"Kill number six. And you forgot one thing, kid," he said. "Never bring your fists to a knife fight."
Eric Larsson's eyes went wide as Havel stepped back; something silver flashed in his hand, and the young man looked down at a sudden cold prickle; the odd-shaped hunting knife was touching just under his ribs.
"Kill," Havel said. The knife reversed itself, lying edge-out along his forearm, then swept across Eric's throat with blurring speed. "Kill." A backhanded stab, letting the cold steel touch behind his right ear. "Kill."
Havel stepped back another pace; the younger man was chalk white and keeping himself from trembling by sheer willpower. He sheathed the knife and cocked an eyebrow, his expression cold.
"So, have we settled the 'Who's the big bull gorilla?' question?"
"Yeah. Noooo doubt about it, man."
"Good, because we've got things to do. Like saving your mother's life, saving your sisters' lives, saving your dad's life, saving my life, and last and way, way least important, saving your life. Got it, Eric?"
Eric nodded, massaging his throat. "Yeah. Definitely. Most definitely. All the way. One hundred percent."
Havel grinned suddenly, and extended a hand. "Actually . Eric . you're not bad at all. You're strong and you're fast and you're not scared about getting hurt. Get the right experience, and you'll be a dangerous man to meet in a fight. Are we square?"
"Square." Eric was obviously flattered by the man-to-man treatment and took his hand, starting to squeeze. Then he stopped abruptly: "Jeez, I hope I didn't break that knuckle," he said, wincing.
"Told you not to hit a man in the face with your fist," Havel said, wagging a finger. "Punch him in the throat or the balls, or grab any convenient rock and use that on his face. But don't sock him in the jaw unless you're naked and they've nailed your feet to the floor."
"Yeah, I see your point … actually, man, I saw too much of the sharp point. I wouldn't mind learning how to do that fancy knife stuff myself. Is it Ojibwa too?"
Eric picked up the bundle of gear; Havel liked that, and the absence of pouting.
"Nah, Karelian," he replied genially. "Force Recon refined my technique, but Dad taught me the basics of—he tapped the knife—"the puukko."
"Karelian?" Eric asked.
"Eastern Finland, or it used to be—where the poets and shamans and knife-waving crazies came from. Farther west you get Tvastlanders, who're so dull they might as well be Swedes like you."
"I'm Yankee on Mom's side—English."
"Well, I'm sorry for you and all, but wouldn't it be better to keep that quiet?"
They both laughed. He's not a bad kid, Havel thought, settling his pack on his back. They started west again, side by side. He's just high on testosterone and needed a thumping. Aloud he went on: "Anyway, like it says in the Kale-vala, real men use knives."
"The Kalevala?" Eric asked, frowning as he searched his memory for something that rang a bell, but not a very loud one.
"Finland's national epic. That great big thing that sounds like Hiawatha, only you can't pronounce the names?"
"Now I remember," Eric nodded. "We've got a copy at home; every line sort of repeats? Dad has it with his saga collection; he used to read us that stuff when we were little kids— that's how Astrid got started on her schtick. The illustrations were cool, but I couldn't get through it. I can't remember anything about knives, though; I thought it was all witches and monsters and Santa Claus sleigh-trips with reindeer?"
"Yeah, the Old Country version could make sex sound dull, but the one my dad taught me was sort of modified; it goes—" He began to chant as they walked west along the trail:
"I am driven by my knowledge,
And my understanding urges,
That I should commence my fighting,
And begin my strong ass-whupping,
With a nice sharp slashing puukko."
Eric hadn't expected to be forced to listen to poetry, but a smile broke through his frown of puzzlement as the words sank in. Havel cleared his throat and continued, in the solemn singsong shaman-type voice purists always used for the real thing when the old farts got together at the Suomi-American Society meetings:
"Fists are just for wussie girl-men.
Swedes and Danes and pansy girl-men …
Come and let us fight together,
And drink potato gin forever,
Or maybe made-from-pine-trees vodka,
In the dreary land of Pohja.
Let us clash our knives together,
Let us slice and cut our fingers;
Let us stab a cheerful measure,
Let us use our best endeavors,
While the young are standing round us,
Of the rising generation."
Eric Larsson was beginning to stagger and wheeze with laughter as they walked; Havel made a grand gesture with the rabbit stick, declaiming:
"Let them learn the way of mayhem,
And of all our fights and drinking,
Of the booze of Vaindmoinen,
Of the knives of Hmarinen,
And of Kaukomieli's pointy puukko,
And of Joukahainen's broken bottle:
Of the utmost bars of Pohja,
And of Kalevala's boozing cock-hounds … "
He carried on through the younger man's laughter, remembering the way the sauna had run that night, he and his brothers and father howling out the verses in turn until the one reciting couldn't go on, and falling back on the scalding-hot pine benches.
Chapter
Six
"Hope Luther doesn't mind us dropping in past midnight," Dennis said.
Juniper snorted wordlessly, too tired to waste breath on speech as she pedaled her heavily laden bike along the rough patched pavement of the country road. She felt every jolt, all the way up her back. The muscles of her thighs burned and cramped; the day had wrung her limp as a dishrag, even after all the miles she'd covered on a bicycle over the years. Despite the chill damp of the air she was sweating under her down coat, and the straps of her knapsack cut into her shoulders.
"Hold up!" she said suddenly, stopping and putting a foot down. It skidded through dirt and gravel along the edge of the asphalt.
They all braked and swerved. It was dark, dark in a way she'd never experienced in settled country before. Between patches of cloud the stars were a bright frosted band across the sky, and the moon was rising huge on the edge of sight; it turned the grassy fields and woodlots to silvered mystery.
It's nearly Ostara, she thought. That would come with the vernal equinox; also Eilir's birthday. Night and day in perfect balance, with light on the increase. Maybe things will get better. All Gods above, I hope so!
The tin mailbox on its post beside the turnoff was prosaic by contrast, down to the little flag in the upright position to warn the mailman there were letters waiting.
If there's ever a postman by again, she thought, and swallowed.
"This is Luther's drive," she said. "Another quarter mile."
Luther Finney had farmed south of Corvallis most of his seventy-four years, like his fathers before him since they came west on the Oregon Trail the year before the California gold rush started; when the last of his children moved away, he'd rented out most of his land to neighbors and kept only the old house and a few acres around it. He still kept farmer's hours, but he'd complained to her that he slept lightly these days.
Dogs barked as the three fugitives walked their laden bicycles up the tree-lined gravel lane. The buds were out on the rock maples arching overhead—trees Luther's great-greatgrandfather had planted to remind him of Massachusetts— and they turned the lane into a tunnel of shadow even darker than the open road.
He probably does sleep lightly, Juniper thought, as light blossomed in an upstairs window.
First the buttery yellow flame of a candle, and then the brighter glow of a kerosene lamp. Nothing like the hard glare of electricity, which she was already starting to miss. Luther's two Alsatians came up, excited
but polite; her own nondescript black-and-white mongrel threw himself into the air around them in wriggling transports of barking joy, before making his usual nosedive for the crotch to catch up on the olfactory news.
"Quiet, Cuchulain," she said, giving him an admonitory rap on the head.
She'd named him after the Hound of Ulster, which was somewhat appropriate given the beast's mixed ancestry, though not for his entirely nonheroic nature.
He jumped up and tried to lick her face instead. She pushed him down and thumped his ribs reassuringly. The dog sensed anxiety and whined a bit, then followed them with head down and tail wagging nervously. More lights came on downstairs, and the door opened; Luther Finney came out, wrapped in a long bathrobe.
"Juney!" he cried. "And Eilir! Weren't expecting you back for another few days."
The old man's face carried a genuine smile; so did his wife Sarah's, where she stood behind him.
Jack Sprat, Juniper thought as she smiled back; Luther was tall and lean and wrinkled, Sarah short and round with a face like a raisin dumpling.
"Come on in," the farmer said.
He shook hands with Dennis, giving the ax over his shoulder no more than a glance; he'd met the manager of the Hopping Toad before, and even come in to hear Juniper sing a couple of times. Sarah hugged Juniper and her daughter, and shooed them forward through the hall and into the farmhouse kitchen.
Good thing we can leave the crossbows inconspicuously with the bikes, Juniper thought. They might overwhelm even Luther's politeness reflex.
They were ugly squared-off things like stubby rifles with short thick bows across the front, but light and easy to handle.
I don't think Dennie's not-really-a-friend bought his story about a camping trip, but he wasn't asking any questions when he saw the cash. In fact, he practically drooled.
That made her feel a bit better about the transaction; she was mournfully convinced that camping gear and high-energy trail rations and garden seeds were going to be worth a lot more than portraits of dead presidents by this time tomorrow, when more people had figured out what was happening.
Luther's eyebrows did go up when Juniper took off her down coat and the blades showed. She sighed at the warmth, and at the lingering cooking smells—those pastrami sandwiches seemed like a long time ago.
"There a reason for the cutlery, Juney?" he said. "You and Mr. Martin on your way to one of those pageant things you sing at?"
She suppressed an absurd impulse to slide the weapons around behind her; instead she unbuckled the belt and hung it on the back of a chair.
Sarah Finney didn't say anything; but then, she rarely did. Instead she started loading three plates with leftovers—cold fried chicken, beans, potato salad, string beans, and slices cut from a loaf of fresh bread. Then she put an old-fashioned percolator coffeepot on the gas range.
"Can't do filter," she said apologetically. "Power's out." She made a gesture towards the two big buckets on the counter. "Pump, too."
"Good thing the old hand pump's still working," Luther said. "Knew it would come in useful sometime."
Dennis cut in, as he leaned the handle of the war-ax against the door: "Mr. Finney, you've got a gun around, don't you?"
"'Course," Luther said, puzzled; his chin and nose looked as if they were going to meet when he frowned. "Got a shotgun, and my old deer rifle, too. Why?"
"I'd rather you see for yourself. Get one of 'em and go out back and pop off a couple of rounds into the woodpile. Either will do." He raised a hand. "I can't explain and you won't believe me until you've tried. It'll save time. This is important. Humor me."
The old man glanced at Juniper; she nodded, and he shrugged and went out. The three sat down and obeyed Sarah's smiling wave, pitching into the food. Juniper hid a smile as she bit into a drumstick; Luther affected a hard-headed practicality and a loud contempt for any "hippie nonsense," but he also kept a henhouse full of free-range Rhode Islands because they simply tasted better, and a half-acre vegetable garden for the same reason.
Dennis's eyes met hers, and she knew they shared a thought: I hope to hell that gun works properly …
A click came from the backyard, followed by a muttered curse and the sound of a shotgun's slide being racked, repeated several times along with the futile-sounding metallic sounds. Juniper felt a twinge of disappointment, but not enough to make her stop eating. Luther came back with his lips moving silently. He could swear a blue streak when he wanted to, but had old-fashioned ideas about doing it in front of women or children—he'd been born in 1924, after all.
"You knew about this?" he said in a half-accusing voice, and sat—though not before he'd made sure there were no rounds left in the shotgun's magazine. He was thoroughly careful about firearms, courtesy of his father and a lifetime of hunting, plus World War II and Korea.
"Yeah," Dennis said. He glanced over at Juniper. "You want to tell 'em, Juney?"
No, she thought. But I will.
She was more articulate, anyway, as befitted a musician and storyteller. When she'd finished the old man sat and stared at her for a while.
"Craziest damned thing I ever heard, Juney," he said after a moment. "But my equipment won't start, that's true; not the car or the pickup either. And the scattergun won't shoot worth shhh .shucks."
He shook his head. "There's going to be hell to pay while this lasts, too."
"How do you know it's not going to last forever?" she said grimly.
"Why … it can't," Finney said. "That'd be … why, that would be terrible."
Juniper swallowed. "Luther, it's already terrible. There are hundreds of people dead in Corvallis—maybe thousands. I mean that, Luther: thousands. I was down at the waterfront, helping with the people who got hurt. A 747 out of Portland crashed right there at Fourth and Monroe, and a quarter of the town was up in flames by the time we left. If it's like that in Corvallis, what's it like in Portland or Seattle? Or LA or New York?"
Sarah's face had lost its smiling composure; Luther's hand clenched, and he looked at the silent radio on the countertop by the stove.
"And nothing works, Luther. Nothing. We got into a fight—"
Luther's eyes went wide as they described it; then they went to his own shotgun, leaning against the wall by the back door, and then to Dennis's ax.
"Luther," Sarah said. "Eddie and Susan and the children!"
Juniper and Dennis winced; so did Eilir, who read lips well. Those were the Finneys' son and daughter and grandchildren . there were great-grandchildren too, come to think of it. They all lived in Salem.
Luther made a calming gesture in his wife's direction with one gnarled hand, a gentleness in contrast with a look more grim and intent than the musician had ever seen on his features before. Though others might have recognized it, in the bloody, frozen hills around Chosin Reservoir.
"Later, honey. Let's get things straight first." He looked back at his guests. "You figure this thing has happened all over?"
All three nodded. "I can't be sure," Juniper admitted. "But I climbed the tallest building in town and used my binoculars. It's dark out there, Luther. There isn't a single light, not a moving car, not a plane going overhead that I could see. All there are, are fires. Lots of fires. And you saw what happened with the gun—that's the way it was when we tried, too."
Luther nodded in his turn and sipped at his coffee. "So what do you three plan on doing about it?"
"Run like blazes and hide like hell," Dennis said. "I've got no family in Corvallis."
"We're going up to my great-uncle's old place in the foothills," Juniper said, leaning her head eastward for an instant. "It's nicely out of the way, and I expect some of my friends to head that way."
And Rudy, she thought.
The farmer frowned. "If things are all messed up this way, folks'll need to pull together," he said, a hint of disapproval in his voice.
Juniper felt herself flush—the curse of a redhead's complexion. "Luther, we've had some time to think about this. I
t's not just something like a barn on fire, or the river flooding."
Dennis nodded. "There's fifty, sixty thousand people in Corvallis alone," he said. "Every one of them gets their food from stores that get theirs from warehouses all over the country twice a week—I run a restaurant, so I should know. Mr. Finney, how many people do you think could live off the farms within a day's walk of Corvallis? Call it twenty miles, say forty on a bicycle."
Luther Finney thought for an instant, and his face went gray under the weathered tan. "Not too many. Most of the land right around Corvallis is in grass for seed, or flowers or nursery stock or specialties like mint. More'n half the farms don't even have livestock. Some orchards and truck, but not much. Take a while to plant … with hand tools, and getting the seed … "
Juniper put her elbows on the table and lowered her face into her hands, the heels over her eyes to block out the visions in her mind.
"And that's just Corvallis," she said. "The rest of the Willamette … there's a million plus in Portland alone, and there's Salem and Eugene and Albany … and no tractors or harvesters or—most farmers these days get their groceries from Albertsons or Smith's, just like everyone else.
No trucks, no trains, no telephones—the government's gone—the cops and National Guard are just guys with sticks. Pretty soon, with no fresh water or working sewage plants there'll be sickness, too, really bad."
"Holy Hannah," Luther breathed. Sarah put a hand over her mouth.
"And that's why we're getting out," Juniper said. "My first responsibility is to Eilir"—though there's Rudy, and by the Cauldron I hope my coveners are all right—"but we'd be glad to have you two along."
Luther blinked at her. "Well, thank you kindly," he said. "But surely we'd just be a burden to you? We're well fixed here if times are hard; there's the preserves, and the chickens, and the garden and the fruit trees. We're better off than we would have been back when I was doing real farming—I've had more time for puttering around putting in truck."
Dennis jerked his chin towards the shotgun leaning beside the door. "Thing is, Mr. Finney, that pretty soon a lot of people are going to get real hungry. And they're going to think that the place to get something to eat is out in the country. Then they'll come looking for dinner."
Dies the Fire Page 9
