To the Vanishing Point

by Alan Dean Foster

  It was Wendy whom Alicia comforted in her lap. Steven was kneeling by the back of the cage, tossing pebbles against one another. Frank started to rise and move forward, only to find himself held back.

  Burnfingers’s eyes burned into his own. "Leave the necessary business to me, Frank."

  "It’s my family."

  "True, but you only sell athletic virtue, remember?"

  It hurt Frank’s pride to admit his companion was right. So he nodded and relaxed, making sure he kept a firm grip on their makeshift raft lest the wind carry it off.

  Burnfingers seemed to travel below the surface as he slithered upslope toward the cage. Even though he knew where to look, Frank couldn’t see his friend against the weeds and rank grass.

  Then he knew where Begay was because he saw Steven stiffen. A hand rose from the darkness in front of the boy’s face. He nodded slowly, glanced back toward his mother, and kept silent.

  Good boy, Frank thought anxiously. That’s a smart kid.

  Burnfingers worked his way around the side of the cage. Frank heard Alicia gasp softly as a mountainous shadow rose up before her. The guard heard, too, and managed to turn halfway around before the shadow enveloped him. Then both vanished. Frank thought he’d seen a knife flash once, decided he didn’t want to dwell on it.

  The next time he saw the knife, it was sawing at the twine and wire that held the wooden bars together. This patient work continued interminably, until shapes emerged from the cage and ran toward him. Steven first, then Wendy. Alicia would require a wider gap to slip through.

  His children stumbled into his arms. Wendy was moaning "Daddy, Daddy!" over and over despite his whispered attempts to shush her. When he was finally able to get their attention, he used his hands to indicate they were to lie flat against the raft.

  "Help me back this off," he whispered to them. They complied, making more noise with their kicking than he’d hoped. Now that they were free he was finding it difficult to restrain his own impulse to swim like mad for dry land.

  Alicia was running to join them, Burnfingers leading her by the hand. With the children’s help the raft was off to a good start.

  That was when Alicia slipped and fell.

  It wasn’t much of a splash, but several of the island’s permanent inhabitants had larger ears than normal. Shouts began to dominate the conversation around the firepits.

  "Dammit! Kick harder!"

  "I am, Daddy, I am!" Steven flailed at the water with his stubby legs.

  "Please don’t let them take us again, Daddy!" Wendy was sobbing. "Please don’t. They were going to — "

  "Then kick, kick for your lives!" No reason for stealth now that their presence had been detected.

  Burnfingers Begay half heaved Alicia onto the raft alongside her husband. There wasn’t even time enough for a welcoming kiss. The waterlogged mattresses dipped alarmingly under the family’s weight.

  Light lit the water around their feet, reflected from an old coal-oil lantern. Louder shouts now, dominated by outraged shrieks. Then a deep, rolling boooom that echoed like thunder across the lake as Burnfingers got off a shot from his monstrous handgun. Confusion mixed with the initial outrage at their escape.

  Alicia kicked wildly. "They took us. I tried to call out to you but there wasn’t time, there wasn’t any time at all. They took us away and brought us here."

  "They didn’t …?" He left the unnecessary unfinished.

  She shook her head. "They didn’t have time. But they were going to. They touched us and grinned these awful grins." She tried to see across the shallow black water. "Where’s Mouse?"

  "Back in the motor home."

  "The motor home’s here?" Mere mention of their mobile refuge was enough to stifle Wendy’s crying.

  Something landed in the water close by. Spear or club, Frank didn’t waste time on a look. It was solid but fell short, just bumping his right foot.

  Alicia did look back. "Oh, God, Frank, they’re coming!"

  "It’s all right," he lied. "We got the jump on them. We’ll make it. Once we do we’ll be safe. There’s nothing here that can catch the motor home."

  "Have to reach it first," Burnfingers said, adding a moment later, "I didn’t think they walked all the way into town."

  Now Frank spared a backward glance. Hunchbacked, broken shapes were paddling in furious pursuit on makeshift rafts of their own. Others pushed or pulled these crude crafts through the water while those on board waved their weapons at the escapees. The rafts were fashioned of wood and plastic, not sodden foam rubber. There was no way the fleeing family could hope to outpace even the slowest of their pursuers.

  Standing in the bow of the nearest and largest raft was something seven feet tall. Barbaric symbols had been tattooed on its bloated, shiny belly and shaven dome. One massive fist clenched a length of one-inch steel pipe, the end of which had been drilled and fitted with nails.

  "Prake," Alicia informed them. "Their chief, or leader, or whatever."

  "The people in town told us."

  "Daddy, I’m tired," Steven whined.

  Frank started to curse the boy, stopped himself to smile grimly. "I’m tired, too, kiddo, but we’ve got to all keep kicking. We’ve got to."

  "Never make it." Burnfingers had been wading alongside, keeping pace easily. Too easily. "Better make a run for it. It’s shallower here."

  The water was barely up to Frank’s knees, but it still slowed them, the children in particular. He wasn’t athlete enough to carry Steven more than a few yards. If he’d set a better example at the dinner table, maybe his son wouldn’t have turned out to be such a pudgy glutton himself.

  "Get them to the motor home!" Burnfingers yelled. He stood there, outlined against the advancing lanterns and torches, as the family abandoned the raft. Frank saw him turn, raise both arms, and fire again. The Casull boomed through the darkness. A pursuing raft overturned, throwing its occupants thrashing into the lake.

  "What about Burnfingers?" Alicia gasped as she tried to lift her knees to her belly. "Isn’t he coming?"

  "He knows what he’s doing." I hope, Frank told himself. "Just run!"

  The pistol thundered a third time behind them. Then Burnfingers removed something from the big plastic sack in the middle of the sinking raft: a pop bottle with a rag sticking out of its mouth. A lighter flicked in the darkness, catching the rag alight. Burnfingers tossed it.

  The Molotov cocktail, filled with unleaded from Hell, struck one of the rafts and exploded into flame. Screams filled the air as its crew abandoned it. Frank tried to watch and run at the same time. A second Molotov fell short, expending itself harmlessly in the water. Burnfingers turned to run.

  They could hear the grotesque Prake bellowing commands to his gargoylish clan. The remaining rafts were much closer now, almost on top of Burnfingers. If they were caught there would be no one to save them this time, Frank knew. His lungs threatened to burst and the water clung like liquid glue to his ankles.

  Burnfingers caught up with them, his long legs clearing three times the water Alicia could manage at her best. They could have fashioned additional Molotovs, Frank knew, but both he and Burnfingers had been reluctant to sacrifice any more of the motor home’s fuel supply.

  "They’re going to catch us!" Wendy screamed.

  "No, they are not, music-girl." Burnfingers let them advance another ten yards before he raised the big pistol a fourth time, took careful aim, and fired. Not at any of their pursuers, but at the abandoned raft. At the big plastic sack that still bobbed in the center.

  Frank knew what he was shooting at. "Get down!"

  Alicia almost had time to ask "Why?" when the lake heaved beneath them.

  As the tremendous explosion echoed away, Frank rose to his knees and turned. Burnfingers was climbing to his feet, the shock wave having knocked him onto his back. A few lingering screams came from the vicinity of the pursuing rafts. Not of outrage and anger this time, but of pain.

  The plastic sack had
been stuffed with flammable material: paper, napkins, Wendy’s rock magazines, anything burnable. Around this had been packed kitchen knives and forks, screws and nails from the motor home’s toolbox, and anything else small and sharp. In the center of this mass of kindling and killing, they’d tied the removable propane canister which fueled the motor home’s stove. The heavy-jacketed slug from the Casull had set off a homemade bomb of considerable size, square in the midst of their pursuers. Bits of the shredded canister added another level of lethality to the trap.

  Bleeding, torn bodies floated on the dark water, drifting out into the lake. Those not dead or unconscious stood or sat in shock in the midst of total devastation.

  "Wow!" Steven muttered as his father half dragged him through the water.

  Burnfingers rejoined them moments later. "Didn’t get all of them. Did not get the one we needed to get."

  A quick glance showed perhaps a dozen of the mutants still struggling through the water. In the lead was the gargantuan Prake, roaring and bleeding like a wounded bear.

  "They’ll catch us, I am afraid. You go on." Burnfingers was panting hard, obviously tired. Frank had come to think of him as some kind of superman. Now he saw he was wrong. The Indian was strong, but he was not indestructible. "I will hold them off. I have a few shots left."

  Alicia looked back at him, slowing. "Don’t you have enough?"

  He grinned at her as he dug in a pocket, bringing out a few more shells. "These bullets are very expensive, earth mother."

  She eyed him oddly. "Why do you keep calling me that?"

  "I label as I feel. I think it fits."

  Frank slowed. His thighs were encumbered with lead weights. "I hear something."

  "Splashing. I hear it, too." Alicia stared into the darkness. "Are there big fish in this lake?"

  "There aren’t any fish in this lake," Burnfingers told her. "Too saline."

  It wasn’t a fish, but rather something considerably larger. Lights on high beam, the motor home plunged through the night toward them, a metal dinosaur spitting water from beneath six big wheels.

  "Mouse." Frank was swaying, fighting to maintain his balance. "Thank God."

  The water was up to the big vehicle’s hubcaps as it swung around to greet them. The resulting spray from the wheels drenched them all, but nobody cared. They stumbled madly for the door, which was flung wide from inside. Mouse stood waiting, outlined by the cool electric shine from within: an undernourished angel.

  "Don’t slow down now!" Burnfingers made sure no one was left behind.

  Frank half threw his son aboard. Wendy was next up, then Alicia. He followed faster than he believed possible. Even so, Burnfingers was crowding him.

  "Go!" Mouse looked forward as she barked the command. To whom? Frank wondered, since she was driving herself.

  Burnfingers grabbed the handle and dragged the door shut as they accelerated. None of them saw the huge shape that flung itself at the rear of the fleeing vehicle. Massive hands locked tight on the back bumper.

  "Excuse me a minute." Burnfingers turned and strode toward the back of the motor home. Frank heard him slide open the rear window, heard the Casull bellow a last time. A moment later their tall companion rejoined them, a grim but contented expression on his long face. Frank caught his eye.

  "No big deal. Some garbage caught on the bumper as we were leaving. It is gone now."

  13

  Alicia had a towel wrapped around her hair. She handed a dry one to Burnfingers. He smiled at her, took it gratefully, and began drying himself as best he was able. Mouse was helping Steven out of his dripping clothes while Wendy stood waiting her turn, both arms crossed over her chest. Her mother walked over to her.

  "Come on, darling. You have to get out of those clothes."

  "But, Mom." Wendy looked meaningfully to her left. "Dad is here, and Steven, and…" Her gaze rose.

  Burnfingers was wiping mud from his eyes. "Wendy sprite, you are a cute little white girl-almost-a-woman. But I have seen more ladies bare-ass naked than you ever will see similarly of both sexes. If even I was inclined to have a look at you I promise I am too tired right now to look at anything except maybe a hot cup of coffee."

  "I’ll make you one as soon as we’re through here," Alicia promised him. Then her face broke out in a wide smile and she started to giggle. "Oh, I guess I can’t. We don’t have any propane."

  Wendy slowly lowered her arms. "There’s the microwave, Mom."

  "Yes, that’s right. We can make some instant, can’t we?" Thoughts of doing something as domestic as making coffee cheered her visibly. "But nobody gets anything until we’ve all switched to dry clothing." Reluctantly, Wendy began to strip, starting with her shoes.

  Burnfingers paused with his shirt halfway up his chest. "By the way, Frank, who the hell is driving up there?"

  "I was wondering that myself." Mouse was still helping Steven to change.

  A beaming, ruddy face appeared around the side of the driver’s chair, one hand clinging to the wheel. A nose W. C. Fields would have been proud of dominated the surprising visage. It was flanked by shiny red cheeks and topped by a head of kinky reddish-blond hair. The eyes, deep-set beneath brows of equally startling hue, were bright pink. The man had a holiday air about him, as though Santa Claus had been crossed with the Easter Bunny.

  "Hallu!" One pink eye winked, then the whole torso vanished behind the bulk of the seat.

  Frank slipped into the bathrobe his wife handed him, moved forward as he belted the dry terry cloth.

  Their driver was seated atop several cushions. This raised his eyes above the dash. A pair of sticklike prostheses were secured to his boots, short stilts improvised out of twine and poles. These enabled him to control the brake and accelerator. They were necessary because the man was barely three feet tall. A voice spoke at Frank’s side.

  "Say good evening to our new friend," Mouse urged him.

  Dazed, Frank leaned against the other front seat for support. "Hi."

  "Hi yourself." The little man stuck out a hand. Frank took it automatically. "Flucca’s the name. Niccolo Flucca. Haven’t had a chance to drive anything without four legs in five, six years. Mouse tells me it’s brand new. Didn’t think there was anything brand new left in the world."

  "Not in this one," Frank told him, looking hard at Mouse as he spoke.

  "I told you before this started that I was not good with machines. As I was waiting for your return, the curious began to gather around me. Niccolo was one of them. Years ago he wandered accidentally into this reality from another."

  "Thought it was a bad dream," their driver said, "and it was."

  "Of all who surrounded me in your absence, only he recognized this machine as a vehicle. He offered to help. I am a good judge of people no matter what their origins and I could tell instantly he was large of heart and spirit. So I accepted. Fortunate for you, I think, that I did."

  "Prake’s bad people," said Flucca.

  "I wouldn’t want him for a neighbor," Frank admitted.

  "Mouse helped me rig up." He indicated the cushions and stilts. "I used to be a pretty good driver. Great to be behind the wheel again. I know all the submerged roads."

  "When we heard the first explosions we thought we’d better come looking for you," Mouse explained. "Niccolo assured me we wouldn’t get stuck. I thought it would be the right thing to do."

  "You thought right, little singer," said Burnfingers from behind them.

  "Speaking of right things to do." Alicia put both arms around her husband and kissed him passionately. Wendy stared while her little brother made a disgusted sound.

  "Ah, come on, Mom!" he finally pleaded, unable to stand it any longer. His parents parted. Frank had his hands on his wife’s hips, smiling at her.

  "You been holding back on me all these years, sweetheart? I never knew death and destruction excited you."

  She pulled away sharply. "Frank, you’re terrible! Can’t you take anything seriously?"

 
His expression turned somber. "I got plenty serious when we found out you and the kids had been kidnapped." He patted her side and she reached out to gently touch his face with the back of one hand.

  The children had retreated to the security and quiet of the back bedroom. Leaving Alicia to deal with the pile of unexpected but unbloodied laundry, he walked back to join them. Both children sat on the king-sized bed. Steven was staring out the rear window, no doubt hunting for pursuing mutants. Frank didn’t think his son would see any. They were beyond the lake waters now, back in the main part of the city. Flucca certainly knew his way around, and Burnfingers had hung on to a few shells for the Casull. They were safe, at least until the next unexpected attack.

  Wendy’s sodden hair hung limply from beneath the towel wrapped around her head. Frank sat down next to her. She didn’t look at him.

  "How you doin', little girl?"

  "I’m fine, Daddy." Now she turned to him, her expression twisted. "And I wish you wouldn’t call me that."

  "Sorry." He smiled, uncomfortable. "I keep forgetting."

  She sounded bored and tired. "And don’t tell me I’ll always be your little girl, either. I’m an adult now."

  "Of course you are."

  They sat silently, Frank trying to think of something to say and not wanting to commit another paternal faux pas, his daughter obviously uneasy and tense.

  It started with a sniffle, which became a sob, which degenerated into tears. She sat on the edge of the bed crying and hugging herself, and she didn’t object when Frank moved close enough to put an arm around her and pull her gently down against his shoulder.

  "I’m scared, Daddy. I want to go home."

  "I know, I know." He squeezed her shoulder. "We all want to go home. But we’ve kind of got a tiger by the tail and we can’t let go yet. Actually, it’s a Mouse."

  She inhaled and managed to smile at that, and it was easy for him to smile back.

  Steven turned from the glass, looking on uncomfortably. "Don’t worry, sis. I’ll take care of you."