The Fly-By-Nights (16 page)

“All of which to say, that having come this far we’re not about to let a handful of fouled-up, clapped-out vehicles stop us now—neither them nor anything else!”

And at last, as Big Jon swept the crowd with his eyes full of hope—such hope as the clan had never before seen lighting his face—finally he had nodded his satisfaction. And climbing down from his vehicle’s iron flank, he had commanded them:

“Now off you go and make ready. Another hour and we’ll be gone from here, and a long afternoon, evening, and night ahead…”

IX

All of which had taken place eleven days and ten nights ago.

Since when, as the convoy crept ever northward, the clan’s experiences had become increasingly eventful. Mercifully during that time there had been no more fly-by-night attacks or skirmishes; though at each day’s end, when Big Jon called a halt and the mechanical groaning of overloaded vehicles subsided into uneasy silence, and night’s long shadows began to shroud the land, the presence of vampires out there in what were once dead and crumbling radioactive wastelands—indeed “the badlands,” which now as often as not seemed magically transformed by improving local conditions into burgeoning grass and woodlands—was far more than merely suspected.

All too often the shrill, whistled alarms of the sentinels would be heard, their red flashes of warning light glimpsed out there on the perimeters; and the standby teams would ready themselves for action and prepare to ride out and engage the undead enemy. But unfailingly—and oddly—on each such occasion, as endless, breathless moments passed in deafening silence, eventually the flashing red beams would change to green, accompanied in short order by a long oh-so-welcome blast on Big Jon’s whistle as the leader signalled yet another all clear.

But so many alarms—three or four each night, and so often false or seemingly unjustified—that the people were actually becoming accustomed to them! While familiarity breeds contempt, however, they had
never
been contemptuous of the fly-by-nights; and thus the alarms continued to make for long, nervous nights.

The days, on the other hand, were glorious!

Unused to such balmy days and warm, benign sunlight—with the hinged lead shutters folded back and tucked away overhead—the people tended to forget the discomforts of cramped trundles and farm vehicles but perched wherever they could face outward, their legs swinging to the jolting, rocking rhythm of the lumbering transports. And for the very first time in their comparatively short lives, the pallor of their previously subterranean existence was beginning to be replaced by the pinks, then reds, then browns of skin tones coloured by the sun.

Ian Clement’s predictions, however, as they became reality, were causing problems; Big Jon’s optimism in respect of the unnecessary conservation of water had proved premature; even the hopes of head tech Andrew Fielding’s radio men, with regard to continued contact with the kindred, had been dashed to smithereens along with the radio, when the transport carrying most of the technical equipment had turned over in a ditch.

Big Jon considered this last as bad a problem as any other, if not a disaster: that the voices on the other end of the airwaves—as static-plagued as the reception often was—had been shut off forever in the irreparable tangle of wires, fuses, and shattered glass.

But in fact the other problems were just as bad, if not far worse, especially the trouble with the water. During the second night following the convoy’s departure from the wooded site in the lee of the cliffs—the
first
night of so-called rest, despite frequent disturbances by the real or suspected presence of nearby fly-by-nights—the old rust-scabbed bowser had sprung a serious leak. With its source directly under the huge tank, the trickle of precious water had not been noticed until first light when an area of soaked earth had revealed the full extent of the loss: at least two thirds of the clan’s reserves.

While chief mech Clement had stopped up the leak in double-quick time, the very next day there was nothing he could do for a seized-up trundle engine, or on the day following the wrecked tech transport’s broken axles. And all the time the increasingly cramped conditions in the rest of the convoy’s vehicles were making difficult times all the more problematic.

As for Garth Slattery, the outrider teams (now more commonly called the “night-watch squads”), and the unusual inactivity of the fly-by-nights:

Since the slow, lumbering column now proceeded only in daylight, Garth and his squad—along with the other squads—were on duty every night forming an oval perimeter around the entire length or cluster of the stationary convoy; which meant that the watch-men could at least attempt to sleep for seven or eight hours in the noisy, jarring trundles each day, and have the evenings to themselves when Big Jon called a halt and the column paused to rest and take stock. And so Garth was at last able to spend at least
some
time with his new wife, but rarely quality time and never a lot.

Layla knew that something was bothering him. His nightmares were worse than ever, when after only a few hours rest he would begin muttering to himself—then start awake with an inarticulate cry, clinging to her and shaking feverishly. Sometimes he would mumble her name; other times the name of someone else…someone Layla remembered only too well!

At first she believed she understood this well enough, and despite the disruption it caused accepted it as a natural consequence of the mutual animosity that had existed between Garth and that loathsome other. At least
Layla
accepted it as such—but not Garth, not entirely. He wouldn’t, however, speak of his concerns in any detail; to do so would only have worried Layla more yet, most likely needlessly. Thus he kept his own counsel—his doubts and indeed his fears—to himself. For not unlike Layla, albeit to a lesser degree, Garth was wont to reason with himself, trying to rationalize and perhaps minimalize his “problem.” But that was only in broad daylight, with the sun warming his face. Never at night, out there on the perimeter.

And so things went…

Around mid-afternoon on the fourth day, however—when the convoy had halted to make urgent repairs to a trundle’s failing suspension, and when once again Garth, only poorly rested, came shouting awake—Layla saw how he was actually starting to look enervated and even somewhat gaunt. At which she determined that later, when he was fully awake and responsive, she would definitely speak to him about it. But for the moment…

…While he washed sparingly from a mugful of water, shaved using the dregs and got dressed, she went off to a hastily arranged teaching appointment with some of the clan’s smaller children—which was where Zach Slattery happened upon her, only to find her looking more than usually tired, worn, and worried.

During a break, when the kids were allowed to play a simple game without supervision, Zach took her aside and spoke to her.

“Layla, while I know it’s none of my business—” he began, but she stopped him at once, saying:

“You are Garth’s father and you love him, so of course it’s some of your business!”

“Ah!” he said. “So you’re more concerned
about
him than
because
of him? Well good! It’s just that you’ve been looking so down, so tired and stressed out yourself, this last day or two. But as long as there’s no trouble—er, you know—between the pair of you…?”

“No,” She shook her head. “No trouble of that sort. For all the dreadful circumstances—I mean this horrible journey, and Garth’s nightly duties—I’ve never been so happy, and I don’t think Garth has either. But while everything else is going well, still there’s something…oh, I don’t know what, but it’s got me worried! Garth has nightmares—or maybe I should call them daymares?—about terrible things: the fly-by-nights, I suppose, but also about Ned Singer. He doesn’t talk to me about them but keeps them to himself all bottled up, which isn’t doing him any good. I’ve been putting off speaking seriously to him about it, but I soon may have to. I mean, he’s starting to look withdrawn and haggard—even ill! Or if not ill, then sick at heart.”

On hearing Singer’s name mentioned, Zach’s eyes had immediately narrowed. “Garth’s told you he dreams about Ned Singer?”

Again Layla shook her head. “No, he hasn’t told me much of anything, but I’ve heard him calling Singer’s name—or whispering it—just before he springs awake!”

Zach chewed on his top lip for just a moment, then stopped frowning and seemed to relax. Finally, lightening up, he nodded and said: “You know, I think you’re probably right about what’s bothering Garth? What with this hellish trek…and his duties…then after being out there in the dark all night, trying to get a few hours sleep on the boards of a cramped, jolting trundle! Why, it would surely be enough to unsettle just about anybody! And Garth’s doing a hell of a job for a man his age. He’s my son, yes, and sometimes I still think of him as a boy…but what the hell, Garth’s a
man
! Maybe more of a man than most men I know. Still, if you think I should, I can always speak to Big Jon Lamon about it. Because I know
I
couldn’t bear to see Garth falling apart—not like Peder Halbstein! But if the pressure’s getting too much for him…well, perhaps I should speak to Big Jon anyway, if
only
because Garth’s my son!”

“Don’t you dare!” Layla replied, almost before he’d stopped speaking. “Garth’s very proud, and if he found out you did something like that on my behalf—or even for yourself—he would never forgive us! And anyway I know you’re right: he
is
more of a man than most. A lot more than the rest of the clan’s younger men, and certainly more than those who have tried to spend time with me!”

“Calm down, calm down!” Zach told her. “Okay, it was just a thought, that’s all. But if I can’t speak to Big Jon, perhaps I should tackle Garth himself about this…this whatever it is? Since Garth never had a ma he could talk to, he’s grown up that much closer to me. He’s never found it too difficult to confide in me—until now, anyway. So then, what do you reckon? Should I talk to him?”

Layla thought it over, slowly nodded, and like Zach himself gradually relaxed. “Very well,” she said, “but without mentioning me. And please don’t put any more pressure on him. If Garth talks, fine. But if he won’t, then let it be.”

“It’s a deal,” Zach agreed. “I’ll just tell Garth he looks like…like something I wouldn’t want to step in, and ask him what’s wrong. And if there’s something
seriously
wrong, perhaps talking will help get some of it out of his system…” 

As good as his word, Zach went directly to Garth’s and Layla’s makeshift canvas lean-to where they had built it at the side of a trundle. He found Garth seated on a large rock with his broad back to one of the trundle’s wheels, oiling his rifle. But despite having freshened up a little, still he looked more or less as Zach had described him to Layla: like something he would not care to step in. And having repeated that description to Garth, he inquired: “So then, what’s up?”

If only for a few heartbeats, Garth grinned at his father’s comment. But for all its transience his grin looked entirely incongruous on his pale, jaded face; and doing nothing to improve his careworn appearance, it had already disappeared by the time he said: “I don’t know…I guess I’m just tired. Haven’t been sleeping too well, that’s all.”