The Big Bang (36 page)

Baldwin should have died there. He wasn't yet fast enough or experienced enough to have known to swing from one target to the other, firing all the time, trying to keep your opponent ducking for cover instead of drawing a bead on you. The short man had all the time he needed to swing the rifle over at Alec, away from Mike and the girl. Maybe he was inexperienced, too, as deer tend not to shoot back. The first shot whistled just beyond Baldwin's head, and later he'd remember hearing it whine off the side of the doorframe.

From inside the RV, two bullets blasted through the screen to Alec's left, whirling the short rifleman around and dropping him to his knees. The rifle spun away from his fingers.

Alec was inside a bubble, the gunshots temporarily deafening him. Only able to hear his own breathing and the beating of his heart, Baldwin walked through blood and chunky viscera to the short man, who was wheezing horribly and scrabbling toward his rifle. “Leave it,” Alec said, his voice unnatural and echoing in his head.

The short man's hand closed over the stock of his rifle. Alec lifted his pistol, and the shot smashed the man down like he'd been hit in the spine with a sledgehammer.

Still wrapped in his cocoon of deafness, Baldwin turned and scanned the area. No other threats. He noticed the little girl was doing something with her face: her eyes were screwed shut, her mouth was open, her fists clenched. She was screaming. “Take her for a walk, Mike,” he said. “Get her away from this.”

White-faced, without a word, Mike lifted the little girl in his arms and carried her toward the field. Queenie growled at the bodies and then trotted after him.

Hanner was beside Baldwin. He said something, and then repeated it more loudly. “You all right?”

Alec slipped the pistol back into his holster. After a moment, he nodded. Yeah, he was shaky, but he was all right. The first two people he'd killed in the war were Americans. Americans, but still the enemy.

It took Hanner and Baldwin two trips to get everything from the RV to the farm house. The girl's grandfather died in the RV, expiring quietly without regaining consciousness. They'd laid him in a shallow grave covered with rocks and brush, and at Hanner's insistence had hidden the riflemen's bodies in the scrub well away from the highway before dumping dirt over the blood turning to a gooey jelly on the road. “Those two scumbags might have relatives,” Hanner had explained.

They stripped the RV of any food and water, and slung the deer rifles on their backs before heading back to the farm house. From outside, the farm house was typical of the area a hundred years ago. Two stories, clapboard siding, slanted roof, shutters around all the windows. It was also typical of derelicts they'd passed, the whole of the house so weathered and beaten by the elements that it looked slate gray, even the chipped paint still clinging to the wood.

Inside, it was disgusting; the kitchen full of garbage and unwashed dishes, while trash was scattered throughout the house. It wasn't hard to guess the two dead men had lived here.

Mike took a look around the filthy house, and said, “Can't let no little girl stay here.” He picked her up, held her out to Alec, and said, “You all take Queenie for a walk.” Hanner was scouting out the rest of the interior of the house. He nodded down at them from the stairs.

The little girl was curled up, sucking her thumb. Baldwin unslung the deer rifle from his back, laid it carefully on the sticky kitchen table, and took the girl with one arm. “What's your name, honey?”

“'Becka,” the girl mumbled around her thumb.

“Okay, Becka. We're going to take Queenie outside. She needs to use the potty.” He realized he was holding her with his right arm. He couldn't get to his pistol, if he needed it. He shifted the little girl over to his left, hoisted her higher up on his hip. She threw her arms around his neck, buried her face in his shoulder.

The memory of being surprised outside the RV by those two…whoever they were…was still fresh. He edged the door open with his foot, took a careful look around. Queenie waited patiently. The Shepherd's lack of response made him feel better, so he stepped out. Queenie darted out into the scrubby yard.

“'Fraid,” Becka said.

“I know, honey,” Baldwin said. Through the grimed windows, he could see Mike in the kitchen. The roundish man wasn't of a mind to be delicate. He swept a bunch of food-gummed plates off the counter, sent them crashing into a trashcan.

There was a bent tree, about fifteen feet tall, around the side of the house. On one good-sized branch, a semi tire hung horizontally suspended at three points by fraying yellow polyethylene rope. Baldwin carried the little girl over to it. “Look, there's a swing.”

“Don't wanna,” Becka said into his chest.

He carefully lowered himself into the tire, still holding Becka. The rope creaked a bit, but it held their weight. He rocked back and forth gently.

“Bad men,” she said.

He nodded. There was some shade here, under the tree. As the sun was lowering in the sky, a breeze had sprung up, cooling them.

“Will they be back?” she asked suddenly.

“No, honey,” he told her. “I killed them.” It was strange to say it aloud that way, but it was true. He'd portrayed killers, usually mad-dog nutcases, but all the Method in the world had nothing on the reality. He was
glad
he'd smoked the two sons of bitches. They wouldn't have taken care of this little girl, might even have hurt her. He hadn't enjoyed shooting them, but he didn't regret it.

“Are they in Heaven?”

“No, Becka. Not bad men.”

“Is Grandpa?”

“Yes. Grandpa is in heaven.” He looked down at her. “Your Grandpa asked us to take care of you,” he found himself saying. He hadn't planned on saying that, and didn't know what he'd do with this little girl. They were three lost men, trying, hoping to get to civilization. If any civilization worthy of the name still existed. But right now didn't seem like a time for telling the kid every hard truth that came to his mind.

“Okay,” Becka replied, relaxing against him a little. Baldwin looked up at the tree. The leaves were full and green, moving softly in the breeze. Must be a well nearby, he thought idly, the tree was pretty lush for this time of year. He kept the swing rocking, flexing his legs just enough to keep it moving. The delay in getting to L.A. was eating at him, he realized. If he'd left yesterday, he'd be with Addie. But he'd wanted to get the ranch ready for her. An image of his daughter, scared, frightened, alone, flashed through his mind with enough force to make him feel physically sick. He forced the phantom away, remembering what Hanner had said earlier this week. “Fix what you can, plan for the rest.”

If vehicles were out…then he'd walk to L.A. No, wait, maybe he wouldn't have to walk. They'd come across some horses, somewhere. Walking he could make twenty miles a day. Horseback, fifty maybe. He'd buy one, trade for one, work, whatever it took.

“What
ever
?” he asked himself in a soft voice. He wouldn't steal them. He wouldn't use force to get them. Then he'd be no better than the two dead men they'd left in the bushes miles away. He'd get to his girl, but he'd do it in a way that would make her proud of her daddy. He would never do anything to make his daughter ashamed.

Imagining Addie's smile of delight when she saw him, Baldwin drifted off to sleep.

He was awakened by Queenie's soft yip. His mouth was dry, and his side cramped from holding Becka. Hanner was approaching from the front of the house, a rag in his hands. Queenie climbed to her feet from her position next to the swing, and trotted over to greet her master.

Alec sat up in the swing, Becka snoring on his shoulder. Hanner had a strange expression on his face, half pleased, half…grim.

“How long have I been out here?” Baldwin croaked.

“'Bout an hour,” Hanner answered, taking the sleepy little girl. “Got something to show you.”

Stretching stiffened muscles, Alec followed slowly. Hanner carried Becka into the farm house, laid her on the couch, which had been covered in clean linens from the RV. “Don't want her sleepin' where those nasty butts used to sit,” Mike said, watching them. The little girl curled up and went back to sleep without a word. The chubby trucker nodded at them from the stove. “Ten minutes to dinner.”

Baldwin nodded back, followed Hanner outside. The older man had grease on his hands, and was wiping it off with the rag. “Local Emergency Broadcasting System is out,” he said. “But I found an old radio in the barn. Had enough juice in the batteries I was able to pick up a station out of Seattle.”

“And?”

“We got two problems. There's domestic attacks, and then there's the ones coming from outside, like that EMP bomb.”

Alec couldn't stop himself from glancing reflexively at the sky. Christ, he'd been out in the open with Add— Becka. Fear, fatigue, and the adrenal hangover had made him stupid.

Hanner nodded in understanding. “Yeah, what with the shooting and finding the little girl, we lost track of the big picture. We're gonna have to watch that.”

“Did they say anything else? How long are we going to have to stay under shelter from those…uh, high bursts?”

“About two weeks, I'm guessing.”

“Two—!”

His foreman held out a steadying hand. “Easy, Mr. Baldwin.” They were at the rear of the house. Farther back, near what once had been a plowed field, was a dilapidated barn. “Come on,” Hanner said, walking across the dusty lot toward the barn.

Alec followed him, seething with frustration. “Did they say anything else?”

“The radio? Nothing good, and nothing real specific. All they had were reports, you know. ‘We have reports of fires in Detroit,' that kind of thing. They didn't have much information on Los Angeles.” He stopped in front of the barn, shoved back one of the sagging doors.

Baldwin peered inside, expecting to see maybe a scrawny cow. What he saw instead was something shadowy and curved toward the rear of the barn. Stepping inside, his eyes adjusted to the dimness. “Son of a gun,” he said.

Toward the back of the barn, draped in paint-stained tarp, was an old truck. How old, he wasn't sure, but old enough, he thought. He turned toward Hanner, who grinned at him.

“Where'd you think I found a radio? The truck needs some work,” he cautioned. “I think I can get her up and running. The battery is weak but I was able to pick up that station in Seattle.”

Hope flared in Baldwin's heart once more. “How long will you need?”

“Two weeks, maybe.”

Hell. But that was about as long as they'd have to stay under shelter, anyway. He did some quick calculating. In a perfect world, he might be able to walk three hundred miles in two weeks. There wasn't a perfect world left, however, with radiation and a lot of scary, angry, or just bad people out there. But in this truck…he could get to L.A. in a single day.

“When do we start?”

“Daybreak. We'll need the light to see.”

They spent the first night in the storm cellar. The house was stifling, even in the evening. Baldwin had wanted to open the windows, but Hanner vetoed it. “If there's any drifting radiation, we'll take a bath in it.” When Mike mentioned the storm cellar, cool even on this hot night and more protected from radiation, they quickly agreed.

Mike wouldn't let Becka lie on any of the grimy sheets on the unmade beds in the house. He found some winter quilts that were mostly clean, and using them, made a bed for her against one cellar wall for her using couch cushions. The cellar smelled of old moist dirt and the sticky sweetness of a burst can of some fruit, with a slight hint of kerosene from a lantern Hanner'd brought in from the barn.

Becka hugged herself, and looked at each one of the men, their faces unnatural in the flickering lantern light. “It's okay,” Mike told her. “We'll be here when you wake up.”

Hanner, the oldest of them, the one with the most experience with children, squatted down to get his face level with the little girl's. “Do you know how old Queenie is?”

Thumb in her mouth, Becka shook her head.

“She's eight years old.”

Mike and Baldwin took his lead, the trucker asking casually, “How much is that in dog years?”

Baldwin pretended to count on his fingers. “That's…my goodness, that's almost sixty-five years old!”

“Really?” Becka said with interest.

Hanner nodded with elaborate regret. “At our house, we have a nice soft bed for her to sleep on. Would you mind if Queenie slept on your bed? It would be really nice if you did.”

“That'd be okay,” Becka agreed. Hanner patted the quilt-covered cushion, gave a short whistle, and the Shepherd obediently trotted over and lay down beside the little girl. Becka twined her fingers through Queenie's thick fur and curled up against the dog's back. In minutes she was asleep.

The men made themselves as comfortable as they could on other piles of cushions or musty mattresses. Mike and Hanner laid rifles beside them. Alec put the Glock between the mortar-and-rock wall and the corn husk mattress. Hanner spoke in a low voice. “It's going to be dark as a black cat inside a coal mine. We don't want to shoot each other if somebody gets up to take a leak and knocks over a stack of paint cans.”

“Password?” Mike offered.

“Not tonight, lad. Just don't shoot yourself.” He dropped the shutter on the lantern. “Good night, John-Boy.”

Baldwin felt a smile creasing his face. He replied in a falsetto, “Good night, Daddy.”

Mike snorted and then, in incredibly quiet darkness unbroken by electronic hum or even the gurgling of a water heater, each man was alone with his thoughts.

Alec's thoughts turned to Addie. At first, the predictable frustration rose up in him. He wondered how the old settlers had ever stood it. Moving across the country, only as fast as a mule or team of oxen could walk, leaving everything they knew behind. Some of those poor bastards had worked for years before going back to what they loved. Like the coolies who'd worked the railroads…Christ, how had they survived that separation?