“That was when I saw Ned Singer, still in the saddle on his stationary bike and revving its engine. Now, I don’t know, perhaps I shouldn’t mention this…except Ned looked about ready to take off! But surely not? He couldn’t shoot for fear of hitting me; maybe he was waiting for me to escape from the fly-by-night, when he would either shoot it or run it down and cripple it. That had to be what he was thinking, but I simply can’t say for sure…and everything was happening so very fast!
“The thing had taken hold of my jacket and I could scarcely believe how strong it was! It had dragged me close, was licking its awful drooling lips, sniffing me out with its sunken, badly fretted nose; why, I even fancied it was laughing at me…but silently! And it was holding me so close that I couldn’t get my rifle in between in order to shoot the horrible thing!
“Meanwhile, the one that had come over the boulder had got itself together somehow and was on its feet again. Billy fired at it; his shot knocked it down, passed right through it, too, I think, because the bullet ricocheted and I heard it go whining off close to the creature that had hold of me; which caused it to back off a little, but without letting go its arm just seemed to stretch! But finally I got my rifle in between us and squeezed the trigger, putting my bullet into one of its sulphur yellow eyes! Then, as I think I’ve already said, I saw its head fly apart like some kind of pulpy puffball!
“But Father, I admit I was scared, and I put another bullet into that broken thing, and another into the one that was still mewling, spitting at the foot of the boulder. And yes, mine and Billy’s bullets were flying just a bit thick and wild, more out of shock that necessity, probably, but not nearly as bad as Ned Singer makes out…at least I don’t think so.
“As for Ned: still on his bike, he seemed to be aiming that gun of his at me and Billy! So I thought, until a fourth fly-by-night appeared from behind the same boulder and a burst of fire from Ned’s big gun passed over us and took its awful head off!
“And, well, that was that…”
Slowly Zach nodded. “All done?” he said.
“Yes. Nothing more to tell.”
“Maybe not,” Zach growled, “But plenty to wonder about. Now you listen to me: I may have said or hinted at this before, and it’s possible I’m completely wrong—it’s difficult to know for sure when it involves a man who comes over as naturally offensive and unlikeable as Ned Singer; which makes it easy to think the worst of him—but still I’m telling you to watch out for that man. Fly-by-nights, deadly weapons, and dangerous situations—yes, and a little jealousy to boot, certainly on Ned’s part whether it’s warranted or not—such things don’t sit any too well together. One thing’s for sure: I’m awfully glad that Billy Martin was out there with you, and not just you and Ned, if you follow my meaning.”
“I’m trying not to,” Garth replied. “I’d much prefer to believe that Ned’s just a bit jealous—though of what I really don’t know—as well as being an unpleasant bully. As to that last…well, he can’t be that bad. Layla Morgan doesn’t seem to think so, anyway.”
Now it was Zach’s turn to shrug. “One man’s meat,” he said. “Or in this case one girl’s, maybe? But in any case I’m telling you to be careful. Because if there is anything to worry about, then this morning’s little chat won’t have improved matters!”
By which time the convoy had come to a halt, the motors had all fallen silent, and the shade of the great squat building on their right was cool and very welcoming…if not the prospect of its exploration and (possibly) its cleansing…
IV
Half of the column was clustered close to the big building; the other half, under Big Jon Lamon’s personal direction, had moved on to another tall but badly damaged edifice close by.
In a little while, when Garth heard Ned Singer’s bull voice calling his seek-and-destroy squad to disembark, he was at once on his feet and out through the open side of the trundle, using his bike as an aid in climbing down. Hurrying around to the far side of the vehicle, he approached Singer where he stood elevated on a pile of rubble, with his heavy multi-barreled machine-gun cradled in both brawny arms.
Singer fondled the blued-steel side of his ugly weapon like a favourite child, and when his squad was accounted for he told them: “Whatever else you do when we’re inside, don’t anyone get in front of this gun! When this beast of mine is on heat it can cut down trees, knock holes in walls, and blow anything living, dead or undead straight to hell!”
Then, looking from face to face, he addressed each man individually: first Billy Martin. “Billy, how old are you?”
“Nineteen,” that one answered.
“And how many kills?”
“Seven, most of ’em scavenging with you, when we worked out of the Southern Refuge.”
Singer nodded. “So you know a thing or two about going into places like this: the dangers that may be lurking in dark corners? All right, I won’t worry about you.”
He moved on. “And you fellows: Dan Coulter, Peder Halbstein and Eric Davis. Oh, I think I know you three pretty welclass="underline" married men, all three of you, with wives and families. Too much to lose in general; nothing wild about you fellows; steady as they come, and I trust you.”
Singer turned his narrow-eyed gaze on Garth. “Then there’s the young one: the son of a fighting cock, and maybe as wild as his father was—well, in his time. Also, it’s not too unlikely that ‘cock’ is the right word for him: him being so very young, and all his sap starting to rise. Ah, but it appears that certain juicy young girls prefer grown men, eh, ’prentice Slattery? As for me, I still prefer to think of such as you as a pup!”
Before Garth could reply, if he would, Singer went on: “You can stick close to me, at least close enough that I can keep an eye on you.” And then ignoring the youth, glancing this way and that along the column where the folk of the clan were disembarking now, stretching their limbs, easing their cramps and keeping to the shade, Singer continued: “Now then, where’s gangling Garry Maxwell and his sniffers, eh? Ah, here he comes now.”
A tall thin man, with a pair of equally lean hounds on long leather leashes, came hurrying, almost running, from one of the animal trundles further along the vehicle chain. Garth, finding himself wondering who was in charge—Maxwell over his dogs or the dogs over Maxwell—had to smile. But in fact this emaciated, almost skeletal man knew exactly what he was doing, and so did his dogs. When Maxwell dug his heels in, dragging them to a strangled halt and throwing down a rag of disintegrating cloth, the hounds immediately quit snuffling at some unguessable trail and turned on the rag in a coughing, snarling fury.
Maxwell let them play tug-o’-war briefly, finally slapping their noses and retrieving his rag. “Fly-by-night clothin’,” he informed unnecessarily, “from a dead ’un. Or p’raps I should say from one with no life of any sort left in ’im! It lets the dogs know what us and them’s a-doin’ ’ere, and gets ’em all keyed up for it.” Then, turning to Singer: “Ned, if you and one o’ yours will be watchin’ my back, me and these lads o’ mine is ready.”
“All right then,” said Singer, jumping down from his rubble platform. “Let’s get it done, the place cleaned out, emptied of scum—if there’s any in there—and these folks safely inside before the sun gets up any higher and a whole lot hotter!”