He left the store and surfaced. He was a long way from the boat. He waved until he had their attention, and let them come to him. He was exhausted when they hauled him aboard.
“Did you find any food?” Horrie Jackson wanted to know. “We found some food with that scuba stuff before we ran out of air. We get back to Porterville I can show you lots of places where there’s food. You dive for it and we’ll split.”
Tim shook his head. He felt an infinite sadness. “That was a general store,” he said.
“Can you find it again?”
“I think so. It’s right under us.” Probably he could, and there would be much to salvage; but in his exhaustion he could not feel any excitement over his find. He felt only a terrible sense of loss. He turned to Jason Gillcuddy as probably the only man who could understand — if anyone could.
“Anyone could walk in there and buy,” Tim said. “Razor blades, Kleenex, calculators. Books. Anyone could afford to buy those; and if we all work very hard for a long time, maybe a few of us will have them again.”
“What did you bring up?” Horrie Jackson demanded.
“General store,” Adolf Weigley said. “Did you get any of that stuff on Forrester’s list? Solvent? Ammonia? Any of that?”
“No.” Tim held up the bag. When they opened it they found a bottle of liquid soap and a Kalliroscope. They all looked at him strangely — all but Jason Gillcuddy, who put his hand on Tim’s shoulders. “You’re not in shape to dive again today,” he said.
“Give me half an hour. I’ll go down again,” Tim said.
Horrie Jackson dug further into Tim’s goody bag. Fishhooks and fishing line. A vacuum tin of pipe tobacco. The peanuts: Horrie opened the tin, passed it around. Tim took a handful. They tasted like… a cocktail party in progress.
“Diving can do funny things to your head,” he said, and knew at once that that wasn’t the explanation. All the world that he had lost was down there under the water, turning to garbage.
Gillcuddy said, “Here. One sip left.” He handed Tim a bottle of Heublein Whiskey Sour that Tim didn’t even remember stowing. One sip, a blast of nostalgia on the palate, and he threw the bottle far over the water. And there, sinister specks on the eastern horizon, were the boats of the New Brotherhood.
“Start the motor. Horrie, start the motor quick. They’ll cut us off,” he said. He strained forward for details, catching his balance when the motor started up, but all he could see was a lot of little boats and one much larger… a barge, with things on it. “They’ve got a gun platform, I think.”
Expendables
It was nor their fault that no one had told them that the real function of an army is to fight and that a soldier’s destiny — which few escape — is to suffer, and if need be, to die.
Dan Forrester looked exhausted. He sat in the wheelchair Mayor Seitz had brought up from the valley convalescent home, and he was plainly fighting off sleep. He was padded against the cold: a blanket, a windbreaker with hood, flannel shirt and two sweaters, one of which was three sizes too big; that one he wore backward. A .22 bullet would not have reached his skin.
The dairy barn was unheated. Outside, the wind howled at twenty-five miles an hour, with gusts at twice that. It blew thin flurries of snow and sleet. The swaying gasoline lantern threw out a bright ring of light, leaving shadows of lunar blackness in the contours of the concrete barn.
Three men and two women took turns rotating the cement mixer by hand, while others shoveled powders into it. Two of red, one of aluminum powder, while the dry cement mixer turned. When the powders were well mixed, others took them out and put them in cans and jars, then cast plaster of parts around them.
Maureen Jellison came in and shook the snow from her hair. She watched from the door for a moment, then went to Forrester’s wheelchair. He didn’t see her, and she shook his shoulder. “Dan. Dr. Forrester.”
He looked up with glazed eyes. “Yes?”
“Do you need anything? Coffee? Tea?”
He thought that through, slowly. “No. I don’t drink coffee or tea. Something with sugar in it? A Coke. Or just sugar water. Hot sugar water.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, please.” What I need, he thought, is fresh insulin. There’s nobody here who knows how to prepare that. If they ever give me the time I can do it myself, but first… “First thing is to bring the benefits of civilization back to the Stronghold.”
“What?”
“I might have known I’d walk into a war,” he told Maureen. “I was looking for the haves. The have-nots were bound to be somewhere around.”
“I’ll bring tea,” Maureen said. She went to the men turning the cement mixer. “Harvey, Dad wants you up at the house.”
“Right,” Harvey Randall said. “Brad, you stay with Dr. Forrester, and make sure—”
“I know,” Brad Wagoner said. “I think he should get some sleep.”
“I can’t.” Forrester was far enough away that they didn’t think he could hear them… and he looked like death warmed over anyway. The dead don’t hear. “I have to get to the other barn now.” He started to get up.
“Dammit, stay in that chair,” Wagoner shouted. “I’ll wheel you over.”
Harvey followed Maureen out of the barn. He zipped up all his clothes against the wind, and they walked on in silence for a moment. Presently he caught up to her. “I don’t suppose there’s anything to talk about,” he said.
She shook her head.
“You’re really in love with him?”
She turned and her expression was… strange. “I don’t know. I think Dad wants me to be. Wouldn’t that turn you off? Breeding for politics! It’s Johnny’s rank Dad wants. I think he believes in Colorado Springs.”
“Oddly phrased. Well, it certainly would be convenient.”
“It would, wouldn’t it? Harv, Johnny and I were sleeping together before you ever met me, and not because I was ordered to, either.”
“Yeah?” He smiled suddenly, and she saw and wondered; but he wasn’t going to mention George Christopher’s tirade. No. “Have I got a chance?”
“Don’t ask me now. Wait till Johnny gets back. Wait till it’s all over.”
Over? When is that? He pushed the thought away. Despair would be too easy. First Hammerfall and Loretta dead. The drive through nightmare, with Harv Randall curled around his wounded ego, a dead weight in the passenger seat. The fight to be ready for winter, for Fimbulwinter. The glaciers had been here once; every damn boulder in that damn wall was a reminder. Harv tasted the urge to howl at the heavens: Isn’t that enough? Wasn’t it enough without cannibals, war gases, thermite?
“You didn’t say no,” he said. “I’ll hang onto that.”
She didn’t answer, and that was encouraging, too. “I know how you must feel,” he said.
“Do you?” She was bitter. “I’m the prize in a contest. I always thought it was a joke, poor little rich girl. Suddenly nothing is funny anymore.”
They reached the house and went in. Senator Jellison and Al Hardy had maps spread out on the living-room floor. Eileen Hamner held more papers, Hardy’s eternal lists.
“You look frozen,” Jellison said. “There’s something hot in the Thermos. I won’t call it tea.”
“Thanks.” Harvey poured a cup. It smelled like root beer, add tasted much like that, but it was hot and it warmed him.