First Family

by Patrick Tilley

  The hours passed, each one bringing miniscule increments in the degree of movement. By nightfall, Steve had secured what he judged to be a couple of inches of movement in the top of the post and was able to rotate it by moving the upper part of his body.

  Darkness brought respite from another problem. As the day had gone by, Steve had noticed his bonds had gotten tighter, making it difficult for him to breathe. It took him a while to work out what was happening. The disinterred corpse had started to swell up in the warm spring sunshine. It would get even bigger tomorrow. If he did not break free soon, he would end up crushed against the post, suffocated by the ballooning body.

  And then there were the dark, broad-winged birds with long hooked beaks. Several had gathered on the branches of the nearby trees and the bolder ones had fluttered down to take a closer look at the strange half-dead beast that had fallen to its knees in the middle of the clearing. Steve had driven them away with harsh animal-like screams – a product of his fear and his stiff, swollen jaw. The birds had turned their attention to the remains of the other, older corpse that had been unceremoniously dumped back in its shallow grave but left uncovered. Steve knew that when it had been picked clean, they would wait patiently for his voice and his body to weaken. And then…

  The horrific images of what would happen if he did not escape released new reserves of strength. His initial panic had subsided. What he had to do now was to make the maximum use of his remaining energy. Throughout the night, with dogged determination, he worked his body back and forth and from side to side. The pain in his legs had expanded to fill his whole body and was now so intense his brain had become semi-anaesthetised. He had reached the point at which the overloaded nervous system translates suffering into a kind of perverse pleasure.

  While Steve fought for his life, Commander-General Karlstrom lay back in a well-upholstered armchair in a small viewing room. Around him were other high-ranking members of the First Family. The film that was being shown that night was one of Karlstrom’s favourites – a thousand year-old gem called ‘Sands of Iwo-Jima’ starring the legendary John Wayne.

  Wayne, who had died several decades before the Holocaust, had been the guiding light of the Founding Father – George Washington Jefferson the 1st. Ordinary Trackers knew nothing of actors or the pre-Holocaust film industry. The Federation neither possessed nor produced any art, drama or literature. There were no musicians or instrumentalists. All music was produced electronically; the only singers, blue-sky balladeers fronting vocal ensembles from the various bases. The video network provided by COLUMBUS was the sole source of information and entertainment which, in the Federation, consisted of inspirationals and videogames. The First Family, however – like all elites – had access to a veritable treasure house of pre-Holocaust material stored in the air-conditioned vaults at Cloudlands. The most highly prized items were the videotapes of Wayne’s feature films and there was a large team of expert technicians whose sole task was to maintain them in a perfect state of preservation. In the best of his films, Wayne enshrined all the noblest qualities of Trackerdom and it was from this body of work that succeeding generations of Family leaders had drawn their strength and inspiration.

  Karlstrom watched Wayne die as he had countless times before, the letter in his breast pocket was discovered and read out, the Stars and Stripes was raised on the summit of Mount Surabachi. For Karlstrom, the letter sequence was embarrassingly sentimental but the overall message of the film rang true, the defeat of the now-vanished nation of Japan was a direct parallel to the present struggle for control of the overground. When the final battle had been won, Old Glory would fly side by side with the flag of the Federation on all the peaks of North America. The blue-sky world would have been regained through the sacrifices of men and women with the same indomitable courage and dedication.

  When the film ended, Karlstrom took leave of the others and retired to his personal quarters. The video-screen by his bed displayed a flashing logo indicating that two messages were waiting in his electronic mail-box. Karlstrom tapped out the command which brought the first message up on the screen. It was a coded signal consisting of several alphanumeric sequences. Inserting his private key-card he entered a five-digit personal ID number then pressed the ‘DECODE’ button. The jumble of letters and numbers rearranged themselves into words. It was a signal from an MX field operative called High Sierra. Karlstrom didn’t need to check their identity. He had been waiting for them to make contact.

  The message read: ‘HANG-FIRE TAKEN AND PUT TO THE TEST.’

  Karlstrom erased the signal from the circuit’s memory, and screened the second message. It was from an MX operative at Inter-State U and it was about Brickman’s kin-sister. During the evening study period Roz had developed severe breathing difficulties and on admission to the first aid section it was noted that red weals had appeared on her neck and wrists. She was being kept in under observation. Karlstrom acknowledged receipt of the message and asked to be kept informed of her progress. The uncanny relationship between Brickman and his kin-sister was proving an invaluable guide to his general state of health. As he undressed, Karlstrom mused on the prospect of what might happen if one of these ‘psychic-twins’ had the misfortune to meet with a fatal accident. He took a leisurely shower then lay down in his clean, comfortable bed. The thought that AMEXICO’s most promising new recruit would be spending a somewhat less comfortable night brought a faint smile to his lips. The experience Brickman was currently undergoing was deeply harrowing and painful but he was not in mortal danger. High Sierra would see to that.

  As day dawned, the base of the post was still firmly rooted but there was an encouraging amount of play in the top. Pushing his body hard over to the right, Steve managed to extend his left leg straight out to the side then lift his knee. Once he had his foot on the ground he was able to apply more leverage to the post. After a while, he switched over to the right foot, pushing the post over and upwards to the left.

  When the sun was well up into the morning sky, Steve detected a slight vertical movement in the post. Leaning sideways and then backwards, he tried to get both feet on the ground but it proved impossible. He was pinned too closely between the post and the body of the dead cee-bee. The continuing process of fermentation and decay had inflated the corpse even further, causing the ropes that bound them together to cut into Steve’s body. Fortunately the cord around his throat was only attached to the post behind him. He had avoided slow strangulation but his neck was torn and bleeding from his efforts to loosen it and he was now attracting the attention of the flies that had been swarming over the dead cee-bet Steve knew he had to break free by sunset. Another day without water, trapped under the suffocating weight of a rotting corpse would weaken him to the point where he would be at the mercy of the birds who had returned to feed on the remnants of ‘Tyson’. He began another bout of pulling and pushing, shuffling slowly round in a circle, dragging his dead partner with him.

  The sun went down with Steve still pinned to the same spot but just before darkness fell, he finally manoeuvred a knee between the cee-bee’s thighs and got both feet on the ground at the same time. Rocking backwards and forwards and then around in a circle, he slowly straightened up and, with one last gut-busting heave, managed to pull the post clear of the hole. It was then he found that the post was longer than his legs making it impossible for him to stand upright. He toppled sideways, his fall partly cushioned by the swollen corpse, and lay there in the gathering darkness without attempting to move, content to enjoy the luxury of being able to stretch both legs.

  When the cramps had eased to a dull ache, he took stock of his situation. The knife. He had to find the knife. Jodi had stuck it into the ground between his knees but he had knocked it over as he had shuffled round and round in his efforts to work the post loose. Where was it now?

  Steve peered over the dead cee-bee’s shoulders and saw that the knife now lay across the widened post-hole. As he had thrashed blindly around in his effo
rts to free himself, he had inadvertently kicked the knife towards the hole. It now lay with the blade tipped up at an angle and the handle lodged precariously against the opposite side of the hole, some six inches below the rim.

  With painful slowness, Steve humped his double burden towards the knife. His two-day struggle against the combined weight of the dead cee-bee and the post had sapped his strength to the point where he could barely move. But there was also another problem. He had a clear view over the cee-bee’s shoulder but he could not see his own hands which were tied around the dead man’s waist. He could manoeuvre himself into approximately the right position but from there on it would be pure guesswork. And he could not afford to make a mistake. One false move on his part might cause the handle to slip. If the knife dropped down to the bottom the hole he was finished.

  Reaching what he judged to be the best position, Steve probed the air delicately with his fingers. He felt the tip of his right middle finger brush the edge of the tilted blade. He took a deep breath and, with infinite care, he nudged the dead body forward and tried again. This time he managed to slide the flat of the blade between the two middle fingers of his right hand. Gripping it as tightly as he could, he pressed down firmly on the tip of the blade with the first two fingers of his left hand and see-sawed the knife out of the hole. Dragging it clear, he laid it down carefully then slid it under his right hand and got a firm grip on the handle.

  Well done, Brickman. Now for the next step. He had to free his hands but there was now no play in the rope that bound Steve’s wrists together behind his victim’s back. As the body became more and more distended, it had forced his palms apart making it impossible to grip the knife handle with both hands. There was only one thing to do. He had to vent the gases that had built up in the stomach and the abdominal cavity.

  Guiding the blade between his fingers, Steve lodged it in the soft part of the back between the rib cage and the pelvis, wedged the butt of the handle in a small depression in the ground and drove the blade home by rolling their combined weight on top of it. The body emptied with a slow, gurgling hiss. A foul stench assailed Steve’s nostrils and made his bile rise. He lay there coughing and retching then, a short while later, he noticed that the ropes had slackened off a little. He was still bound securely but the cords no longer bit deeply into his flesh. Clawing at the handle of the knife, he succeeded in pulling it partway out. With the last quarter of the cutting edge exposed Steve began to saw through the cords around his wrists. A great surge of relief flooded through him as the last strands fell away. He was going to make it!

  Cutting the other ropes took hardly any time at all. Steve stood up, stretched his aching limbs then stumbled down through the trees towards the stream, rubbing his chafed wrists to get the blood flowing again. He drank greedily. He had survived yet again – but for how long? Apart from the knife Jodi had provided and the clothes on his back he had nothing. The renegades had stripped the dug-out down to the dirt walls. They had taken every scrap of food, the fishtraps and snares, the firepot, his backpack, weapons, helmet, and the items of clothing removed from the dead cee-bees prior to their burial. Worst of all, they had taken his boots.

  Steve started back up the slope, his initial feeling of euphoria fading rapidly as he considered the formidable problems that now confronted him. The object whose loss he felt most keenly was Naylor’s combat knife. During his stay at Rio Lobo, a tiny but powerful radio transceiver had been cleverly concealed in the handle. Steve had been given the hidden device to allow him to make contact with an MX field-team. The task of the team was to keep track of his whereabouts and relay any messages to and from Karlstrom. They were, in theory, also there to provide back-up in an emergency – such as the jam he now found himself in. The loss of his radio-knife meant he was now unable to summon assistance. Once again he was on his own.

  So be it. He preferred it that way.

  Even so, Steve felt frustrated and vaguely disgruntled. MX should have foreseen the possibility that he might be relieved of all his kit and should have come up with a second device to cover such a situation. Quite where he could have concealed it he did not know. The only secure place was up his ass. And even that had its dangers. If, through some freak accident, the radio in the knife handle was discovered he could always disclaim knowledge of it on the grounds that it was not his knife. But if someone discovered a similar device stuffed up his rectum he could hardly claim to have sat on it by accident.

  The sweat that had poured from Steve’s body during his exertions started to congeal, causing him to shiver violently. It was a cold night, and would get even colder before dawn. Steve stared up at the heavens. The whole sky was covered by a dark, formless layer of cloud that blotted out the stars. How did the Mutes explain away a night like this, when the ten thousand thousand watchful eyes in Mo-Town’s shimmering cloak no longer looked down upon them? Mr Snow would have an answer. He had an answer for everything.

  Steve laid the dead cee-bee face down in the shallow grave, kicked a layer of dirt over it and put back the stones then, fighting down a wave of nausea, he did the same for the eviscerated remains of ‘Tyson’. The act of reburial was not inspired by any feelings of deference towards the two murdered men. Back in the Federation, once you were dead, that was it. Your body was disposed of with the same lack of ceremony with which one would throw out a heap of garbage. No, it was the birds. The broad-winged flesh-eaters that roamed the overground had a habit of circling high in the sky above a dead or dying animal before alighting to feed. The column of wheeling predators could be seen miles away, attracting the attention, not only of other birds but also Mutes, renegades and other, four-footed scavengers. Now that he was virtually defenceless Steve had no wish to give away his position. He dropped the last stone into place, gathered up the severed lengths of rope and went down into the hide with the sickly smell of death on his hands.

  In pitch darkness, Steve felt his way over to the bunk, a rectangle of beaten earth raised a couple of feet above the rest of the floor. The covering of furs had gone. No matter. He threw himself down thankfully on the thick layer of dried fern. Bliss. Sheer luxury. Three words that did not feature in the Tracker vocabulary. A fact which did not prevent Steve from enjoying the sensation in the same way he had experienced love without being able to put a name to it.

  Steve knew that resting up was the wrong thing to do. He should have begun his trek towards the last reported position of the clan M’Call immediately, but his exhausted body simply would not respond. He ached from head to toe. His skin was raw and bleeding where it had been torn by the ropes, every layer of flesh and muscle fibre seemed to be pierced by red-hot needles, a slow fire burned inside his bones. Death, he thought, would be a welcome deliverance.

  He thought of Clearwater and the night they had spent in each other’s arms, the warmth of her embrace, the supple responsiveness of her oiled and perfumed body. The tumultuous emotions that had been released by their conjoining and the pangs of bitterness at their forced separation had haunted him ever since. He drifted off to sleep but instead of the longed-for nothingness, he was plunged into a confused dream state in which he found himself on an endless journey through an alien landscape, menaced by shadowy pursuers and beset by problems of mind-blowing complexity and importance whose solutions he knew but could not articulate. As a consequence, he woke feeling as drained and exhausted as before.

  Raising his head he saw daylight filtering down the angled stairway. Christo! Time to get going. Easier said than done. His back was still one solid slab of pain. With slow, jerky movements he levered himself into a sitting position on the edge of the bunk, and slumped forward, head down. If he had not taken the precaution of resting his elbows on his knees he would have hit the floor nose first. Come on, Brickman, you can do better than this. Move it!

  Responding to the resident drill instructor that lurked within the inner recesses of his brain Steve straightened up and put himself through a short aerobic routine to loosen
his arm and leg joints. He would go down to the stream, drink and freshen up, then try and find some way to protect his feet. The Mutes used buffalo hide. Any skin would do at a pinch but Malone’s renegades had taken everything. He picked up a length of cord and, after considering various possibilities, wound it into a sausage-shaped coil. If the strands could somehow be stitched together it would form the sole of a primitive shoe. He could break down one of the cords into finer threads but what could he use for a needle?

  As he wrestled with the problem he heard a faint muffled shout. Then other voices, indistinct but getting louder. Going to the bottom of the steps, Steve heard more shouts mixed with the fainter whooping cries of Mutes in hot pursuit. Then came what sounded like several bodies crashing through the surrounding undergrowth. He shrank back into the darkest corner. What the heck was he going to do? He was trapped! And then he remembered. Of course! The bolt-hole! The fur coverings had been stripped away but the earth and wickerwork plug was still in place. And the Mute crossbow with its bagful of bolts was in the small storage space behind it!

  Before Steve could move, a flash of daylight pierced the gloom as the doorflap was thrust aside. Drawing his knife, Steve darted into a corner where he could not be seen from the steps that led down into the hide and crouched down, ready to spring at the throat of his unwelcome visitor. The person that stumbled into view was someone he hadn’t expected to see again. Yellow-Cap, weighed down by his back pack and air rifle, and very short of breath.