Marching As to War: A Post-Apocalyptic Novel (20 page)

“So you know the house,” I said.

“And every foot of the land around it,” he said. “I’m
supposed to get you there and back. But it won’t be easy, especially after they
know your Jane has escaped.”

“So how do we do it?” I said.

He laid out a map on the table. “We’re here,” he said and
pointed to a spot on the north side of a river. “We cross this river and go
over this big road, I-40, and then keep moving south-southeast until dawn. In
daylight, we hide in the woods. After dark, we move up to the house. Longman,
Jeffers and some others stage a diversion, a small attack from the east on one
of the guard stations. Just make a lot of noise, attract attention, and pull
out. That’s when we’ll go in.”

“How?”
I said.

“We’ll be dressed as soldiers,” Biltmore said. “I have
uniforms and weapons for us. Your hair and beards are neat enough. We’ll need
to look and act like the real thing. But let me do any talking. Your mountain
accents might give us away.”

“This house is a big place, ain’t it?” Riley said. “How do
we know where to look for her?”

“The army kept some of my people there as workers,” Biltmore
said. “They’ve told me where she is.”

“Can they be trusted?” Riley said.

“If not, we’re fucked,” Biltmore said.

“Reckon so,” I said. “But how do we get Jane out?”

“We’ll go northwest and west, cross the river, and up into
these hills,” Biltmore said, moving his finger across the map again. “Not many
roads there. So the soldiers will have a harder time chasing us. We can hide
out there with people I know, then head northeast to the city or northwest to
your mountains.
Depending.
That’s our best chance.”

“What about to the north, the way we came in?” Riley said.
“If you ain’t around, it’ll be the only ground we know.”

Biltmore considered this for a moment. “That’ll be hard. The
soldiers will figure you’ll want to run north, back to the city. All they have
to do to stop you is put men on the big road and along the river. With their
trucks, they’ll get men there before you, even with a good head start.”

Riley and I stared down at the map, absorbing all this.

“Once they start looking for Jane,” Biltmore said, “it’s
going to be raining shit.
Buckets of it.”

Riley and I nodded, looking at Biltmore.

“And boys,” he said, “if those bastards catch us, you can do
what you want, but I’m saving one bullet for myself.”

Riley let out one of his low whistles.

For a moment, I pictured the soldiers closing in and looking
down the barrel of my own pistol. Something inside me squirmed.
A spasm of loose watery panic.
Then I remembered Jane’s
voice coming through the radio, unafraid.

“So when do we cross that river?” I said.

“Now,” Biltmore said.

I felt like shouting when I stepped into the cold water of
the river. We carried the uniforms, our weapons, and a little food in a pack on
top of our heads. By the time I reached the far bank, I was gasping for breath.

We rested and let the cold water run from our clothes for a
minute. Then we went up a steep slope filled with dense brush. At the top of
the slope was the big road, I-40. When we were almost to the top, one of the
Government patrol trucks rumbled toward us. When the light swung our way, we
crouched low in the brush and waited for the truck to pass.

We crossed the road, one at a time, at a run. After going
down the slope on the far side, we moved up through some hills, across another
small river, heading south and southeast. Just before first light, Biltmore
scrambled up a little draw, pulled away some brush, and waved us into a small
cave dug into the hillside. Once we were all inside, he replaced the brush.

“Make
yourselves
at home,” Biltmore
said, sitting on the dirt floor next to the entrance, “we’ll be here until
dark. Change into the uniforms and leave everything but your weapons and ammo
here.”

We had more than twelve hours to wait. So we each took a
four hour watch. While Biltmore took the first, I tried but couldn’t manage to
fall asleep. Too many thoughts were flying around inside me. It was actually a
relief to stand my watch.

When I woke Riley for his turn, I lay down and tried to
sleep again. After a while, I heard Riley say, “Having trouble?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Me too,” he said.

That was unusual for him.

“We’ve come a long way,” he said.

“Yeah, I wonder how far since nightfall.”

“No, since the beginning, with Jane, and
all.”

“Oh yeah, a long way.”

We were silent for a bit.

“Something I been meaning to tell you,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Just wanted to say, whatever happens next--good or bad--I’m
glad I did this.”

“Good,” I said.
“Me too.”
And I had
to hold back tears.

“No need to talk of it again,” Riley said.

“No need.”

“Well, better rest. It’s apt to be a lively night.”

“Yeah, I’ll try,” I said and closed my eyes. But sleep never
came.

When I saw the Biltmore House, all I could say was, “Damn.”
I had only seen things like this in the old history books. It stood like a
little mountain against the night sky. Bright electric lights shone through
dozens of windows.

I turned to Biltmore and whispered, “You grew up there?”

He smiled and put a finger to his lips.

We hid in a clump of trees 30 yards or so from the north end
of the building. It seemed the worst place to enter because there were many
soldiers around. Two were standing guard, and others were unloading a truck and
carrying boxes into the building. There was no choice, but to trust Biltmore.

We sat in the trees until there was a boom and a flash of
light from the east. It was followed by the sounds of rifle shots and machine
guns. Then there were more booms from the same direction, each louder than the
one before. Then the rifles and machine guns continued, back and forth like an
angry argument.

At the sound of the first boom, Biltmore came out of the
trees and trotted toward the soldiers, his rifle slung over his shoulder. Riley
and I followed.

Every soldier, even those standing guard, had turned in the
direction of the explosions and gunfire. They were talking with one another.
Had any of them looked in our direction they would have seen three black-clad
soldiers, rifles slung, trotting up to join the curious crowd.

As we came up to the soldiers, Biltmore asked the nearest
one what was going on. The man just shrugged.

The sound of gunfire slowed to individual shots and then
stopped. We stood with the soldiers until someone behind us yelled, “Show’s
over.
Back to work!”
The soldiers lined up to take a
box from the back of the truck. Then they carried the box through a wide
doorway into the building.

The three of us did the same. The guards at the doorway
didn’t even look at us as we passed. We followed the other soldiers down a long
hallway, lit with the electric lights. Then we went into a large room, a
kitchen with tables, ovens, big pots, heat, and the smells of food. The room
was full of soldiers carrying, putting down, picking up, and opening boxes. There
were some men in the aprons running around shouting orders. Complete confusion.

We put our boxes on top of a pile. Instead of following the
other soldiers back to the truck, Biltmore went out through another door. Riley
and I followed.

The three of us walked single-file down a hallway, went down
some stairs, and made several turns. We passed a few soldiers coming the other
way, but they ignored us, and we ignored them. I had lost all sense of
direction and had no idea how to get out of this place.

We kept walking until Biltmore stopped and peeked around a
corner. He whispered to us, “This is it.
One guard.
We
walk up. I talk. When I clear my throat, ‘Ahem,’
Take
him. No noise. No blood. Can you do that?”

We nodded.

The guard, slouching by a doorway, didn’t pay attention
until Biltmore stopped in front of him, with Riley and me to either side.

I was so scared I didn’t catch all of what Biltmore was
saying.
Something about an officer wanting to see the guard
right away.
I just looked at Biltmore and tried to keep my face blank.
The guard was answering when Biltmore cleared his throat, “Ahem.”

I slammed my right forearm into the guard’s throat and
forced him against the wall. His eyes went wide with pain and surprise, and
then rage. Riley pinned his right arm while Biltmore drove a knee into his
balls, once, twice, three times. The guard’s eyes changed from rage to a weak
desperation. Finally, his eyelids fluttered and closed. When I took my arm from
of his throat, he slid down the wall to the floor. Riley grabbed his rifle.

Biltmore got keys from the guard’s belt and started trying
them in the lock. He opened the door a crack, looked in, and said to us, “Bring
him in.” Biltmore held the door open as Riley and I carried the limp body
through. We dropped it next to the wall. Biltmore shut and bolted the door.

The room had six metal doors, each with a little hatch at
about eye level. It reeked of vomit and old piss. Biltmore went down one side,
and I the other, opening and looking through each little hatch. My heart was
pounding, but there was a grin on my face.
We’re
going to make it
, I thought.
Jane’s
here.
In one of these cells
.

But Jane wasn’t. I found only a soldier, passed out on the
floor in one of the cells.
A drunk.
Stunned, I had no
idea what to do next. I turned to Riley and saw it.

The guard was leaning against the wall and raising a pistol.
Just as I shouted, “Riley!” the guard fired twice into Riley’s back. Riley
staggered forward and fell.

Biltmore raised his pistol and fired, hitting the guard in
the face. The man slid to the floor leaving a wide smear of blood on the wall.

By the time I got to Riley, he had rolled over on his back. Blood
was bubbling up and coming out of his mouth. He looked up at me, confused.
Fading.
Almost gone.

I stood over him, unable to move.

Biltmore grabbed me, shook me, made me look at him, and
shouted, “He’s dead! Let’s go!”

I still wanted to close Riley’s eyes, to say goodbye, but I
wanted more to stay alive.

Biltmore and I stepped out into the hallway. He locked the
door behind us and pocketed the key. He ran to the left, and I followed.

We turned a corner, and I saw an officer come out of a
doorway, pistol drawn. Before I could lift my rifle to shoot, Biltmore shouted,
“Sir! An accident! We need a medic!”

The officer stopped, uncertain for a moment, and then said,
“I’ll call.” He went back through the doorway.

Biltmore and I followed the officer into a small room. The
officer, standing next to a desk, was reaching for what I suppose was a
telephone. His back was to us, and he had put the pistol on the desk. Without
turning toward us, he said, “Where do we need the medic?”

Biltmore drew a knife, put a hand over the officer’s mouth,
and pressed the tip against his throat. I closed the door and grabbed the
pistol from the desk. I pointed it at the officer.

“Make a sound, and I’ll kill you,” Biltmore said. “Understand?”

The officer nodded. His eyes were wide open.
Fear.
I could hear his breath, whistling in and out of his
nose.

I heard the sound of many boots pounding down the hallway
outside, soldiers getting closer. Then, they passed and turned the corner,
receding into the distance. It was quiet again. The officer’s eyes had followed
the noise as it went past.

“Answer my questions,” Biltmore whispered, “and you’ll live.
Understand?”

The officer nodded again. His forehead was sweaty, and his
whole body trembled. His eyes bounced around the room looking for a way out,
looking for help.

“Where’s Jane Darcy?” Biltmore said and took his hand away
from the officer’s mouth. I was afraid the officer would cry out, but all he
did was gasp for more air through his mouth.

“Answer me,” Biltmore said and pressed the knife a little
harder.

“Not here,” the officer said. “Today they kept her in the
city. I don’t know why.”

Jane wasn’t even here
,
I thought.
Riley died for nothing.
All of this.
For nothing
.

Biltmore clamped his hand on the officer’s mouth again and
moved the knife, slicing deep. The officer looked right at me, very surprised.
I stepped back to avoid a spurt of blood. Biltmore lowered him to the floor.
Then he wiped his knife and hands on the dying man’s uniform.

The officer was making terrible soft gurgling sounds as he
clamped both hands on his bloody throat. His legs kicked in little spasms as
the blood poured from his neck. I put his pistol back on the desk.

“Quiet,” Biltmore whispered. He opened the door, leaned out
into the hall, looked both ways, then stepped out and turned left. As I closed
the door, I noticed the gurgling sounds had stopped.

This time we didn’t run. We walked down the halls, taking
several turns and a stairway that went up and up. At last, we reached a
landing. We moved to our right down a hall, took a left, and went down another
hall. There was a door at the very end. We went through it into a room, and I
closed the door behind us. The electric light in the ceiling was off. But a
faint light was coming in through a row of windows. The room was crammed with
dusty old crates, boxes, and broken furniture.

“Watch the door,” Biltmore said. I got behind a pile of
furniture and pointed my rifle at the door. I was shaking and breathing hard.
Biltmore was behind me at the windows. I glanced at him and saw he was working
on a window latch with his knife.

“From here we jump,” he said. “Then go northwest to the
river.” When I looked at him again, he pointed the direction with his knife.
“We’ll cross and hide in the hills.”

He gave up on the latch and moved to the next window.
“Fucking rust!” he said.

The thought that I had failed Jane again hit me, and I
wanted to drop to the floor. Then the latch gave way, and Biltmore opened the
window. No time to think.

“Something happens to me, keep going,” Biltmore said.

I nodded.

Biltmore put his knife away, picked up his rifle, and looked
out the window. Then he jumped, hit the ground, and rolled. In a moment, he was
up on his feet. After I had jumped, we started down the dark slope, moving side
by side, a few yards apart, watching for soldiers.

We had just reached the first clump of trees when I heard a
loud ringing sound coming from the building, and big lights started going on
all around it.

“Shit!” he said.

We went single-file through the trees and bushes, Biltmore
leading the way, down the long hill. Before we went across a road next to the
river, we stopped and looked around.

“Looks clear,” Biltmore said, “Let’s go.”

We ran to the riverbank. I pushed my way through some brush
and stepped off the bank into the river. I was out a few yards, when I heard
the rumble of a Government patrol truck approaching fast on the road. Its
search light was sweeping toward us. I saw Biltmore wasn’t in the water yet.
Maybe his coat had snagged on something. Then the search light hit him, and I
could hear the truck trying to stop, tires squealing like hurt pigs. Biltmore
lifted his rifle. A machine gun on the truck started firing. I saw the first
bullets ripping him apart. For just a moment, a bright red mist surrounded him.
Spraying blood lit up by the searchlight.

I ducked my head under the water and pulled my feet up so the
current would move me downstream, away from the soldiers. The cold water felt
like a hand trying to crush me. I forced myself to stay under until I couldn’t
stand it anymore. Then I let my head come up and, gasping, I looked back. I
could see soldiers, lit from behind by the searchlight, standing over what was
left of Biltmore’s body.

I went down again, and let the current take me further. When
I stood to make my way to the far bank, I was well away from the light and the
soldiers. Then the shivering hit me, and I had trouble moving my legs. I lost
my footing, fell, and felt the rifle slip off my shoulder. It vanished in the
river.

It took me a long time to get out of the water and onto the
bank through tangled branches and brush. My arms and legs felt weak and clumsy.
All I could do was crawl.

I stopped and put my face in the mud. I wept. I wept for
Riley and Jane. I wept for Biltmore, a stranger who had saved my life a dozen
times that night. Most of all, I wept for myself, because I was alone,
shivering in the mud. I wept because I had failed everyone. I wept because it
was so easy to weep.

Just when I thought I had come to the end of myself, I felt
Mary’s book inside my jacket. Sodden, but still there.

I thought of the old man, with the sharks coming for his
great fish. I knew it would be sad, but I wanted to know what he would do. I
wanted to finish the story. I wanted to live after all.

Then I pushed myself up from the mud and looked up the dark
slope. Trembling hit me. I couldn’t stand, not yet.

I began to crawl.