Winter Duty

by E. E. Knight

  Of course, anyone who’s ever emptied a magazine into the center mass of an oncoming screamer knows that they go down and stay down when suffering sucking chest wounds, cardiac damage, or traumatic blood loss.

  No, the only facts absolutely known about ravies is that it is a disease that affects brain tissue and the nervous system. Sufferers don’t feel any pain and are hyperaware, ravenous, and irritable, and if they are startled or provoked, they will try to rend and bite the source into submission and an easy meal. Heart rate and blood pressure both increase. Most brain-wave patterns decrease, save for the delta, the wave most associated with dreams, and beta, which increases during anxiety or intense concentration.

  Many wonder why the Kurians, usually so careful with lives and the aura that might be harvested, allow whole populations to be reduced by the disease.

  David Valentine had two theories. One is that ravies encounters shocked and wore down professional military types—no one enjoys gunning down children and preteens who, under ideal conditions, could be easily kept away with a walking stick or a riot shield until they drop from exhaustion. It took David Valentine months to quit hearing the screams in his sleep following his first encounter with ravies near the Red River in 2065. The other is that sufferers were harvested like everyone else in the Kurian Order, with the disease simply adding flavor to the aura thanks to the unknown tortures of body and mind.

  Stuck was right, as it turned out. There weren’t many cases in town. As they switched vehicles for refueling from the trailer, only one more ravie attacked, and Frat brought her down with a clean head shot.

  They prepared to leave the mill once there was full daylight.

  “We’re going to try to keep moving to make it back to Fort Seng without another stop,” Valentine told the assembled vehicle chiefs in the mill. “We’ll take on rescues of anyone alongside the road until the vehicles are at capacity.”

  “Isn’t that dangerous, sir?” Chieftain asked. “They might be bit. And if we lose a vehicle, who’ll end up walking if there’s no excess capacity?”

  “And what about that kid?” Silvertip put in. “He’s been bit.”

  “He’s in Boneyard, with his mother and Doc keeping an eye on him,” Valentine said. “At the moment he’s not symptomatic, not even trembling, so the iodine may have got it or Southern Command’s last year’s vaccination may work against this strain. In any case, they’ll keep him sedated. As for rescues, if we lose a vehicle, we’ll travel overloaded and chance the fine.”

  One or two got the joke and laughed.

  “One more thing: Let’s break out the winter camouflage. We’re still soldiers, and we still have eyes in the sky watching us and enemies to fight.”

  The winter camouflage was mostly old bedsheets and fancy table-cloths cut into ponchos, and extra felt that could be wrapped around your shins and tied with twine to create extrawarm gaiters.

  Valentine changed the route order. Bushmaster would go first in order to clear drifts. Rover would follow, and then Boneyard and Chuckwagon brought up the rear. The two Southern Command Bears would ride in the Chuckwagon, as they’d most likely be attacked from the rear by ravies running on foot—Valentine had never heard of a ravie driving.

  They wouldn’t use the motorcycles at all, not with the snow and this strain of ravies that could leap the way they’d seen at the mill gate. Longshot volunteered to ride in the open atop Bushmaster so she could stand up and look over drifts, but Valentine told her to keep warm out of the wind.

  So they pulled out. Valentine chalked a rough mile marker of empty circles on one of the roof struts of Rover. Every ten miles, he’d mark one off.

  As they pulled out of Grand Junction and made it back to the old federal highway, he filled in the first of the twelve circles.

  Three circles filled.

  With room in Rover thanks to Mrs. O’Coombe being in Boneyard, Brother Mark now rode shotgun and Boelnitz, desirous of keeping away from Stuck, crammed himself into the backmost seat. Valentine sat behind Habanero so he could consult his maps and speak into the driver’s ear, Duvalier next to him.

  The snowfall had stopped, but the wind still threw up enough snow to make visibility bad and kept the convoy to less than five miles an hour.

  The heavy cloud cover made for gloomy thoughts.

  “Anything from the A-o-K on the radio?” Valentine asked as Habanero worked buttons to tune it.

  “No, sir. Got some CB, just some lady looking for her man. Says she’s scared.”

  “Take her position and tell her we’ll report her if we can get in touch with anyone,” Valentine said.

  While Habanero spoke on the radio, Duvalier nudged in closer to him.

  “I wonder if this is it for Kentucky, then. How widespread is the virus, do you think? Think they hit the Republics too?” Duvalier asked.

  “If it’s a tough new strain, seems a waste not to do as much damage as you can. Either way, Southern Command needs to know it’s here. Any luck with the radio?” Valentine asked Habanero.

  “Maybe atmospherics are just bad,” Habanero said.

  “What do you mean, if this is it?” Brother Mark said, balling his fists on the dash. “Kentucky survived the ravies plague in 2022 when nobody knew what was happening. They’ll survive this. People are more prepared for this sort of crisis now.”

  Valentine looked at mile markers on the truck top. “Someone told me once that the Kurians were handling both sides of this war, and if they ever became really worried about us, they’d just wipe us out.”

  Brother Mark sighed. “Of all people, Valentine, I’m surprised you would consider such nonsense. Why would they want the Freeholds? We run guns into the Kurian Zones, broadcast news, and give people a safe place to run to, if they get away. They can’t want that.”

  “I don’t know,” Valentine said. “Having a war going on can be handy. You can blame shortages on it, deaths, tell folks that the reason the days of milk and honey are a long way off is because there’s a war to be won first. And its a convenient place to send ambitious, restive men who might otherwise challenge Kur.”

  Brother Mark locked his knuckles against each other. “I don’t think so. Unless they are keeping it even from the Church. I rose fairly high before my soul fought back against my interest, and many times I handled communications for my Archon. I saw nothing to indicate that was true.”

  “Maybe they wouldn’t trust such an important detail to written communications.”

  “There are five-year plenaries attended by a majority of Archons from around the world. None but the Archons attend. They depart with masses of facts and figures—not that the thick binders of data do them much good; you cannot trust the statistics of a functionary whose life depends on pleasing the boss with the totals in a report. But when the Archons return, there are sometimes a few promotions or a new Church construction project—ordinary activities.”

  “I wouldn’t mind dropping in on one of those and changing the agenda,” Valentine said. He glanced at his map again. Two more miles and he could fill in another circle. “Where are they held?”

  “The location is held secret until the last minute. Probably because of vigorous, ambitious young men such as yourself with similar ideas.”

  Valentine always smiled inside at Brother Mark’s description of him as a wet-behind-the-ears kid.

  “Let me see. . . . Since I entered the Church it has been held at Paris, Cairo, Bahrain, Rome, and Rio de Janeiro. Not that there aren’t important churchmen from Indonesia or middle Africa or the subcontinent; I believe the Archons simply like to see a few sights and shop.”

  They saw their share of sights on the drive, descending from the Mississippi plateau in central Kentucky.

  Valentine would rather not have seen any of them, and it took a while for him to forget them.

  As the wind died down and it turned into a still winter day, they saw smudges on the horizon, barns and houses and whole blocks of towns burning.

  T
hey saw cars and trucks with doors torn off and windshields punched in, blood splattered on the upholstery and panels.

  The column passed huddled figures along the side of the road, sitting in meager shelter afforded by ruins of houses and ancient, rusted shells of cars and trucks. Many of them had frozen to death, fleeing God-knew-what blind in the night. When the column saw a figure floundering in the snow, waving its arms, they slowed and shouted. If it shouted back in English, they let them climb into the back of the Chuckwagon.

  If not . . .

  Target practice, Chieftain called it.

  For the ravies, the snow worked against them.

  Valentine tried to turn his mind off, not think about the future. The old Kurian trick might just work again. If that armored column massing outside Owensboro came into Kentucky and plunged into the heartland of the state—and the Kentucky Alliance—bringing order by killing off the diseased and dangerous, the Kur might just be hailed as heroes. At the very least they’d have little difficulty seizing key road junctions, towns, and rail lines. The disease-ravaged A-o-K wouldn’t be in any kind of shape to contest the matter.

  His own command would be hounded out of the state, and Southern Command, instead of having a quietly neutral bunch of legworm ranchers, would have a full-fledged enemy with access to some hard-to-stop cavalry.

  Five circles filled in . . .

  “I think I’ve got a Kentucky contact, sir. Major Valentine, they’re asking for you by name. You know somebody called Ankle?”

  Ahn-Kha! Even Duvalier bolted awake.

  Valentine put on a pair of earphones and cursed when they wouldn’t adjust fast enough.

  He heard his friend’s deep, slightly rubbery tones speaking: “ . . . very short of ammunition. Before I lost contact with friends in the Shenandoah, I was told they had military roadblocks in all the principal passes, and there were reports of aircraft flying in the mountains.”

  “How are you, Old Horse?” Valentine asked, his throat tight.

  “My David, can it be that you are caught up in this too?”

  “Afraid so. What’s your status?”

  “It goes . . . hard, my David. There are so few of us left. I sent some of the men away so they could see to their homes and families. I only hope I did not delay too long. We are—Well, best not to say too much over the radio. But a good-bye may be in order.”

  For Ahn-Kha, always quick to make light of burdens, to talk like this, it turned everything behind Valentine’s stomach muscles into a solid block of ice.

  “Don’t draw attention to yourself. They seem to be drawn by light and noise,” Valentine said. “You haven’t been bitten, have you?”

  Static came back, or maybe the Golden One was laughing and shaking the mike. “Oh, yes, many times. Fortunately I seem to be immune. I wish I could say the same for the rest of my brave men. I will not say more. We have made some hard choices, hard decisions, and more hard decisions are coming. As you said, we too are aware that they are drawn to sudden sounds and sharp flashes and—” His words were lost to static. Habanero adjusted the dial. “We’ve used blasting explosives to try to draw them up into the mountains, away from our populations. We have, perhaps, been too successful. One might walk across the throng using heads like paving stones. Excuse me, there is some commotion. I must sign off.”

  “Good luck,” Valentine said, wishing for once he had Sime’s tongue for a phrase worthy of his old friend.

  Valentine watched Boelnitz, an earpiece for the radio in one ear, writing furiously and transcribing the Grog’s words.

  “Who’s writing this passage? Pencil Boelnitz or Cooper Llewellyn?” Valentine asked.

  “I don’t know, Major. All I can do is try to be accurate about what I’m hearing.”

  “I hope you’re getting it right, sir. That’s the hulking, hairy-handed killer I know,” Valentine said.

  Boelnitz drew away, pencil trembling. Valentine realized he was snarling.

  Seven circles filled in . . .

  They were getting closer to the Ohio now. The land became less hilly and was filled with more old farms. Someone sprayed the column with gunfire as they passed. It caused no casualties, but Valentine wondered if the person shot because he or she suspected they were from the Northwest Ordnance, or if they shot because they suspected they were Southern Command.

  Out of the hills, the drifts grew less and less and finally disappeared entirely. The snow hadn’t been as heavy in this part of Kentucky. Valentine put Rover back at the head of the column, but the ice patches were still treacherous.

  “Major, Doc says we should pull over,” Habanero said, acknowledging a signal. Valentine had taken his headset off so he could think about Ahn-Kha.

  “Why?” But Valentine could guess.

  “He wants you to look at Rockaway.”

  Valentine didn’t want to stop for anything. “He’s symptomatic?”

  “Doc just wants to pull over.”

  Valentine signaled for a stop. Everyone took the opportunity to get out and hit the honeybuckets.

  Valentine went to the Boneyard. The nurse silently opened the rear hatch. A red-eyed Mrs. O’Coombe nodded to him, her Bible stuck in her lap, a finger marking her place.

  “Well, Doc?” Valentine asked.

  He shook his head. “He’s symptomatic. Starting to shake.”

  “You have him sedated?”

  “Yes,” the nurse said.

  “What’s the usual medical procedure for ravies?” Valentine said.

  Doc sighed. “Ninety percent of the time, they’re quietly eutha nized. Some are kept around to try various kinds of experimental medications. They don’t feel pain, from what we can tell by brain-wave function and glandular response. Oh, and early cases are important for study to develop a vaccine. That’s where the booster shots come from. Too bad he missed this last series, issue date October. We should have thought to bring some.”

  “I want you to end this, Mister Valentine,” Mrs. O’Coombe said.

  “End this?” Valentine asked.

  “I can’t watch him suffer.”

  “He’s not suffering, is he, Doc?”

  Doc agreed, “Not while the sedatives hold out. Even when they wear off, provided we can keep him in the bed, I’m not sure suffering is the right word for what he’ll be going through.”

  Valentine wondered how much of the patriotic, Bible-reading charity act of Mrs. O’Coombe was real. With Keve Rockaway/ O’Coombe dead, she’d own the vast ranch her husband had built.

  “Any decision about your son’s health I’ll leave to the Doc.”

  Doc said, “I work for her ladyship, I’ll remind you, Valentine.”

  “A rich woman outranks the Hippocratic oath?” Valentine asked.

  “Major,” Doc said. “Please. I’m in no hurry. I’m just wondering if I’ll still have a job if I ever make it back to the Hooked O-C.”

  “Do what you can, Doc,” Valentine said. “Anything else?”

  “One more thing, Major,” Doc said. He took out a little powder blue case. “In my younger days, before I settled down to bring babies into the world and plaster broken bones and dig bullets out, I was a researcher.

  “This is a perfectly ordinary piece of medical technology from fifty years back. Nowadays I use it for interesting butterfly pupae and leaves. It instantly freezes and preserves, like liquid nitrogen without all the fuss and bother.

  “I’ve been taking samples of Keve’s blood as the disease progressed to see how his body’s fighting it, and to see just how the ravies virus is attacking and changing him. It could be useful to Southern Command in developing a serum for a vaccination.” He handed the case to Valentine.

  “I’ll get it back across the Mississippi as soon as I can,” Valentine said.

  Mrs. O’Coombe caressed her son’s head.

  “Keep an eye on her, Doc,” Valentine said.

  “Understood.” Doc lowered his voice. “In all honesty, Major, she does love her son. She love
d all her sons. Deep down, I think she was really trying to get him back home, but make it his idea.”

  Valentine stepped out of Boneyard. “Hey, Major,” he heard one of the Wolves call. “There’s a plane flying around north of here a few miles. Two-engine job. Looks kind of like it’s circling.”

  Valentine wondered if the plane was part of Jack in the Box’s operation. How did he fit in with the divine judgment of war, famine, disease, and death to Kentucky?

  Which reminded him. He called Frat over. “Frat, how are you on a motorcycle?”

  “Decent, sir. I used one to get around in Kansas.”

  “I want you to courier something important back to Fort Seng for us. And, if necessary, get it all the way back to the Mississippi—but that’ll be for Colonel Lambert to decide.”

  “I don’t want to leave you in the middle of this mess,” Frat said.

  “You’ll do as I ask, Lieutenant. If you want to be addressed as captain in a week, that is.”

  “Captain!” Frat grinned.

  “A platoon of Wolves this far outside Southern Command is supposed to have a captain in charge. I hope you’ll be it.”

  “Not as easy as it sounds. But we should get a sample back to Southern Command as soon as possible.”

  They gave Stuck’s big motorcycle to Frat. Frat grabbed his rifle and his bag and very carefully put Doc’s sample freezer in a hard case. Doc added a final blood sample and a note before packing it on the bike.

  Valentine shook Frat’s hand, and the young man tied a scarf around his face. “I’ll get it through, sir.”

  Valentine wondered just where that Ordnance armored column was. Their own vehicles would be simple target practice for a real—