The Postman (16 page)

Her mouth made a round inquiry as he lifted her head. “Who …?”

“Don’t talk,” he urged, and he wiped a trail of blood from the corner of her mouth.

Pupils widely dilated, eerily alert on the threshold of death, her eyes took in his face, his uniform—the embroidered
RESTORED U.S. MAIL SERVICE
patch over his breast pocket. They widened briefly in question, in wonder.

Let her believe
, Gordon told himself.
She’s dying. Let her believe it’s true
.

But he couldn’t make himself say the words—the lies that he had told so often, that had taken him so far for so many months. Not this time.

“I’m just a traveler, miss,” he shook his head. “I’m … I’m just a fellow citizen, trying to help.”

She nodded—only slightly disappointed it seemed—as if that in itself were a minor miracle.

“North …” she gasped. “Take boy.… Warn … warn
Cyclops.…
”

In that last word, even as her dying breath sighed away, Gordon heard reverence, loyalty, and a confident faith in ultimate redemption … all in the spoken name of a machine.

Cyclops
, he thought numbly, as he laid her body down. Now he had yet another reason to follow the legend to its source.

There was no time to spare for a burial. The bandit’s rifle had been muffled, but Gordon’s .38 had echoed like thunder. The other raiders would certainly have heard. He had only moments to collect the child and clear out of this place.

But ten feet away there were horses to steal. And up north lay something a brave young woman had thought worth dying for.

If only it’s true
, Gordon thought as he gathered up his enemy’s rifle and ammunition.

He would drop his postal play-act in a minute, if he found that someone, somewhere, was taking responsibility—actually trying to do something about the dark age. He would offer his allegiance, his help, however meager it might be.

Even to a giant computer.

There were distant shouts … coming closer rapidly.

He turned to the boy, who was now looking up at him, wide-eyed, from the corner of the room.

“Come on, then,” Gordon said, holding out his hand. “We had better ride.”

Holding the child on the saddle in front of him, Gordon raced away from the grisly scene as fast as his stolen mount would go. A glance showed figures charging after them on foot. One raider knelt to take careful aim.

Gordon bent forward, sawed on the reins, and kicked. The horse snorted and wheeled around a looted corner Rex-all store just as high-velocity bullets tore apart the granite facing behind them. Stone chips flew whistling across Sixth Avenue.

He had been congratulating himself on taking the added time to scatter the other horses before galloping off. But in that last instant, looking back, Gordon had seen one more raider arrive, riding his own pony!

For a moment he felt an unreasoning fear. If they had his horse, they might also have taken or harmed the
mailbags
.

Gordon shook the irrelevant thought aside as he sent the horse dashing down a side street. To hell with the letters! They were only props, anyway. What mattered was that only one of the survivalists could pursue at the moment. That made the odds even.

Almost.

He snapped the reins and dug in his heels, sending his mount galloping hard down one of downtown Eugene’s silent, empty streets. He heard the clatter of other hooves,
too close
. Not bothering to look back, he swerved into an alley.
The horse pranced past a fall of shattered glass, then sped across the next street, through a service way and down another clutter-filled alley.

Gordon turned the animal toward a flash of greenery, cantering quickly across an open plaza, and pulled up behind an overgrown oak thicket in a small park.

There was a roar in the air. After a moment Gordon realized that it was his own breath and pulse. “Are … are you all right?” he panted, looking down at the boy.

The nine-year-old swallowed and nodded, not wasting breath on words. The boy had been terrorized and had witnessed savage things today, but he had the sense to keep quiet, brown eyes intense on Gordon.

Gordon stood in the saddle and peered through the seventeen-year growth of urban shrubbery. For the moment at least, they seemed to have lost their pursuer.

Of course the fellow might be less than fifty meters away, quietly listening himself.

Gordon’s fingers were shaking from reaction, but he managed to draw his empty .38 from its holster and reloaded while he tried to think.

If there was only the single rider to contend with, they might do better to just stay still and wait it out. Let the bandit seek them, and inevitably drift farther away.

Unfortunately, the other Holnists would catch up soon. It would probably be better to risk a little noise now than let those master trackers and hunters from the Rogue River country collect themselves and organize a real search of the local area.

He stroked the horse’s neck, letting the animal catch its breath for a moment longer. “What’s your name?” he asked the boy.

“M-Mark,” he blinked.

“Mine is Gordon. Was that your sister, who saved our lives back there at the fireplace?”

Mark shook his head. A child of the dark age, he would save his tears for later. “N-nossir … it was my mom.”

Gordon grunted, surprised. These days it was uncommon
for women to look so young after having children. Mark’s mother must have lived under unusual conditions—one more clue pointing to mysterious happenings in northern Oregon.

The light was fading fast. Still hearing nothing, Gordon nudged the horse into motion once more, guiding it with his knees, letting it choose soft ground where it could. He kept a sharp lookout, and stopped often to listen.

Some minutes later they heard a shout. The boy tensed. But the source must have been blocks away. Gordon headed in the other direction, thinking of the Willamette River bridges at the northern end of town.

The long twilight was over before they rode up to the Route 105 bridge. The clouds had stopped dripping, but they still cast a dark gloom over ruins on all sides, denying even the starlight. Gordon stared, trying to penetrate the gloom. Rumor to the south had it the bridge was still up, and there were no obvious signs of an ambush.

And yet anything could hide in that mass of dark girders, including an experienced bushwhacker with a rifle.

Gordon shook his head. He hadn’t lived this long by taking foolish chances. Not when there were alternatives. He had wanted to take the old Interstate, the direct route to Corvallis and the mysterious domain of Cyclops, but there were other ways. He swung the horse about and headed west, away from the dark, glowering towers.

There followed a hurried, twisting ride down side streets. Several times he nearly got lost, and had to go by dead reckoning. At last, he found old Highway 99 by the sound of rushing water.

Here the bridge was a flat, open structure, and apparently clear. Anyway, it was the last path he knew of. Bent low over the boy, he took the span at a gallop and kept on riding hard until he was certain all pursuit had been left far behind.

Finally, he dismounted and led the horse for a while, letting the exhausted animal catch its breath.

When he climbed back into the saddle, young Mark had fallen asleep. Gordon spread his poncho to cover them both as they plodded on northward, seeking a light.

About an hour before dawn, they arrived at last at the walled village of Harrisburg.

The stories Gordon had heard about prosperous northern Oregon must have been understated. The town had apparently been at peace much, much too long. Thick undergrowth covered the free-fire zone all the way to the town wall, and there were no guards on the watchtowers. Gordon had to shout for five minutes before anyone arrived to swing back the gate.

“I want to talk to your leaders,” he told them under the sheltered porch of the general store. “There’s worse danger than you’ve known in years.”

He described the ambushed party of gleaners, the band of hard, evil men, and their mission to scout the soft northern Willamette for plundering. Time was of the essence. They had to move quickly and destroy the Holnists before their mission was accomplished.

But to his dismay the sleepy-eyed townsmen seemed slow to believe his story, and even more reluctant to sally forth in the wet weather. They stared at Gordon suspiciously, and shook their heads sullenly when he insisted they call up a posse.

Young Mark had collapsed in exhaustion and wasn’t much of a witness to corroborate his tale. The locals obviously preferred to believe he was exaggerating. Several men stated baldly that he must have run into a few local bandits from south of Eugene, where
Cyclops
still had little influence. After all, nobody had seen any Holnists around these parts in many years. They were supposed to have killed each other off long ago, after Nathan Holn himself was hanged.

Folk patted him on the back reassuringly and started dispersing to their homes. The storekeeper offered to let Gordon sack out in his store room.

I
can’t believe this is happening. Don’t these idiots realize
their very lives are at stake? If the scouting party gets away, those barbarians will be back in force!

“Listen …” He tried again, but their sullen, rural obstinacy was impervious to logic. One by one, they drifted away.

Desperate, exhausted, and angry, Gordon flung back his poncho—revealing the postal inspector’s uniform underneath. In a fury, he stormed at them.

“You all don’t seem to understand. I am not
asking
you for your help. Do you think I give a damn about your stupid little village?

“I care about one thing above all. Those creatures have two bags of mail that they have stolen from the
people
of the
United States
, and I am
commanding
you, under my authority as a federal official, to gather an armed party and assist in their recovery!”

Gordon had had a lot of practice with the role in recent months, but never had he dared such an arrogant pose. It had completely carried him away. When one of the wide-eyed villagers started stammering, he cut the man short, his voice shaking with outrage as he told them of the wrath that would fall when the restored nation learned of this shame—how a silly little hamlet had cowered behind its walls and so let their country’s sworn enemies escape.

His eyes narrowed as he growled lowly, “You ignorant bumpkins have
ten minutes
to form your militia and be ready to ride, or I warn you, the consequences will be
far
more unpleasant for you all than a forced march in the rain!”

The townsfolk blinked in astonishment. Most of them had not even moved, but stared at his uniform, and the shiny badge on his peaked hat. The true danger that faced them they could try to ignore, but
this
fantastic story had to be swallowed whole, or not at all.

For a long moment the tableau held—and Gordon stared them down until it broke.

All at once men were shouting at one another, running about to gather weapons. Women hurried to prepare the horses and gear. Gordon was left standing there—his poncho like a cape whipping behind him in the blustery wind—cursing
silently while the Harrisburg guard turned out around him.

What, in God’s name, came over me?
he asked himself at last.

Maybe his role was starting to get to him. For during those tense moments, as he had faced down an entire town, he had truly
believed!
He had felt the power of his role—the potent anger of a servant of the People, thwarted in a high task by little men.…

The episode left him shaken, and a little uncertain of his own mental equilibrium.

One thing was clear. He had hoped to give up the postman scam on reaching northern Oregon; but that was no longer possible. He was stuck with it now, for better or for worse.

All was ready in a quarter of an hour. He left the boy in the care of a local family and departed with the posse in a drizzling rain.

The ride was quicker this time, in daylight and with remounts. Gordon made sure they sent out scouts and flankers to guard against ambush, and kept the main party in three separated squads. When they finally arrived at the UO campus, the militia dismounted to converge on the Student Center.

Although the locals outnumbered the survivalist band by at least eight to one, Gordon figured the odds were actually about even. Wincing at every sound as the clumsy farmers approached the scene of the massacre, he nervously scanned the rooftops and windows.

I hear that down south they stopped the Holnists with sheer guts and determination. They’ve got some legendary leader, down there, who’s whipped the survivalists three falls out of four. Must be the reason the bastards are trying this end run up the coast. Things are different up here
.

If this invasion ever really develops, these locals haven’t got a chance
.

When they finally burst into the Student Center the raiders were long gone. The fireplace was cold. Tracks in the muddy street led westward, toward the coastal passes and the sea.

The victims of the massacre were found laid out in the old cafeteria, ears and other … parts … removed as trophies. The villagers stared at the havoc the automatic rifles had wrought, rediscovering uncomfortable memories of the early days.

Gordon had to remind them to get a burial detail together.

It was a frustrating morning. There was no way to prove who the bandits had been. Not without following them. And Gordon wasn’t about to try with this reluctant band of farmers. They already wanted to go home to their tall, safe stockade. Sighing, Gordon insisted that they make one more stop.

In the dank, ruined university gymnasium he found his mail sacks—one untouched where he had hidden it, the other torn open, letters scattered and trodden on the floor.

Gordon put on an irate show of fury for the benefit of the locals, who hurried obsequiously to help him collect and bag the remains. He played the role of the outraged postal inspector to the hilt, calling down vengeance on those who dared interfere with the mail.