She cupped her hands again, alternating scoops to her mouth and splashing her face, which seemed to glow with heat.
The lack of a container—it was odd, now she thought about it. Normally she would be complaining about the junk everyone left scattered about, not the lack thereof, but in this case, without finding something to carry water her range of exploration was limited. It meant she dare not wander far from her water source.
All thought stopped when a wave of nausea swept through her. Stomach twisting, Lily bent over, and barfed up the water. That soon turned into dry heaves, great surges that felt like they were wringing her inside out. The siege, which lasted several minutes, left her sweating, shaken, and hurting more than ever. Weaker, too.
After almost diving headfirst in the lake when she tried washing her face again, Lily sat back, looked to the horizon and took a single sip of water, holding it in her mouth to warm before letting it hit bottom. It tasted fine—like good water should taste. Eyes closed, she swallowed and let her head sink onto her knees, hoping the liquid would stay down. Although the idea increased her queasiness, she knew she needed food to anchor the moisture. Food and a sign of civilization. Hunger—more—a desperate craving for nourishment almost overwhelmed her.
“Concentrate on something else,” she told herself. “Something good.” The trouble being nothing good came to mind. Only more questions. Impossible questions.
Lily knew most people would’ve said they heard nothing in the deserted countryside. Complete silence. With her formidable hearing, Lily heard more. The rhythmic sound of waves reaching the shore, the regular movement soothing. To her relief, the clamorous crows had been left back in what had once—last night?—been a cemetery. Birds called here, too, but the species were different; soft cooing doves, a few noisy gulls, a sprightly bunch of sparrows and finch. A faint breeze stirred the colored leaves of bushes.
How can that be, when yesterday…
Inside her head, Lily shied away from remembering last night—or the last night she remembered.
What she didn’t hear were people sounds; dogs barking, children playing, car engines revving, sounds of construction. Wasn’t someone always hammering on bright days like this?
A sudden disturbance behind her caused Lily’s head to whip around. Momentary dizziness blurred her eyesight, but then the iridescent feathers of a cock pheasant became clear. A big male, as unafraid as though he’d never seen a person before, fluttered down not twenty feet away from where she sat and flapped its wings.
Food.
Though not the best choice for hunting birds, Lily drew her Glock. Easing it out of the shoulder holster, she brought the back sight to bear. Take off the bird’s head and leave good meat. Her mouth salivated at the thought; her belly burned with need.
Sucking in a breath, she held it, then squeezed the trigger. The hammer snapped down. Nothing happened, no bang, no shot. Except the pheasant turned toward her, beady-eyed and angry looking. It squawked, a rasping call, as if giving her the bird.
A misfire, strange with the reliable Glock.
Undisturbed, the pheasant ignored her, too busy pecking at something on the ground. Lily took deliberate aim, held her breath, squeezed the trigger. And again, nothing happened, except a dry click. She stared down at the gun. The Glock had always been dependable before, and it didn’t seem jammed now. Its failure was just another sign of the wrongness she felt everywhere. Working the slide manually, she ejected a round, pressing it between her fingers. The metal cartridge dented, powder spilled. Worthless.
Curious, the bird ambled over to investigate one of the bright brass shell casing the Glock ejected while Lily cursed inaudibly. The ammo may have gone kaput, but she still had the assassin’s knife. Maybe she could catch and whack off the pheasant’s head before it knew what happened.
Reaching down, she withdrew the big knife from the one of the loops on her duty belt.
“Nice birdie,” she whispered, taking a careful step forward.
The bird eyed her, continuing to peck at the cartridge, until she was within a half-dozen feet. With a sudden whirr of wings that made her jump, it took flight. Lily hurled the knife, as much in frustration as in hope of a hit, but her aim held true. The blade hit the pheasant in the head, knocking it out of midair. Unfortunately, the blow wasn’t lethal. Squawking and fluttering, going in circles, the pheasant crashed into a bush a few dozen feet up from the shore and disappeared from sight in a cluster of trees where she heard it rattling around.
“Crap!” As fast as she could, Lily followed, bending to pick up both the unfired cartridges and the knife as she came to them. Another wave of dizziness shook her, the weakness more disconcerting than ever after her brief moments of clarity during the hunt.
Reaching the grove gave some relief. The tree trunks provided her with something to hang onto; the shade cooled her sweating face.
“Here birdie, birdie,” she called. This time she wanted to frighten the animal into motion; something to show her where it had gone. “Come on. Where are you? Give me a little hint.”
The woods smelled alive, lush with a combination of pine resin and the nutty odor of autumn leaves. There were ferns underfoot, adding a green freshness as she crushed them, and she caught the fragrance of mint. No clue where that had come from, but even the smell eased her empty, aching stomach.
A flurry of movement in the underbrush a little to her left snapped her head around.
“Aha,” she said. “Gotcha, you little sucker. You’re toast.” A smile cracked. “Or roast.”
A gap in the bushes invited her to burrow through, then a few feet of crawling brought her to an opening. Raising the knife, she pulled a last clump of foliage aside and prepared to separate the pheasant from its head.
Instead, her eyes widening, she froze.
Chapter 4
Smoke from Neila’s cooking fire rose straight into the graying sky, passing through the branches of the cottonwood tree before dissipating. Water bubbled in a kettle set over the flames; enough for a hot drink. Scattered around the campsite, other fires flickered as the members of Bannion’s patrol rolled out of warm sleeping bags and caught their horses.
Bannion sat beside his cousin’s fire, warming his hands and breathing in the fragrant steam of her special morning tea, something, he thought, containing rose hips. His horse, a buckskin gelding with a dark strip down its back, was already saddled and ground-hitched behind him, nibbling at his shoulder in a friendly way.
Neila waved away the smoke that followed her every move, pulled the tea kettle to the side and set a frying pan in its place. She found a mug and filled it from the kettle, shaking her head as she handed it to him. “You look like forty miles of burned over road. I take it you didn’t sleep.”
He eyed her right back. “Did you?”
“You know I didn’t.” She grimaced. “They’re getting worse. More of them, and they’re bolder. Did you notice…?”
She had no need to finish her sentence. Bannion knew. In particular, he noticed the way she cut her sentence short, as though she couldn’t bear to voice her horror. He answered the unasked question with a short nod.
Last night, every person, man, woman, and child, had filed past the body Harm and the other boys had found outside camp. They’d been a sober bunch, their shock and disgust holding them silent. As a lesson in self-preservation, the viewing worked a treat judging by the clan’s horrified reaction.
“This is one of them,” he heard one mother tell her children. “If you see something looks like this and you can’t kill it, run.”
But the Mags were getting harder to kill. Stronger, tougher, and although he didn’t want to believe it, wilier. And a whole lot uglier. This one, for instance, the shape of his head all skewed like something half-melted. Three eyes, for Christ’s sake. Nate mentioned seeing one with three before, but this was his first. A new twist, and not one he liked. The third eye was only hinted at, like a stutter. Nothing functional—not yet anyway. T
he Mag’s bones were growing strangely elongated, too. Had been for a while, the last fifteen years. What new and gruesome trick was fate about to play on them now?
“Been a jump in their evolution,” he said, grateful for the warmth of the tea. “Doesn’t look like it’s for the better.”
“Why don’t they just die?” Neila burst out. “They’re freaks. If a cow drops a bad calf, it dies. We find dead birds, other animals.Ourbabies die!”
“The human species is stubborn,” Selkirk said, coming up behind her and putting his hands on her shoulders as though his touch could soothe her. “Even its mutants. And whatever the Mags are now, once they were human.” Then, in a shift of subject, “Bannion, your eyes are so red they’re almost bleeding. Are you up to leading the patrol? Nate can go in your stead, you know.”
Bannion blinked, glad of the clan leader’s intervention. He’d heard Neila’s lament before, many times. Not that he didn’t sympathize, he did, but there wasn’t a single thing he could do to ease her mind.
“He’s already gone,” he said. “If I’d caught him earlier, I’d’ve put him in charge. Anyway, my eyes are dust burned, is all. And sunburned. The section of cattle trail we were on day before yesterday is still tainted. It’ll pass. I’ll be all right.”
“Is your wound bothering you?”
“Have you had a healer look at your leg?” Neila asked.
“It’s fine.” The wound was clean, just sore. Anyway, if he wanted to bother a healer, Neila would’ve been his first choice.
The scent of fried ham and berry muffins fresh out of the Dutch oven had his mouth watering before Neila could fill his plate. He stuffed himself, hurrying to get his patrol underway before the sun full rose. Be out of range before he had to contend with Harm begging to go with him.
“I want to help find Grandpa,” he announced last night. “I’m a good finder. I found that Mag, didn’t I? Something led me right to it.”
Probably the stench of a decaying body, Bannion thought. But yeah. It was beginning to look like Harmon did have real talent as a locator. Bannion would still as soon the boy stuck close to camp for now. It’d save Neila some fretting, he knew, since the signs didn’t portend well for finding Harrison alive. What else they would discover at the valley’s head was anybody’s guess and he didn’t want to be thinking about his nephew if it came to a fight.
As though reading his thoughts, Neila said, “The arrow that killed the Mag. It was Harrison’s, wasn’t it? Even with the fletching broken off and the painted pattern almost obliterated, I’m sure I recognize the colors and those chevrons.”
Selkirk cocked his head questioningly at Bannion, who reached around and fed the last of his muffin to his horse.
Bannion nodded. As the clan’s sheriff and captain of his people’s defense, he knew everyone’s patterns. “Yeah. It was Harrison’s arrow. One more Mag’s hash he’s settled.
“The question is, did the Mag also settle Harrison’s?” Selkirk asked.
Bannion shrugged. “That’s what we’re going to find out.”
Deeper worry lines crinkled Neila’s brow. “Where did the mutant come from, do you suppose? Was he shot here? In that case, alive or dead, where is Harrison? Or did a bunch of them attack the stronghold? In which case, how on earth did one so badly wounded manage to travel this far?”
Brushing muffin crumbs from his shirt, Bannion stood up. “Don’t bust a pustlegut trying to guess, Neila. We’ll know soon.” He turned to Selkirk. “You’ll keep everyone close until we come back, won’t you? Don’t let the kids wander.”
Selkirk’s face turned somber. “Already got it planned. Kids, as always, are first priority. I’ll spot some guards a half-mile from of camp. They’ll give us warning if we need to barricade for a fight.”
“Good enough.” Bannion swung astride his horse and settled his butt on cold saddle leather. “If we’re not back by nightfall, double the guards and pull them back to a quarter-mile.”
“Will do.”
“And if Nate gets back, send him on ahead.”
Selkirk nodded.
With the members of his patrol forming up at the edge of camp, Bannion reined his horse toward them, but Neila stepped forward, catching the nose piece on the buckskin’s hackamore.
“Be careful,” she begged.
He grinned. Leave it to Neila. Always trying to be his big sister —when she wasn’t busy trying to mother him. “I’m always careful,” he said.
She gave him a wry look. “No, you’re not, cuz, and I try to live with that. But this time…” She swallowed what she started to say. “Be careful and stay alert. I’ve got a feeling.”
“A feeling?”
“Go,” she said without elaborating, and swatted his horse on the hindquarters to start him off. She was noted for her feelings, and wisdom dictated a man pay attention.
He soon put Neila’s concern from his mind. Dwelling on what could happen did no good. In a fight, it muddled a warrior’s thinking, making him cautious when he should be bold, making him bold when he should be cautious. He preferred to rely on his troops training than to be thinking of his cousin’s “feeling.”
Day broke as the patrollers got underway, horses snorting, equipment rattling. Chief Deputy Zelnor, riding the length of the column, soon had quivers and swords battened down. Wispy clouds tinged pinky orange at the horizon predicted a wind storm in the afternoon. Bannion eyed the weather phenomenon with displeasure. If there were Mags about, they’d be sure to use a storm for cover. Weather didn’t bother them much, unlike his patrollers.
Except for Deputy Rongo Zelnor, the members of his patrol were young and inexperienced. One boy from the Bell side of the family riding with them was only sixteen. But a man in his strength, Bannion conceded. This was the patrol’s first exercise as a group. They’d seen combat on the way down from the summer pastures, but then they’d been fighting next to hardened warriors. In some cases, they’d been bloodied. All had fought well.
Today they deserved a chance to prove themselves. They’d be riding hard all the way to the head of the valley. These were the strongest of his young patrollers, and those with the fastest horses. Not the steadiest, perhaps, he thought, watching as they spread out along the well-beaten trail leading toward their winter quarters, but give them points for being the most eager. Laughing and calling to one another, they bragged what they’d do when they caught up with more Mags.
“You, Cameron House.” He hailed one of the more rambunctious young men.
Cameron broke off his flirtation with a female patroller and spurred his mount over to Bannion’s side. The kid was fairer of skin than most of the clan, and he blushed at the slightest provocation. He was blushing now. God only knows what line the girl had been feeding him.
“Yessir?” Cameron made an offhand salute, the casual brush of his first two fingers across his forehead. It annoyed Bannion.
“Damn it, House, no saluting. Hasn’t Deputy Zelnor taught you better than that?”
The flush bathed Cameron’s face anew, coloring him nearly as bright as the sunrise. “Yessir. He has. Forgot, sir. Won’t do it again.”
“I’d be grateful,” Bannion said. “Do you remember the part about why patrollers don’t salute?”
“Yessir. Because if the enemy sees one of us saluting, he’ll know who the officer is and do his best to pick him off.”
“All right. Seeing as how I have no desire to be shot by a sniper, keep it in mind. And you can cease with the yessir thing, too. Our enemies can hear, as well as see.”
“Yessir,” House said. “Yes, Mr. O’Quinn, boss. Okay.”
Bannion’s eyes narrowed as he searched the hillside to his left. The forested ground seemed quiet, but the Mags were good at that. One could be lying doggo until a warrior’s horse nearly stepped on him. Then he’d jump up and disembowel the horse, or break its legs if he could, and drag the rider off to kill later.
“Take two people, House,” he said, “and scout the hillside
through that band of trees. The flight of birds indicates the area’s clear, but I don’t want to ride into a trap. You know what to watch for?”
“You bet, sir.” Excitement at riding point flooded Cameron House’s face. “Kris and Bevee, come with me,” he called.
Bevee was the girl who’d been flirting with him.
“Stay quiet and keep your proscribed distance from each other,” Bannion reminded him. “Rejoin us over by Mallard Landing.” At Mallard Landing, the river they were following ran into Frying Pan Lake, the lake so named because if its round shape, the handle being the river that fed it.
“Yessir,” House said again. “Yes, Mr. O’Quinn.” He stopped another salute before completion and galloped off to relay his orders to the other two.
Bannion grinned, wondering if House’d read about all that sir and salute stuff in one of the books Nate brought home. Looked like the kid had been practicing the salute in front of a mirror, he was so enamored of it. Probably thought it would impress the girls.
As though Bannion’s recent thought of him had been a summons, Deputy Zelnor, the grizzled senior scout trotted his horse up beside him. Rongo’s mount, a mountain-bred mare, had short legs, which sat its rider well below Bannion’s eye level.
As usual, Rongo was grumbling his dissatisfaction with the new crop of patrollers. “This is as rowdy a bunch of hellions as I’ve seen in a while. Undisciplined young whelps. Listen to them brag now, but mark my words, they’ll forget everything they’ve learned if it comes to a fight.”
“They do and it’ll be their last time.”
“Yeah.” Rongo grunted. “Young fools’ll all be dead as electric lights.”
“Not all of them, I hope. But they’ll sure as hell be drummed off patrol.” He motioned one laggard girl to close up the spacing between her and the lad to her left. “Are you doubting your own training program, Rongo?”
Hereafter Page 4
