A Hole in the Sky

by William C. Dietz

  Not having detected any signs of Chimera, Capelli returned to the main room as thunder rolled outside. It was dark by then and rain pattered on the roof. The man was coming around, after receiving half a Hershey bar from Locke and some water to wash it down. He blinked owlishly as Capelli’s light stabbed him in the eyes. “Come on,” Capelli said. “We’ll hole up in the inner office. If we pull the shutters, less light will show.”

  Locke helped the man to stand and gave him a shoulder to lean on as they followed Capelli and Rowdy into the office. The next half-hour was spent building a fire in the stove, clearing away some of the litter, and laying out their bedrolls. Once the baked beans were hot, and everyone had a mug full of black coffee, the man told his story. Long, lank hair served to frame a narrow face. One eye was swollen shut. The rest of his face was puffy, his upper lip was swollen, and judging from appearances it was difficult for him to chew.

  His name was Pete Sowers, and it seemed that he was part of a community living in the huge salt mine located under Hutchinson, Kansas. Originally most of the salt from the mine had been used to make pharmaceuticals, baked goods, and chemical products. In post-industrial America, those markets didn’t exist anymore.

  But, to hear Sowers tell it, survivors were increasingly in need of common table salt. Both to flavor their food and to preserve meat. So business was on the upswing. “I’m one of twelve salesmen,” Sowers explained earnestly. “My job is to deliver salt to existing customers and identify new ones. I generally travel with two bodyguards. Calvin, Ted, and myself were headed for the rendezvous in Colby when at least two hundred Leapers jumped us in a dry wash about ten miles south of here. We fought like hell, but I’m the only one who made it out, along with one of the pack animals.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Capelli said sympathetically. “You mentioned a rendezvous in Colby. When is it supposed to take place?”

  Sowers wiped his lips with a grimy sleeve. “In a couple of days. The stinks are a big threat—so the rendezvous won’t last for more than five or six hours.”

  The door to the potbellied stove was open and firelight danced the walls. Rowdy was lying in front of the fire with his head on his paws. His eyes were open, and Capelli knew the dog was alert to the slightest sound.

  Locke took a sip of coffee. “So how did you wind up here? Tied to a telephone pole?”

  “I figured I’d go to the rendezvous, sell the remaining salt, and head home,” Sowers replied. “But a group of bandits spotted me and gave chase. They caught up, beat the crap out of me, and I passed out. When I came to, they were gone. Maybe they left me for dead.”

  “So what now?” Capelli inquired.

  “I’m a charity case,” Sowers said, as he glanced from face to face. “I know that. But if you’ll let me accompany you to the rendezvous, there’s a good chance that some of my folks will be there. If not, I’ll borrow some ammo from one of our customers. Either way I’ll pay you.”

  “We aren’t looking to make a profit,” Capelli responded. “But food is always welcome.”

  Locke eyed Capelli. “So we’re going to Colby?”

  Capelli was seated on an upside-down waste-paper basket. He shrugged. “Why not? It’s on the way.”

  Sowers opened his mouth as if to ask, “On the way to where?” but closed it again. A terrible darkness had fallen over America and everything was different. People were generally reluctant to say where they were going and it wasn’t polite to ask.

  The fire crackled as it consumed pieces of what had been the postmaster’s desk drawers, thunder muttered to the south, and Rowdy produced an elaborate yawn. The day was done.

  Colby, Kansas

  It took two days to reach Colby. The weather had improved by then, although there was a nip in the air, and some of the trees were starting to turn. And with each passing mile there were more and more signs that other people were headed for the rendezvous as well. As the two-lane road carried them east, Capelli spotted campfires, so recent that some of them were still smoking, piles of fresh horse dung, and a so-called message tree. It was located at the center of a town too small to have a name.

  The stinks couldn’t read. That was the theory, anyway, and insofar as Capelli knew it was true. But humans could, so many of the messages that were pinned to the big oak tree located at the center of town were cryptic. One said, “J.C., So far so good,” and was signed “H.N.” And another read, “Luke, dad’s better, Love, T.”

  But some of the messages were open and direct, such as a pistol-shaped card that read, “Need a gunsmith? Ask for Hank Fowler.”

  There were hundreds of them. So many that the lower part of the tree trunk looked as if it had been painted white. Sowers read them all, or tried to, looking for any sign that other salt salesmen were in the area. Some of them made him very upset. Like the one that read, “My husband needs penicillin! Will do anything for it. Ask for Amanda Hartly.”

  By that time, Capelli had come to the conclusion that Sowers was a bit too naïve to be out roaming the badlands alone. The man had a tendency to see everything in simple black-and-white terms. And that reminded him of another person who had all of the answers: a lieutenant named Nathan Hale.

  As they approached Colby, the men found themselves sharing the highway with a steady stream of other people. Some were mounted, some were on foot, and in spite of the danger represented by such a gathering, most of the travelers were in a good mood.

  The same couldn’t be said for their dogs, however, many of whom saw Rowdy as a threat. They growled whenever the big mix approached them. But if Rowdy was offended, there was no sign of it as he made the rounds of people and animals alike, his tail a-wagging.

  As they entered Colby, Capelli saw a sign that read, “Colby, The Oasis on the Plains,” and thought there was some truth to it. Except for a swath of destruction that cut across the town at an angle, the city was largely intact. That included the Romanesque courthouse, which, though partially burned, still had a stately appearance and served as the backdrop for the chaotic rendezvous spread out in front of it.

  The gathering was part picnic, part yard sale, and part revival meeting. As Capelli looked around, he saw people sharing food around small fires, merchants selling everything from homemade candles to blocks of cheese, and preachers of every stripe. One of them claimed to be in touch with the Chimeran hive-mind and was wearing a Leaper skull on top of his head. And there were musicians, too. Along with jugglers, hollow-eyed beggars, medicine men, and a man who claimed to represent President Thomas Voss. He stood on a park bench and gave a speech about the attempt to destroy a tower in New York City, but only six people paused to listen.

  In spite of the country fair–like atmosphere, there was an overlay of fear as well. It could be seen in the way that people continually scanned the sky for any sign of a Chimeran shuttle and never ventured more than a foot or two away from their possessions. And there were other dangers, too. Because all manner of thieves were roaming the crowd. They ranged from fast-talking con men to heavily armed thugs. Capelli was just about to warn Locke of that when Sowers uttered a shout of outrage. “There they are! The bastards that stole my salt!”

  Then Sowers was off, winding his way between clumps of people, as he hurried to confront a group of five heavily armed men. They had a string of horses hitched to a picket line, and from what Capelli could see, they were selling bags of something off a wide-spread blanket. “Come on!” Locke said. “Sowers is unarmed. He’s going to need some backup.”

  “Wrong,” Capelli responded as he reached out to grab the other man’s arm.

  “Why not?”

  “Rule six.”

  “Which is?”

  “Mind your own business.”

  Locke jerked his arm free. “There’s more to life than looking out for yourself, Capelli.”

  Yeah, the voice said, as Locke hurried away. There’s more to life than what’s in it for Capelli.

  Capelli sighed, whistled for Rowdy, and fo
llowed his client over to the spot where Sowers was locked in a heated confrontation with a much larger man. He had thick black hair, a unibrow, and a crooked nose. And, judging from his expression, he was pissed.

  “You stole my horses and my salt,” Sowers said accusingly. “And I want them back.”

  Predictably enough, the man with the black hair drew a pistol and pointed it at Sowers’s head. “You want to die, don’t you? Well, you’re about to get your wish.”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Locke said coolly.

  The man looked up, saw the Winchester that was leveled at him, and frowned. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m the guy who’s going to blow your head off unless you put that pistol away.”

  “Oh, really? What about them?” the man demanded, as his companions drew weapons and pointed them at Locke.

  “It looks like they’re going to die too,” Capelli said, as he stepped forward. At that range the Rossmore could blow two or three men away with a single blast, and all of them knew it. Rowdy, who was standing at Capelli’s side, growled menacingly.

  The result was a Mexican standoff. People who were in the line of fire hurried to clear the area as time seemed to stretch. Then it snapped as Locke fired, the man with the black hair was thrown off his feet, and all hell broke loose. A bandit shot Sowers in the left leg; Capelli blew him away with the Rossmore, and was pleased to see the man standing next to him fall as well.

  The Winchester made steady bang, bang, bang sounds as Locke worked the lever and brass casings arced through the air. A second BOOM from the shotgun was like the period at the end of a sentence as a load of double-ought buck nearly cut the last bandit in two.

  That was followed by a moment of silence while the crowd absorbed what had occurred. Then it was as if someone dropped a needle onto a record. A baby cried, Sowers groaned as he clutched his thigh, and hawkers went back to haranguing the crowd. Time was short; scores had been settled the only way they could be, and life went on.

  Locke fished a first-aid kit out of his pack and went to work. Having cut Sowers’s pant leg away, he checked to see if there was an exit wound. When he found one, he announced the good news. “The bullet went through—and it looks like it missed the bone. I’ll pour some gin in there, slap pressure dressings on both of the holes, and wrap everything with gauze. That should hold you for awhile.”

  “Thanks for backing me up,” Sowers said, as Locke opened a bottle of gin. “I know what I did was stupid. But I was pissed!”

  “Yeah,” Capelli said, as he eyed the crowd. “We noticed. Of course, Locke is just as stupid as you are. Although I do give him credit for shooting first.”

  Sowers swore as the gin trickled into the entry wound. Locke wiped some blood-tinged alcohol away and placed a gauze pad over the wound. “I didn’t have a choice,” the businessman said. “It was either that or allow something bad to happen.”

  Capelli thought about Hale. The gun, the look in the officer’s golden eyes, and the explosion of gore. “Yeah, it’s like that sometimes.”

  A sturdy-looking woman appeared. She was wearing a broad-brimmed hat, a buckskin jacket, and faded jeans. A pair of scuffed cowboy boots completed the outfit. There was a frown on her homely face and her voice was gruff. “Sowers? Is that you? God damn it, son, you’re supposed to sell salt, not lay around on your ass.”

  Sowers’s face lit up and he grinned. “Capelli, Locke, I’d like you to meet Meg Bowers. Meg’s a salesman, just like me, only pushier.”

  “I’m a saleswoman,” Bowers put in combatively, “and that ain’t all. I’m pushier, meaner, and better-lookin’ than Sowers is. But, worthless or not, the sonofabitch is ours! So we’ll take him off your hands.”

  A trio of rugged-looking men had appeared by then. They were armed to the teeth and leading horses. Once Locke’s rough-and-ready first-aid efforts were complete, they loaded Sowers onto a horse and placed his boots in the stirrups. “Two of those horses over there are mine,” the salt vendor said, “plus the bags of salt. But I reckon the other mounts are yours.”

  Capelli looked across the scattering of dead bodies to where the horses stood. There were seven of them. “We’ll take three of them. Two to ride and one to sell. You keep the others.”

  Sowers shrugged. “It’s a deal. Take the ones you want.”

  Capelli looked at the string of horses but stayed where he was.

  Bowers laughed. “You don’t know the first thing about horses, do you, son?” Capelli shook his head.

  “Hanson,” Bowers said, “go over there and cut out some mounts for our friends! And I’ll be watching you. So give them something decent.”

  One of the riders obeyed, and five minutes later Capelli and Locke had three horses, complete with saddles and related gear. Sowers waved as he followed Bowers down the crowded street and was soon lost to sight.

  Then it was time to carry out the gruesome task of stripping the dead bodies of valuables as members of the crowd looked on. The take included a small arsenal of weapons, a quantity of ammo, and some food. As soon as the process was complete, Capelli insisted that they move a block away before trying to figure out what to do with the extra horse and nine guns.

  “Stay here,” Locke said. “If I can sell cars, I can sell a horse! I’ll be back.” And with that, both he and the extra mount disappeared into the crowd.

  Capelli wasn’t so sure about his client’s claim, but Bowers had been correct. He didn’t know the first thing about horses. So maybe Locke could pull it off.

  The ex-soldier was an expert where weapons were concerned, however, and having laid his wares out for potential customers to look at, was soon haggling away. He had attracted plenty of possible buyers. But Capelli had a limited amount of time to work with—and didn’t want to haul the weapons around. So he set the prices low but refused to accept anything less than quality ammo.

  Twice, Capelli had the funny feeling he had come to associate with danger. Back during his days as a Sentinel, a SRPA psychologist named Cassie Aklin had told him that such sensations were thought to originate in something called the “reptilian complex,” meaning the part of the brain that higher mammals share with reptiles and is responsible for basic fight-or-flight responses.

  Whatever it was, Capelli had come to trust such warnings. So on both occasions he interrupted what he was doing to take a quick look around. But there were dozens of people in the area, and when Capelli scanned their faces, none of them looked especially suspicious. So all he could do was continue to sell the weapons, stash his profits, and hope for the best. He was down to a beat-up Luger and a .303 Enfield when Locke returned with a stranger in tow.

  The man was tall, with a ruddy complexion and a well-tended mustache. He was wearing a tweed cap, a shooting jacket, and knee-high riding boots. His armament consisted of a riding crop, a double-barreled pistol in a cross-draw holster, and a knife that could be seen sticking up out of a boot. There was a pleasant smile on his face.

  “Capelli, this is Mr. Patrick Murphy! He’s a packer and the new owner of what was our horse. Patrick, this is Joe Capelli.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Joe,” Murphy said genially. “You’ll be glad to know that Al got a fair price for your animal.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it,” Capelli replied, as he stood to shake hands.

  “Patrick and his men are packers,” Locke explained as Rowdy arrived to check the newcomer out. “And they’re headed for Hoxie. That’s our next stop, right? So I asked Patrick if we could tag along and he said yes!”

  “That’s right,” Murphy agreed. “The word is that there are plenty of stinks over that way, and the more guns the better.”

  Capelli was anything but pleased. What Murphy said was true. But a large group of people could attract trouble too. And the arrangement Locke had in mind was a clear violation of rule eight, which was “Never trust anyone.”

  But Murphy seemed to be okay, and Locke was so pleased with the arrange
ment he had made that Capelli couldn’t bring himself to say no. “That sounds good,” he agreed. “When do you plan to leave?”

  “In about fifteen minutes,” Murphy replied, as he looked up at the empty sky. “We want to put some distance between ourselves and Colby. A rendezvous is hard to resist—but they’re damned risky. The stinks nailed one near Lincoln a few months back. I hear there were hundreds of casualties.”

  “I agree,” Capelli said. “We’ll be ready.”

  Murphy delivered a salute with the riding crop, gave Rowdy a pat on the head, and melted into the crowd. Capelli felt the strange tingling sensation at the back of his neck, took a long fruitless look around, and wound up selling the Luger for two .38s and a pocket knife. Later, when he went to open it, he discovered that the second blade had been broken off.

  As the sunlight began to fade, and the shadows lengthened, Capelli figured they were a good five or six miles east of Colby. His knees hurt, his butt was sore, and the horse he was riding seemed to know that he was a novice rider. A fact made obvious by its tendency to make a side trip whenever a clump of especially succulent grass appeared.

  The pack train included six wranglers, all of whom were amused by Capelli’s lack of equestrian expertise, and never tired of poking fun at him. Besides the mounts the men were riding, the group had a spare purchased from Locke. The actual cargo, whatever it was, had been loaded onto ten mules, each of which could carry about eighty pounds. So Capelli figured the group was moving eight hundred pounds of something. Less supplies, of course. Not that it mattered to him so long as everything went smoothly.

  It was clear that the wranglers not only knew what they were doing, but had been working together for quite awhile as they laagered for the night. The site consisted of a rise crowned by a sturdy rock wall and a burned-out farmhouse. There wasn’t any shelter to speak of, but the waist-high wall would offer cover if the group was attacked, and the ruins were a plentiful source of firewood.