Shatto's Way

by Roy F. Chandler

  "It's alright, Tob. Don't take on. We know each other well enough to understand, don't we?" He reached over and thumped Toby on the knee.

  "Fact is, if you've got anything to offer, I'm accepting. I'm so drawn my gut's like a soda straw. Hell, half a burger would make two meals for me these days."

  Relieved, Toby jumped to work. "Ok, Chop, it'll be Mountain House freeze-dried beef stew with some of their quick rising bread on the side with lots of canned butter and our perennial favorite . . . PEANUT BUTTER!" He rotated the opened peanut butter jar under Chop's eager nose.

  "For God's sake, Toby, stop talkin' and start cooking before I eat it raw. Peanut butter! I'd damned near forgotten it existed. Man, the things I took for granted."

  While Toby cooked, Chop took a lantern and walked through the aisles of stored goods. Between his exclamations they exchanged information, but Chop had the most to give.

  "You know that Millerstown burned, Toby?"

  "I saw the sky, Chop. I figured that was what it had to be. Any idea who did it?"

  Chop shrugged, "Strangers, of course. Started at one end and just kept lighting. Nothing there now but ruins.

  "There was a lot of shooting, but it didn't take long. At night, in the cold, nobody was prepared, I guess. We don't know who got away really. A few folks came by, but we had nothin' for them. Probably others went west or south.

  "Liverpool ain't quite as bad, they say, though a lot of it burned too. Oh, Jesse and Glenna Holman got in with Lyle Robinson. Last I heard they were alright."

  "Don't they have any idea who these burners are, Chop? Somebody must see them."

  "Yeah, they see them, Toby. Gangs roaming around all the time. Some are people already burned or run out looking for a place or revenge maybe. Others are purely mean people like that bunch that hit us. Man, those kind just destroy everything."

  "You were damned lucky that time, Chop, but boy you gave it to 'em good."

  "Not as good as you did, Tob. You got 'em all."

  "And that was all luck, Chop." Toby stopped stirring to ponder. "Man, any one of them could have shot me dead!"

  Chop wasn't so sure about that but waited as Toby continued, "Well, the winter will have thinned them too, Chop. The cities must be empty shells and . . ."

  "You heard about Harrisburg?"

  "No. . . And how in hell do you get all this, Chop? You're better than a newspaper."

  "Well, you know, Toby, word comes from family to family. It gets to the Longs and they tell us or maybe it's the other way.

  "Anyway, about Harrisburg. A lot of the city was burned out. The capital went first I heard. I guess everybody took it out on the politicians.

  "A lot is still up though. You can't burn a place that size clear down. Anyway, a couple of big groups got formed and went at it with guns. Shot the hell out of each other without any side getting clear control. Then the radiation and starving got real bad, and I hear tell there aren't many left alive."

  "Whew! I still can't believe it, Chop. All the dying makes past plagues and killing like nothing. Oh, oh, now there's a thought!"

  "What's that, Toby?"

  "Plagues! Sure as we're sitting here sickness is going to spread all over once the hot weather sets in. You've got outside contacts so you'd better give that some thought, Chop."

  "Hell, I don't hardly know what you're talking about, Toby, much less what to do about it." He eyed Toby's pots hungrily, more concerned with his belly than possible plagues.

  They talked while they ate. Chop putting it away in longshoreman form despite his allegedly shrunken stomach.

  Clouser claimed they had enough wheat but without electricity they couldn't grind and resorted to pounding the grain like a bunch of Indians.

  Toby dug out a hand mill for Chop to take home. For the ill, he selected some antibiotics he thought would help and he refilled the radiation counter with new batteries and a set of spares.

  Chop was hesitant about discussing his family's true conditions. Any need he mentioned, Toby was quick to fill, and he felt increasingly like a poor relative come to beg.

  He told Toby how he felt and it helped ease his embarrassment. Toby said, "Chop, if things were reversed and I came to your door, would you help?"

  "Well sure, Tob, but . . ."

  "No buts, Chop. Tell me what you need to see you through till good weather. Then we'll get together and figure what's to be done."

  He grinned and the familiar black eyes lifted Chop's spirit as they always did. "Hell, Chop, you aren't any good to me half dead." More seriously he added, "And all this stuff isn't worth anything unless it's used right."

  Chop loaded his treasures and was let out the door. Toby's parting admonition cheered his way.

  "When you need something, come here, Chop. If I've got it, it's yours. Mainly, don't put it off until it's too late. I'll be expecting you often."

  Toby watched Chop move away with renewed loneliness. He felt sort of Midas-like, surrounded by treasures but isolated from all else.

  Where would he find the new challenges that could enthuse body and spirit? Who would fill the voids left by the deaths of so many? The faceless multitudes gone were tolerable because their immense numbers made them featureless and impersonal, but he bled for his father, the acquaintances Chop had listed as dead, and especially for Hanna—the girl he should have . . . he turned his thoughts away.

  But, she was still Hanna Roth in his memory. Ken Weigel had made his move at a right time and Toby had kicked himself ever since. Ken was a good man and Hanna's choice had to be respected, but if he, Toby Shatto, had not been so absorbed in his computers it could have been different and Hanna would be safe beside him instead of radioactive dust whirling about the earth.

  Before, he had been able to lose himself in the fineness of computer engineering. He could disappear almost at will into an environment sterile of all but creative thought. Then he could ignore missed opportunity, but now even the great Saudi installation had been rendered useless and probably was rusting Junk. Throughout the world data and computing systems that required exacting ambient humidity and temperatures were surely clogged into unsalvageable trash.

  He and thousands of others could begin again, but first the world needed to be ready. Most urgent would be dependable electricity, then air-conditioned buildings to make possible the manufacture of chips, which in turn would require . . . it could all be forgotten for many a decade.

  In the meantime, good men and women were starving.

  Chop claimed he had enough to eat, yet he was a ghost of his former self. Toby took a last look through the view plate. The sky was low, cold and gray with continued threat of snow or rain. If warmth would just get here, then the new start could begin.

  He longed to turn rich earth with his push harrow.

  He could smell and almost taste it. His seeds would make crops and the harvest would feed . . . ?

  Again, loneliness doused his interest and he turned away.

  +++

  Chapter 16

  A clanging loud enough to raise a corpse sent Toby Shatto leaping from his journals and hurrying to the view plate in the cave door. For an instant, visions of giant mutations met his gaze, and the slamming of something hard against the steel swelled anew.

  The distorted face receded from its attempt to see in, and in decent focus, proved to be the narrow features of the half forgotten Praying Mantis. The deafening clang was caused by a ball peen hammer Mantis swung repeatedly against the armored door.

  "Open up, friend Shatto! We've come asking for a share of living goods.

  "We are starving, Shatto. Our bodies are weak from the winter and there are sick among us.

  "We ask only enough to last until the cold is gone and the good earth can be turned for crops.

  "We are all God's children, brother Shatto. Remember the parable of the loaves upon the water. We beg you to succor the needy now before you."

  Mantis had ceased his banging to speak. Finished, he stood w
ith head cocked awaiting an answer. From close by, a voice spoke softly but the words—amplified by the expanse of steel—were clear to Toby.

  "Maybe he ain't in there. Reverend."

  Mantis' lips barely moved but Toby could hear his answer. "He's there! If he wasn't, the door'd be locked on the outside. And keep your voice low, my words are the ones I wish him to hear."

  He tried again, "It's been a bad winter for all, friend Shatto. As neighbors and friends we ask your help. Open your heart and share with us until we can fend for ourselves."

  Toby remained silent. The view plate was a one-way prism and he could watch undetected. There were others with Mantis, and they didn't act like friends or brothers. Well off to one side someone crouched behind a jumble of stones with a rifle pointed at the door. He could see three others with ready weapons half hidden and waiting. He doubted a friendly reception if he was foolish enough to expose himself.

  The unseen man hissed again. "He ain't openin', Mantis. We're goin' to have to dig him out."

  Mantis' eyes darted wildly and his words hardened.

  To Toby's mind they were now believable.

  "We've come peaceable, Shatto, but we're prepared if you won't act neighborly." A hand appeared and Mantis waved it close to the view port. "This is dynamite, Shatto, so we're gettin' in one way or another. Now open up while we're still friendly!"

  Heart pounding, Toby left the view port. If explosives were placed behind them, the door hinges would never hold. He wished he had cut some sort of firing ports through the door, but he hadn't, so he would have to meet Mantis' gang head-on.

  He pulled on boots and slipped loaded magazines into a pair of Colt .45 pistols. He jacked a round into each chamber and snapped on the safeties. To his disgust he found his hands shaking and his nerves jumping. He shoved the pistols through the back of his belt and was ready.

  He went to the vertical air shaft that also served as a chimney for his stove and made a few rattling noises as though he might be doing something there. After a moment he made more sounds with long scrapings as if he were moving up the pipe.

  Every hunter expected his rabbit to have more than one exit from his hole. He figured Mantis or any of the people with him were smart enough to look for a second way out of the cave. He could only hope that he had gotten one step further ahead in his thinking.

  The other vent was smaller in diameter but it had an iron ladder attached to its side. The bottom seal opened silently and Toby peered toward the light fifty feet above. He began to climb, cautiously testing each rung and keeping his body away from the shaft sides. Below, Mantis was again hammering and Toby hoped the sound would not resound in his vent and warn anyone waiting above.

  He reached the top and peered carefully from underneath the conical lid. Almost in front of him a figure crouched—waiting, and Toby's heart flip flopped until he realized the man was looking the other way.

  A second, shotgun ready, knelt on the wet earth by the larger vent. Both men were concentrating on it and a quick sweep of Toby's head showed no others visible.

  Where the chimney vent stood out like a sore thumb, Toby's shaft was tucked among thorns and briars. Painted a sloppy brown, it was hardly noticeable, and if detected it appeared almost too small to negotiate.

  Unlike the larger vent, Toby had a three inch gap below the cap to see through and if you knew how, the release to open the shaft cover was quick to operate.

  "Hear anything?" The man closest to Toby was answered by a negative head shake.

  "Shoot as soon as the top starts opening." This time the nod was irritable and accompanied by a wave for quiet.

  Within the shaft it was difficult to lower an arm to reach one of the pistols, but with his face and body jammed hard against one wall his elbow could just make the bend.

  Toby braced himself solidly against the shaft side and raised the pistol to eye level. The position was awkward with his arm bent tightly and the sights too close to his nose to focus properly. The closest man's broad back was only a few feet away so he wouldn't need to sight, just point and squeeze.

  He took hold with his other hand in a strong two-handed grip and reared his head back so the pistol's recoiling slide wouldn't hit him in the face.

  The safety came off silently and he pointed high on the man's back, squarely between his shoulder blades.

  The pistol steadied and then began to shake uncontrollably. Nervous sweat ran into his eyes and he lowered the gun, struggling to keep from panting aloud.

  His whole body shook with tension and he feared his legs would fail and plummet him down the shaft.

  Mentally he flailed himself for foolish buck fever. Choking under pressure could destroy his only chance and he fought himself calm, breathing slowly and carefully into his shirt front as he had during the winter fight.

  He braced a knee against the shaft's side and again brought the pistol to bear. The vulnerability of the defenseless back weakened his determination but he concentrated on the man's earlier instructions to his companion; "Shoot when his head shows," had been his meaning.

  The .45 bucked in his hands. Within the confines of the shaft the report was utterly deafening and accumulations of dirt and rust were jarred from the lid to fill his eyes with particles and reduce his vision to tearing glimpses.

  Shot squarely, the first man had fallen onto his face and Toby could hear his grunting noises and spasmodic jerking. The second man was half turned toward him, surprise and fear twisting his features, his eyes shifting between his companion's sprawled body and the woods behind Toby's position.

  Toby brought the pistol back into line and the man seemed to detect the movement. This time without hesitation Toby aligned as best he could and squeezed quickly.

  The bullet struck high in the chest twisting the man and causing him to lose balance. Ignoring new avalanches of rust and noise Toby shot him twice more, holding only for the center of his target and depending on the heavy bullets to do their job.

  His shotgun fell away and the man clutched at himself, trying futilely to scrabble across the ground. Toby snapped the lid open and quickly crawled free. Reaching for his second pistol he caught a trailing foot on the shaft lip and sprawled awkwardly almost beside the first man he had shot.

  At two-foot distance, their eyes met, one's already glazing with approaching death, Toby's uncaring and concerned only with his own clumsiness.

  He was on his feet in an instant, crouched low, a pistol ready in each hand. There was no one else in view although his ringing ears caught the sounds of distant shouting.

  The second man still held himself, dully studying blood that spewed from his mouth onto his chest and belly. As Toby watched he wretched violently and died with his eyes half open.

  Keeping low, Toby edged nearer the hill face forcing his shocked hearing to understand the calls coming from below. His overstressed concentration kept shifting his attention from the words to rechecking the emptiness of the woods around him and he had great difficulty comprehending.

  Mantis was calling to his men on top.

  "Andy? You get him, Andy?

  "Andy! Dang it, Andy! Did you get him?"

  Other voices joined in the yelling and someone suggested they get up there.

  Toby Shatto got mad. The shaky uncertainty left him with a mighty surge of righteous anger. It boiled up from within his gut, swallowing fear and caring as though they had never been. Rage rumbled in his chest like a jungle cat's warning, and he went for his enemy with a grizzly's unswerving determination.

  Two unfired shotguns lay at his feet and he jammed his pistols away in favor of them. Figures swarmed up the hill, slipping on the earth and grabbing at brush to help their climb.

  He leaped to the edge and began firing into the climbers as rapidly as he could pump the action.

  Screams and shouts answered his fusillade and a few shots came his way. He flung the empty pump gun aside and fired both barrels of the double gun at a woman straining up the slope with som
e sort of weapon dragging from a shoulder. She went down clawing at her face and tumbled from sight.

  Pistols out, he slammed shots after running figures, throwing the bullets with alternate hands like a movie cowboy. He continued until the slides locked on empty, then stood bellowing raging challenges at the empty and silent woods below.

  For moments he stood exposed and uncaring before he regained some control. With wild hatred for those who had come at him he flipped the nearest body over, searching it for extra shells. He found a few and started down the hill loading the pump gun on the run.

  Only two bodies lay along his route but the woman he had shot cringed near the porch of the old house. Her breathing was a rattling gasp that belied any probability that she had long to live. Her face was mostly gone, torn away by the small shot loaded in the double gun. Toby shot her dead without breaking stride and searched on down the lane.

  The Mantis gang was gone but he shouted threats after them knowing they would still be within hearing. Then he stomped about his woods searching for hiders or wounded, but found none.

  +++

  Gradually his outrage cooled, and calmer reason began to surface. Cold reached his senses, and he realized that his body was chilled to the bone. Suddenly exhausted, he longed for the warm security of the cave but the vent was his only way in, and the hill seemed Everest high.

  He dropped the shotgun near the cave door and clambered uphill. He tugged and slipped his way, just as those others had, but no gunfire awaited him. He passed the sprawled corpses without a glance and crawled into the welcome confinement of the air shaft. He snapped the lid closed and worked a careful way down the ladder.

  By his well-stoked fire, he stripped away sweat-soaked and mud-smeared clothing. He dried his chilled body with a thick towel, letting stove heat soak until painful.

  He looked with a dulled curiosity at the empty pistols lying together so harmlessly on his bed. He wondered which one had killed the two men and realized that he would never know. An old pro-gun slogan crossed his mind, "Guns don't kill people; people kill people." It was true enough. He had done the killing, not the guns. Better to blame the bullet for that matter.