsexuality had seemed—and thought of the contrast now. Gordon/Gloria had been accepted by this group for what he/she was, and that was important. Had this person ever before had such acceptance?
Could a female psyche actually have a male body? Dimly she remembered some clinical comment on the subject in a technical journal. Apparently it was possible. More likely the basis was psychological, but in any event, Gordon believed it. He might in time have undertaken surgery for feminization, had the rains not come.
Now he would have to be a man. Floy needed him as such.
The day continued, and Mindel held off, taunting them with its potential devastation.
“We’d better sleep in the daytime,” Gus decided. “Karen and I’ll watch now, and the rest of you—” he paused, looking at his hand. “Wet,” he said, surprised.
“It’s started,” Floy cried. “Mindel’s first drop!” She clapped her hands as well as she could.
“One drop doth not a deluge make,” Zena muttered. She did not enjoy the prospect of being cooped up in the bus for more months, short of food, and her baby coming.
But other drops were falling, making a patter across the dry ground.
Foundling growled, louder. “Oh-oh,” Gus said. “Battle stations!”
Thatch took his rifle and crawled under the canvas covering the wood. Gloria donned a rain cape and stood in the bus door. The others stayed inside the vehicle, peering out the windows.
A man strode up to the palisade gate, solid and unshaven. “Starting to rain,” he called. “Can I take shelter here?”
Zena tried to see him more clearly, but couldn’t. There were several colonies of people in the neighborhood, but the voice was not familiar.
Gloria pushed open the door. “Sorry, mister,” she said sweetly. “I don’t feel quite safe letting strangers in.”
The man paused, evidently taking her measure through the line of stakes. Gloria’s measure, to the uninitiated, was impressive. “Well, can you give me directions how to reach the town? I’m lost.”
“Of course,” Gloria called. “Follow the tracks down to the coast, and turn left. There’s a settlement about two miles along.”
“I can’t hear you,” the man said.
Gloria stepped down delicately and moved through the increasing rain to the gate. “Follow the tracks, there behind you, down to the—”
“And could you give me a little water? Or a cup to catch this rain in?”
Gloria trekked back to the bus, took a cup, and brought it to the man. She had to open the gate to pass it through without spilling.
The man crashed against the gate, knocking her back. A pistol appeared in his hand. “Okay, men,” he shouted.
Gloria’s arm circled his throat, her knife glinting dose. “Drop the gun,” she said.
Instead the man whirled, thinking to throw the weak woman aside. The blade slashed across his throat, and he fell soundlessly.
Gloria jumped to bar the gate, but another man was already coming through. Gloria’s shoulder hit him low, and he did a flip into the compound. Zena wanted to run out and help in the defense,
but knew that would be suicidal. They did not know how many men the attacking party had.
Now three more men charged through the gate. “Fire!” Gus yelled. But he was the only one in a position to do so; Karen had to guard the rear approach. Gus did shoot, and one man cried out.
Then Thatch opened up from the woodpile. He fired three times, and two men went down. But Zena saw two more men rising over the rear of the palisade; evidently they had piled boxes or brush there during the distraction, and now could hurdle it. “Karen!”
Karen fired. One of the attackers cried out and fell back; the other came on over and landed near Thatch. A struggle ensued. Zena knew why Karen held her fire; she didn’t know which man she might hit.
The rain was coming down heavily now. It beat upon the metal roof and made a spray throughout the battle area.
A man lurched through the bus door. There was a livid scar across his cheek. Gloria must have slashed him in passing, Zena thought. No—it was not that recent. “Okay, girls,” he yelled. “Up with your hands and off with your skirts!”
Zena made an underarm toss. Her knife flew at the man’s face—but missed. So she charged him.
He was tough. She was unable to throw him in this confined space, and knew that in a moment his muscle would overcome her. Then something furry landed on his face, and he screamed.
Zena disengaged and found Floy there, her fingers curved and bearing nails like claws. Zena remembered the eyeball the cat had eaten before. “No!” she cried.
But the intruder had had enough. He half scrambled, half rolled down the steps and outside, where he found his feet and staggered off into the rain. Now Foundling’s growling was audible; the dog was fighting too.
Suddenly all was quiet. Zena could not let herself believe that the attack was over, but a minute passed with no sound except the intensifying beat of rain.
“I’ll check,” Floy whispered. She went out, while Gus and Karen continued to watch at the windows. They had been right not to desert their posts; attackers could have come from any direction.
This time Floy screamed. “No!”
Zena scooped up her knife and leaped to the ground.
Bodies were lying there and the water that coursed away from them was pink. Floy huddled over one. It was Gordon, his wig knocked askew, his clothing ripped and stained red. To one side lay the man with his throat cut; to the other was someone with a monstrous hatpin protruding from his ear. Gordon himself had taken a bullet in the stomach.
Thatch appeared with his rifle. He was holding his left arm crookedly, and blood dripped with the water. “Oh, God, did I do that?” he asked. “Did I shoot Gordon?”
Zena knew exactly how he felt.
Gordon opened his eyes. The rain splattered off his upturned face. “You idiot,” he said. “Anyone can see it’s a pistol wound.” Actually his injury was concealed by the clothing, and Zena doubted it would be possible for any of them to tell what type of weapon had done it.
“Get him inside!” Floy shrieked.
“Don’t bother,” Gordon said. “Watch the perimeter.” He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in gasps. “Zena—”
“Yes,” Zena said immediately. She was trying to get the cloth away from his wound, but already was certain it was an ugly one. “We have some morphine—”
“Meat,” he said. “You have to have it. Use my body first, so that it doesn’t spoil.” He writhed, and caught his breath again. “Promise.”
Zena looked at him with horror, and knew that he was dying. “Promise!” she said.
“Floy—your hand,” he whispered. Floy took his hand with both of hers, her face wide-eyed and frozen. “I could have been a man with you…”
“I know, I know!” Floy cried, leaning over him. “Oh please, please—”
Gordon shuddered again, then lay still. His eyes were open despite the rain. Alarmed, Zena felt for his pulse, but already she could see that he had stopped breathing.
Zena stood, and saw Thatch there. “I’d better check outside the gate,” he said. “If they attack again—”
“Foundling will warn us,” Zena said. “You come inside.” She knew they had to leave Floy alone for a while. “How bad are you wounded?”
“Forearm,” he said, letting her guide him. “Hurts, but not serious.”
This turned out to be an accurate assessment. It was a wide grazing wound, bloody but not deep. Zena fixed a tight compress and a sling, and he was able to function well enough.
They kept watch for fifteen minutes, but there was no further violence. Foundling scouted the area and came back, satisfied. They had driven off the attackers, killing four.
Floy hauled herself into the bus. “Shovel,” she said grimly.
“We can’t do it,” Zena said. “We promised.”
“I heard,” Floy said, her voice level and empty. “But we have to bury something. And have a service. And a marker.”
“His head,” Karen said. “With the wig on it.”
“No. He was a man. I want the wig.”
The enormity of what they contemplated began to grow on Zena. “This—we can’t actually—”
“I heard,” Floy repeated. “I heard what he wanted. It has to be.”
It has to be. The words struck at Zena, reminding her deviously of the new life inside her. Now there was a parallel emptiness in her, for Gordon had in many ways been the nicest and most effective member of the group. His sudden death was a double shock, because it was not the death she had girded for.
“I’ll do it,” Karen said.
And Karen was the second nicest. Even when niceness included the guts to do something utterly gruesome—for the common good.
They waited until morning, then set about the disposition of Gordon. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough to get through it all myself,” Karen said. “I’ll use the knife if someone will hold.”
Gus turned away, looking as sick as Zena felt. Floy sat in the driver’s seat, the blonde wig on her head. Zena knew that she, Zena, should volunteer, but the job was too awful.
“I’ll hold,” Thatch said.
“You can’t, with one arm!” Zena protested, though she felt relief.
“I must.”
The two went out. Zena exchanged glances with Gus, knowing how he felt. They had known that there could be deaths in the group, but now that it had come there seemed to be no adequate means to handle it, emotionally. Except to go on, as Karen had said, taking care of the gruesome practical matters as necessary.
Gus took a rifle and stationed himself by his window, which faced away from the scene of activity. Zena went to the back and watched there. She had to trust that Floy would catch anything at the front. There could be another attack.
They waited silently for a long time, listening to the awful beat of Mindel’s rain. It seemed as though the very world were being blasted away by this fall of water, much harsher than the first rain. Zena tried not to picture what Karen and Thatch were doing out there, but inchoate yet horrible pictures formed. Now and then she thought she heard an exclamation.
At last Thatch appeared in the doorway. He had a dripping package under his good arm. “Floy,” he said.
Floy moved. She still wore the wig, which added to Zena’s discomfort. “Now the shovel,” she said dully.
“I’ll do it!” Zena cried, wanting to participate in some way, hoping it would ameliorate the mixed distaste and guilt she felt. She took the shovel and went out around the bus. The rain soaked her in seconds, but it was as though her flesh were the metal of the vehicle, holding the wetness out from her personal core. All the bodies were covered by canvas now, fortunately.
Floy was behind her, clutching the package tightly. “I can feel his nose,” she said.
Zena thought for a moment she was going to faint. She put her hand against the wall of the bus, steadying herself while her head cleared. “Where—”
“Anywhere,” Floy said. “It’s the thought that counts. He knows I lov
e him.”
Love. What a void this child spoke of!
Zena put her foot to the shovel and dug into the mud. The thought stayed with her, naggingly: Floy could speak of dismemberment and love at the same time, and mean it. Mean both. Zena could not comprehend either concept, herself. What was she made of?
“Sugar and spice,” she muttered, scooping out the muck. How could they bury anything here?
“I don’t know what I’ll do without him,” Floy said. “He was teaching me to dance.”
Zena continued excavating. Who was she to give advice?
It seemed to take a long time, because the mud kept washing back into the hole. Thatch appeared, carrying a stone. “I tried to carve his name,” he said. “Gordon Black. But it’s all scratches.”
“It will do,” Floy said.
“I can’t get it any deeper,” Zena said, panting from her exertion. She tired easily, with the baby in her. “The water—”
“It will do.” Slowly Floy unwrapped the package. Now, oddly, her hands were sure. In a moment Gordon’s face was open to view, the eyes still open.
Solemnly Floy kissed it.
Then she re-wrapped it and set the bundle into the pool of dirty water in the hole. Now, at last, she stumbled, and had to catch her balance by dunking the head under the murky liquid. “Goodbye, Gordon,” she said.
Thatch bowed his head, and Zena followed his example. “Rest in peace,” he said. “We thought a lot of you.”
“Amen,” Zena said. Then she scraped mud in to cover it.
When the hole was full, Thatch set his scratched rock on top. It sank somewhat but stayed in place.
Floy turned to Zena. There was such childish woe in her face that Zena dropped the shovel and put her arms about the girl. Wordlessly they stood there, both crying.
Mindel beat upon their backs, seeming now to be an extension of their tears.
Chapter 7: Mindel
Thatch somehow managed to fashion a tepee out of canvas, with a flap on top designed to let smoke out while shielding the interior from rain. This was not entirely successful—nothing could really balk Mindel—but sufficed for the purpose. He made a fire inside. Karen went there, and in due course there was the aroma of roasting meat. It went on a long time, for there were five carcasses to process.
Rings of Ice Page 14
