'They were here," Eric said, hiking up the steep embankment to join the others. "Camped down there last night."
"Jesus, Eric," Tag whistled with respect, "you must be a hell of a tracker to be able to follow them so easily."
"Only because Fallows is careful to leave plenty of clues."
"I can't see them," Rydell said, studying the ground.
"You aren't supposed to. He doesn't want it to be too easy. Nor does he want every scavenger out here following him. This is between him and me. That's the way he wants it."
"And you?"
"Yeah, that's the way I want it too."
Season collapsed on a large boulder and began fanning herself with her hands. "Damn, it's hot." She took a swig from her canteen, peered into the opening, held it up to her ear and swirled it around. "Getting a little low on liquid refreshment here. Who's going to run down to the liquor store for soft drinks and wine?"
"Yeah," Molly agreed, sitting on the ground with an exhausted sigh. "I think I've sweated off a bra size today alone. And I can't afford the loss."
Eric unfastened the portable shovel from his pack, tossed it to Tag. "Start digging a hole."
Tag looked at the shovel. "You think we're going to dig up water? Just like that?"
"Just dig the hole. Three feet across and two feet deep."
"Where?"
Eric pointed. "Over there, where there is no shade."
Season made a face. "I hope that's not the latrine."
Eric reached into his pack, pulled out a folded sheet of clear plastic. He flipped it through the air to Season. "Roughen one side of this with sand, but be sure you clean it thoroughly when you're done."
"Okay," she agreed, exchanging confused expressions with Tag.
"An evaporation still," Rydell explained. "Right?"
Eric looked at him over his shoulder, surprised and pleased. "Right."
"We learned about it at camp. You dig a hole, place a bucket or container at the bottom of the hole, stretch the plastic over the hole. If you've got it, you run a plastic straw from the bucket out the edge of the cover so as not to disturb the process. Then you place a fist-sized rock in the middle of the tarp so it sags to a point about two inches above the opening of the bucket."
"Sounds clever as hell," Season said. "But what's it do?"
"Well, the sun heats the air and soil to furnace temperatures under there, which causes the water in the soil to evaporate. When the air becomes saturated, droplets form on the plastic sheet because it's cooler than the air. The drops trickle down into the bucket. Presto change. You've got drinking water."
Season frowned skeptically. "Water? Out of the ground, huh? Sounds like a lot of work for a few drops of water. You sweat more than that away digging the damn hole."
"Depends," Rydell continued. "Even a bad site can yield a pint a day, and a good one can give you a quart a day for a month."
"Not bad," she nodded.
"At least we'll all have a sip of water with our beef jerky breakfast in the morning."
"No, you won't," Eric said. "At least not from the still."
"What?" Rydell said. "I don't get it."
"We aren't making this still to use now. That's one of the reasons we're camping here. It's remote. The still probably won't be discovered by anyone else. That way it, and the water, will be here later."
"So what?"
Eric sighed, tipped his canteen to his lips enough to moisten them. "There are only two ways to get my wife and kid away from these people. We either shoot it out or we steal them. Any volunteers for a shoot-out, raise your hands."
No one moved.
"Good. We know they have a couple guns, anyway. And they have more and better-trained troops. Any head-on confrontation will only result in all our deaths. And Annie's and Timmy's as well." He looked around at each of them. In the three days since they'd left camp, Eric's skin had bronzed by several shades, almost like a chameleon taking on protective coloring. The hard, angular muscles blooming from his rolled-up sleeves made him look like he'd been carved from a block of teak. He removed the Australian bush hat he'd taken from the clothes storage at University Camp and wiped the grimy sweat from his forehead. "So we want to try and steal them and then run like hell. Chances are excellent that Fallows will follow us. But if we leave some water holes behind us, we can get the jump on them by not having to search for water."
"But they will," Tag said.
Eric nodded.
Tag stood up, laid the shovel on his shoulder, and marched toward the spot Eric had pointed out. Season shuffled wearily behind him with the plastic sheet folded across her arm.
"Take your weapons!" Eric snapped.
Tag and Season rushed back, snatched up their weapons, and hurried off with embarrassed expressions.
"What about water now?" Rydell asked, glancing around. "This is desert terrain. We could dig around some of the plants to tap into their water source."
Eric shook his head. "Not worth the energy. I've got a better idea. Get ready for a hike."
"A hike?" Molly moaned. "What do you call what we've been doing all night and most of the morning?"
"Strolling. At least compared with what we're going to do now." He hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the craggy mountains jutting up half a mile behind them.
Rydell shaded his eyes with his hand as he looked up. "What's up there?"
"History."
"Things are dry enough around here without having to swallow that."
Eric permitted himself a smile. Three days traveling with these kids-for indeed they were kids when it came to survival-had reminded him of his fondness for the curious student. And for teaching. Every day he reminded himself that he only told them what they needed to know to survive because he could use them later. They were nothing more than chess pieces to be positioned and, if necessary, sacrificed against Dirk Fallows. But there was something else going on, and though he denied daily, he felt a fondness for each of his companions and their unique personalities. Rydell's intelligence and independence, Molly's endurance and humor, Tag's sensitivity and loyalty, Season's mocking and strength.
And he enjoyed lecturing them on what to eat, what to avoid eating, how to find shelter, trap animals. In this new world under an orange, contaminated sky, the lessons of history often seemed too distant, too ethereal. How to eat, what to wear, where to sleep, who to kill-these were the gospel now. And each was a worthy student and, in different circumstances, might have been a worthy friend.
But this was dangerous ground, forming attachments. It could mean an unwillingness to use them properly when the time came. And that could result in losing Annie and Timmy forever. He had to fight these emotions, avoid reverting back to the old Eric, the civilized Eric who had failed to protect his family. Like the cassette recorder, the wedding ring, and Jennifer's body, friends were a heavy baggage in this savage world. To survive, one had to learn to travel light.
"Mines," he said, the good humor gone from his voice as he stared at Molly's and Rydell's confused faces. "There are some silver mines from the late 1800s and early 1900s."
"Silver mines?" Rydell said. "Never heard of them."
"Not much reason to. They never paid off much. Not like the ones up north. But at the time there was a lot of indication of lead, so they dug around for a couple years hoping to hit paydirt."
"What the hell's lead got to do with anything?"
"That's how silver's made," Molly said. "Silver's just an impurity contained in certain lead ore. Called galaxy or something."
"Galena," Eric corrected.
"Right."
"How'd you get so damn smart about this?" Rydell asked her, impressed.
"Jeopardy. Remember the game show with Art Fleming? Used to watch it all the time. Picked up a lot of junk. I was in love with Art's politeness."
Eric bent over his pack and started fastening the straps. "Often there are some water pools in these mines. Bring Tag and Season's canteens, we'll fill them up there."
Rydell walked over to Season's pack, rustled through for the canteen. Suddenly he straightened up. "Listen!"
"What?" Molly said.
"Did you hear that? A noise. Like someone moving." He grabbed his bow from the ground, fixed an arrow in the string.
"Relax," Eric said, not even turning around.
"No, I really heard it. There it is again."
"Yeah," Molly whispered breathlessly. "I heard it that time. Maybe I should go warn Tag and Season."
Eric continued fastening straps. "Just calm down. No need to worry." He made no move toward his crossbow.
"Hello," a familiar voice called to them. "Don't shoot, okay?"
She staggered out from behind a giant boulder, her face blistered from the sun, her tongue swollen with thirst. The heavy backpack threatened to tilt her backwards. She was wearing khaki shirt and shorts, torn here and there at embarrassing locations. One knee was bruised and an angry red knob stuck out on her shin.
Eric still didn't turn around.
"Jesus, Tracy!" Molly gasped and ran toward her. Rydell dropped his bow arid joined Molly, each grabbing Tracy under one arm and half-carrying her to the camp.
Tag and Season started to run over.
"Keep digging!" Eric ordered. They hesitated, but returned to their work.
Tracy Ammes nodded thanks as she shook off her backpack and flopped to the ground. "I had a couple of clever entrance lines," she said, "but all I can think of right now is water."
Rydell handed her his canteen. "Go ahead and finish it off. We're on our way to get more."
She swallowed the few ounces greedily, tilting the canteen higher and higher even after the last drop was gone. "Thanks. I tried to ration myself, but I guess I figured it wrong."
Eric was still fussing with his pack, his back to Tracy, "Military studies show that rationing doesn't have any physical benefits. It's just as sound to drink all the water at once."
Tracy looked at Molly and Rydell, raised her eye-brows in question. They both shrugged back and shook their heads.
"How long have you been out there?" Molly asked.
Eric answered for her. "Since we left camp. She started following us right away, been on our tails ever since. Just far enough to stay out of sight, but close enough not to lose us. Right?"
"Right." Her voice was morose, like a child caught stealing.
"That's crazy, Tracy," Rydell said. "Why didn't you just join us at the start?"
"Because she knew I wouldn't take her," Eric said, turning now to face them. "Right again?"
She nodded. "I wanted to come, though I'm not sure why. Maybe I just knew it wouldn't be the same there anymore, not after what happened. It didn't feel as comfortable, not with Annie and the kids gone. And it didn't feel as safe, not with Eric and the rest of you gone. It had a sinking ship feel to it, a lot of people putting on cheerful faces to mask their fear and dread." She shrugged, looked at Eric. "I guess you and Annie and the kids were really my only friends."
"That's not a very logical reason to leave," he said coldly.
"Maybe not. But it was enough for me." Her eyes were red and she blinked rapidly as if flushing tears, but there wasn't enough moisture in her body for tears. She hadn't expected Eric to understand, not Eric who wielded logic like a saber, more so each day since the earthquakes. Annie had often discussed it with her, fearful that Eric's hate for Fallows and fear for his family would consume him.
Tracy had always soothed Annie's fears, careful not to let any of her own jealousy peek through. But Annie had known, Tracy was sure of that. Yet she had never made any accusations, in fact had done everything to make her feel more comfortable. And Tracy had for the most part managed to bury her jealousy, learning to enjoy the Ravensmith family as if it were her own. Tried to look at other men with the same passion Annie looked at Eric. She and Annie were like sisters, and she missed Annie now. As for Eric, those buried feelings had worked their way closer to the surface in the past few days, but guiltily she did everything to force them back down. Annie and Timmy's safety was all that mattered now. And during the past three days and nights of traveling alone, hidden in the shadows from Eric and the others, Tracy had decided she would gladly give her life toward that end.
Across the camp, Eric stared at Tracy. He had known since the first half hour of leaving University Camp that she was following. Had given her a day at most to surrender and finally show herself. He'd been surprised when she hadn't, but had been certain she would by that night, especially considering some of the wretched sights they had passed so far. A pack of dogs fighting over the half-eaten carcass of an old man. Hastily butchered cats chewed to the bone near old campfire sites. But Tracy had not shown herself, had not asked for refuge. For a moment he'd become worried, thought about going back for her. But then he remembered Annie's speech that night, placing Tracy in nomination as her replacement should anything happen. It flooded him with guilt and rage, and he cursed them both. The third day he knew she was still there and was angered at the rush of relief he felt. That was the old Eric.
Finally she'd joined them, holding out until she was certain they couldn't take her back and wouldn't send her on her own.
"Now what?" Tracy asked, withering under his intense stare.
"Now we get water," Eric replied, plucking her empty canteen from her side.
"That's awfully small," Molly said nervously.
"They didn't need it much bigger." Eric ducked through the entrance of the cave. He switched on the flashlight, motioned for Rydell and Molly to follow. Tracy had been left at camp to rest.
"Did I mention my fear of spiders yet?" Molly asked.
Rydell laughed. "You too?"
"Some comfort you are."
"Stay close," Eric warned. The batteries were fresh, taken from the University Camp supplies still wrapped in their Eveready black-and-yellow package, a price tag from Safeway still half-attached. The beam knifed through the thick darkness as Eric checked for loose stones indicating a weak wall. Not that there was any way to be sure.
"Wouldn't it have been safer to just look for a stream somewhere?" Molly whispered, having seen enough TV cave-ins to be aware of the danger of sound. "Maybe we could find one nearby."
"I did find one," Eric said, inching ahead.
"What?" Rydell and Molly chorused.
"Yeah, when I scouted ahead a few hours ago. There's one about a quarter of a mile from camp."
"Then what are we doing here?" Rydell asked. "Did we miss our daily quota of breathing dust?"
"The water wasn't any good. No vegetation around it, some dried animal bones nearby. Bad signs."
Rydell sighed. "Some of these desert pools have dissolved arsenic in them."
"You mean someone poisoned them?" Molly said.
"No, it's natural."
"Like Perrier, huh?"
He swatted her bottom with a canteen and she giggled.
"There," Eric said, holding the flashlight beam steady. A pool of black water, still and silent.
"Christ," Molly complained. "I should've worn a sweater. This place is cold."
"Don't complain," Eric said. "That cold is why we have water now. Works just like our still down there. If we went any deeper we might even find ice."
They kneeled around the pool, staring. Eric handed the flashlight to Rydell. "Keep it steady."
Molly twisted the cap off her canteen and reached toward the pool to fill it. Eric's hand grabbed her wrist with a power that stung. "What's wrong?"
"See that film on top of the water? That's lead. It's poisonous." He ran his finger along the inside of his ear, dipped it in the water. A clear spot appeared on the water's surface. "The wax provides a safe opening." He removed a plastic straw from his pocket. "Now we sip it up through that opening and spit the water into the canteens until they're full. Then I add some iodine just to be safe. It'll taste a little funny, but it'll be safe. However, you can pour it between canteens a few times to improve taste."
"Swell," Molly said without enthusiasm.
"It's better than dying of thirst," Eric said.
"Barely," Molly answered.
Eric took the first watch.
The orange-yellow daylight was slowly being nudged aside by the gray-pink night. The sun itself had only been a bright, hazy glob through the thick Long Beach Halo. Eric couldn't decide whether the Halo acted like an oven and made the desert hotter than ordinary, or whether it acted like branches of a tree and filtered out some of the heat. And if it did filter out heat, would it be filtering certain of the sun's rays? Would they all be breaking out with skin cancer soon? He shook his head. What difference did it make? There wasn't anything they could do about it. The feeling of ignorance and helplessness was overpowering, like a man shoved through time to a past where the language and customs were unfamiliar. But had it ever been any different? Had people ever had any ability to change anything, or were we merely prisoners locked in a room busily rearranging furniture, to give the illusion of control?
He stood up, stretched, checked the bolt in his crossbow. One of these through Dirk Fallows' heart would change the world. Make him dead. That was change enough for Eric.
He gazed at the sleeping faces of the others. How quickly they had formed alliances, relationships. Rydell and Molly, physical opposites linked by what, a sense of humor? They slept next to each other, Rydell's big arm lying across Molly's small chest like a felled redwood. Next to them, less familiar but close, Season and Tag. She, loud and abrasive; he, quiet and thoughtful. Companions by need and default more than anything else. But that had been reason enough for most pioneers.
And there was Tracy. Separated from the others by a few sandy feet of earth-and much more. A loneliness that didn't start with the earthquakes, that went back many years. Annie had hinted at childhood traumas, but had refused to break Tracy's confidences. Annie had been good for Tracy, teaching her self-confidence and maturity, which Annie defined as an ability to laugh at yourself. Together the two of them had often conspired to make Eric laugh more, surprising him with practical jokes, his shoes filled with soil and a plastic tulip they'd dug up somewhere.
Annie had asked him once if he ever had sexual fantasies about Tracy, and when he'd truthfully responded no, she'd shaken her head sadly and said, "That proves you've been worrying too much. You're not normal."
He smiled at that, picturing Annie's face wrinkled in mock concern. Tracy was nice, but no one was like Annie.
A cool wind whipped some sand across Tracy's sleeping body and she frowned in her sleep, turning onto her side.
Eric rubbed his hands together and, for the fourth time in an hour, counted the number of bolts in his quiver. There was no particular reason, but somehow he knew that tomorrow he'd need them.
"No more meat."
The men exchanged disappointed glances, but no one complained. They didn't dare.
"And we're low on water."
A couple frowns, nothing else.
Fallows grinned at that, pleased at the success of his training methods. Most of them were young and raw, and he hadn't had much time with them. Two of the older ones had been with him in Nam, wandered aimlessly after getting back to the States. Part-time jobs, some trouble with the law. Lamar had beaten his girlfriend once too often, breaking her jaw and cracking a couple ribs. She pressed charges and he did a few months on a county farm in New Mexico. Kraus had been driving a taxi in New York City, taking his first drink before work, and making short stops at bars all day. After his fifth accident, they fired him. Rather than go home and tell his pregnant wife, he took off for California to look up his old commander he'd just heard through the veteran's grapevine was getting released.
Some of the rest were also vets of Nam, though they weren't Night Shift. Others were friends or relatives of men who'd served under Fallows, twitchy kids anxious for power and action. A few he'd picked up since the earthquakes, loners used to following orders. An ex-fireman, the former chief of police of a small town that had been totally leveled. With Cruz's help, Fallows had bullied them into submission, trained them to do whatever he said. To fear him more than any enemy. They'd lost a couple men due to the rigors of training, but it had had the desired effect. Fear and obedience.
"The situation is simple," Fallows continued, tapping his bayonet against his thigh as he spoke. This action seemed to mesmerize his troops as they listened to his words and watched the blade flashing orange with each tap. "We're low on water, so I sent Cruz out to scout for more." He gestured with his bayonet at Cruz, who leaned against a nearby boulder. Cruz nodded slightly. "He was unable to find suitable drinking water. Even unsuitable water. That puts a serious strain on our water supply. You know the laws of survival as well as I do: If you have all the water you need, you can eat whatever you want; if you have two to seven pints a day, avoid meat, cheese, and beans which contain proteins. Proteins require water for digestion which, if you don't provide, is drawn from body tissues. And that leads to dehydration. If we only had one pint, well, there'd be no eating at all. So I guess we're lucky, we're in the middle range. That means we can eat food with carbohydrates and fats. Fruits, sweets, biscuits. Got it?"
There was muttered acknowledgment, nodding heads. Fallows eyed them all carefully. He didn't like sharing information, even such basic information as this. He considered every man a potential enemy, a possible assassin, and his edge over others was his knowledge and training. Every time he taught a soldier how to shoot better, hide more effectively, kill more efficiently, he had the uneasy feeling he was giving away precious information that might be used against him, dulling his own edge. Still, they had to know enough to be useful to him, and that was the balance he tried to achieve. Teach them enough to be useful, but not enough to be threatening.
"Which brings me to my current decision. We've been traveling south for the past few days, on our way to do a little trading at Savvytown."
This time the men gave off a series of jubilant whistles and lecherous cheers.
Fallows fixed his sharp face with an understanding smile. "I appreciate your enthusiasm. It's been six weeks since we were there. And this time we've got something worth trading." He pointed his bayonet across camp at the prisoners sitting with legs and hands bound. Annie still wore Timmy's shirt, but the rest of her was naked except for shoes, which they'd permitted her for the walk. She'd had to endure the crude shouts of the men as they'd marched, the pinches, squeezes, rough hands and clumsy fingers. But nothing more had happened yet.
Next to her huddled Cynthia Roth and her twin daughters, Cheryl and Sarah. Cynthia's right eye was half-closed, the skin around it an ugly shade of purple. Her upper lip was swollen and split, a black scab crusted over it. Yesterday she'd kicked a soldier who'd stuck his hand down Sarah's pants, and he'd punched her. She didn't even know why she'd done it, she and her daughters had already been raped by almost every one of them. By now the soldiers seemed almost bored with them. The actual rape itself seemed minor compared with the embarrassment of having her daughters watch, followed by the horror of being forced to watch them. By kicking that animal, she'd attempted to restore some sense of dignity in her own eyes and in her daughters'. She smiled weakly now through her swollen lip. It had been worth it.
Jimmy was kept separate from the women, his hands bound, but otherwise treated like one of the men. He ate with them, full helpings, not the half-rations the women received. Fallows knew this would make him feel wrenching guilt, and that the only way to rid himself of it would be to reject his mother, the source of that guilt. Standard intelligence brainwashing. The Gestapo used it, the KGB, the CIA. Once you destroy the emotional tie to the parents, the child will need to replace it with something else: a uniform, a flag, a country. Or Dirk Fallows.
"But because of our shortages, I've decided to switch course and head us all up north, toward Santa Barbara. Or whatever's there now. More food and water opportunities up there. We might even establish a home base there."
The initial disappointment he saw on their faces was mixed with the excitement of building a base camp of their own. Fallows permitted some excited mumbling among the men. Then he held up his hands, bestowing his huge smile on them. "Now all I need is two volunteers for a decoy mission." His eyes raked the crowd, paused for only a fraction of a second on Foxworth, then on Toomey. For some reason neither understood, both raised their hands to volunteer. "Excellent. Meet me in my tent, men."
He nodded at Cruz, who straightened up, marched to the front of the men, and bellowed, "Dismissed." The men scattered. Cruz escorted Foxworth and Toomey to the only tent in camp, Fallows'.
They stood at parade rest in front of him, a little nervous at being in confined quarters with their commander. There was something about his energy, his intensity. Something none of them discussed, even among themselves, but all of them felt. It's what made them want to run, made them stay.
"You're going to like this mission, men," Fallows grinned.
"Yes, sir," Foxworth replied, a little too loudly. He avoided Fallows' eyes because they were so pale he sometimes thought he could see clear through them right into the brain itself. The idea made his skin clammy.
"Here it is then. I want you both to stay behind, set up an ambush for Ravensmith, and kill him. Any questions?"
They both looked stunned.
"Uh," Toomey started, thinking he should have a question, but not being able to complete one.
"Yes, Toomey?"
"Nothing, sir. Mission understood."
"Excellent. When you've successfully completed your assignment, we'll meet you north, in the Santa Barbara area. Whatever part of it isn't under water."
"Yes, sir."
"Weapons, sir?" Foxworth asked, getting excited now that he thought about it. Ambushing. Killing. Neat!
"Take a couple of the crossbows. That should give you the accuracy and the stealth."
Foxworth hesitated. "No guns, sir?"
"Against one man? What for? Of course, if you want to back out, Foxworth."
"No, sir!" He snapped to attention.
"Fine. Check out your weapons and start backtracking to set up your ambush. We'll meet you up north in a few days. Dismissed."
"Yes, sir," they both said, pivoted, and marched out.
Cruz sauntered over to Fallows' cot and sat down, something he'd never dared do before. "What was that all about?"
"Diversion," Fallows said, not seeming to notice Cruz's liberty. "We give them a couple hours to backtrack, then we head over to the water you found, fill the canteens, and shoot toward Savvytown as planned. South."
Cruz nodded his huge head with appreciation. "You're one smart son of a bitch, Fallows."
Fallows smiled, tapped his bayonet against his thigh.