“They Are the Same,” the voice said.
The machine gun opened up again, first near Converse, spraying the earth and foliage around him, then dusting the trail, finally finding the rock face. The shells rang a demented steel band’s tattoo off its violet surface, and shattered the lights and wires in a phantasmal burst of stinking smoke and electrical flame.
Raising his head Converse caught a glimpse of Antheil’s figure rolling across the trail. But he had not been hit, his roll was coordinated and calculated, as different — even at a glance — from the sickening spin of a dying man as anything could be. Two figures crashed through the brush behind him, heading downward; he saw them cross the dirt road and disappear into the darkness of the flat ground at the foot of the hill. The machine gun fired on after them. From the flying twigs and leaf meal, Converse judged its angle to be a few feet above his head. The gunner changed clips and went at it again, setting up a line of constant fire that closed off access to the village.
“They Are the Same,” the voice in the trees declared.
When the firing stopped, he looked up and saw that all along the range, empty forest was bursting into light. The flashing illuminations lit rank on rank of motionless pine, on remote silent ridges far above them. On the lower slopes, baubles danced and gleamed. He stared in wonder.
Darkness settled on the place where he hid until the only light close by came from the flames that licked about the hulk of Antheil’s pickup truck and the branches nearest it which had taken fire. The air was thick with smoke.
Converse crawled along over holly. The gunner had changed position but he kept firing. The darkness into which Angel and Antheil had retreated flickered with licks of flame as dry leaf caught and sputtered out.
Converse rolled over on his side and urinated sideways into the brush. After a few more rounds, he decided to attempt communication.
“Chieu hoi,” he shouted to the gunner.
The firing stopped for a moment, then resumed.
“Where are you?” Hicks called back.
“Out in front of you.”
“You’re in the way, man.”
Converse got to his feet and approached the trail at a crouch. He moved along the edge of it for several yards until he was even with the smoldering truck. A package wrapped in plastic lay on the ground just in front of him; he picked it up.
“I’m coming in,” he called ahead of him. He thrust the package under his arm like a football and rolled into the stand of pine saplings on the other side of the trail. A shadowy figure recoiled from his advance.
“Marge?”
She was sitting on the ground at the base of a rock; there were hot M-16 cartridges and broken glass bulbs all around her. Hicks was sprawled across the rock itself, with the smoking weapon under him. His breath sounded far back in his throat, almost a moan.
“He’s been shot,” Marge said. “He keeps passing out”
Converse reached up and touched Hicks’ arm. He felt blood on it. “What happened?” Hicks’ body stiffened in a sudden spasm. He raised himself on his elbows and brought up the weapon.
“For Christ’s sake. Are you alone?”
“At the moment,” Converse said. “How are you?”
Instead of answering, he swung the piece around and nudged Converse aside with the barrel and Bred a round at the rock wall across the canyon. Marge and Converse bent away from the noise, dodging the cartridges.
“There’s two of them,” Hicks declared. “I got them boxed. I can keep them out there all night.”
Converse lifted himself to the rock on which Hicks was lying; he could see nothing beyond the burned truck but dark trees and the mass of the rock wall.
“That fucking guy,” Hicks said. “Who is he?”
“He’s some sort of cop. He’s not straight.”
“No shit,” Hicks said.
“There are more of them,” Converse told him. “Two others.”
Hicks shook his head. “I got one. I guess he got the other.” He leaned his head on the rock and his shoulders trembled. “He was gonna peel everybody’s potatoes, that guy.”
“Figures,” Converse said.
“How are you?” Marge asked Hicks.
He took a deep breath and swallowed.
“This is what you do. You get down there and get my four-wheel drive. Drive it out to the highway while I keep them in here. Then you’re gonna pick me up on the other side. I have to go back up and cop.”
“And cop?” Converse asked. “Are you crazy?”
Marge took the bag that Converse had carried in and tossed it between them.
“This? This is here. Who needs it now?” Hicks reached down into it, took a handful of the stuff that was inside and flung it in their laps. Marge and Converse picked up the grains and sniffed at them.
“‘The pellet with the poison’s in the chalice from the palace,’ “ he recited, “‘but the flagon with the dragon has the brew that is true.’ ”
He rolled over on his shoulder and fired off another whole clip at the trees.
“It’s up the hill,” he told them. “I’ll get it.”
“No,” Marge said.
“You go in there and get that vehicle. Anything else in there that runs — slash the tires. Don’t leave them anything. When you get on the highway you go west until you’re crossing flat ground — you’re gonna see dry washes and salt. When you come to tracks crossing the road you turn off and you follow the tracks back here toward the mountains. You’re gonna see me on those tracks.”
“He’s bleeding,” Marge told her husband. Hicks reached down and started punching Converse’s arm with his fist. “Go for Christ’s sake — while they’re still back there. You think you know better than me? Do as you’re told.” Converse stood up, pulling Marge with him. When he stepped out on the trail, she followed. She held his sleeve as they went and it gave him an odd feeling. Smitty and Danskin had been holding him by the sleeve for days. From the grove of little pine trees, Hicks continued his fire round after round.
“Are they really back there?” Marge asked.
“They better be,” Converse said.
All the lights were on in the village, but the lighted win dows were vacant, the tents gone. The field where the rows of trucks had been parked was empty. They went cau tiously past car skeletons and the ruined tepee. At the edge of the rubbish pit a woman holding a tartan beverage cooler fled from them.
In the center of the village street a single truck remained. The driver was a young Mexican; he had the hood up and was working grimly on the truck’s engine while his family stood by. There were three children who were still staring, rapturously, at the face of the mountain.
Marge and Converse went to the Land-Rover and Con verse took a camper’s ax from under the back seat and set about slashing the tires of Danskin’s station wagon with it. The Mexican family watched him in silence. The young man did not look up from his truck’s engine. Hicks’ M-16 clattered on.
Converse got behind the wheel of the Land-Rover and stared at it.
“Keys,” he said.
Marge threw up her hands and shook her head.
He went through his pockets, found a nail clipper and began working the screws out of the front panel. “They didn’t have Janey,” Marge said. He was shaving down the insulation on the starter wire. “No, they didn’t. She’s with Jay.”
“Thank God,” Marge said. “That at least.” When the engine turned over, the fuel gauge registered a quarter full. Converse exchanged glances with the Mexican truck driver and gunned for the road out. He moved the Land-Rover as fast as it would go until a bad curve fright ened him. He had difficulty with the four-wheel drive.