In the hills along the Kentucky-Tennessee line he had discovered a squad of armed soldiers like himself, a half-dozen men who shared the common disaster of awakening on the wrong side of the river. Their leader, a private who possessed in brawn what he lacked in rank, had invited Gary to join them.
Gary refused. “You're too much of a target — I heard you coming a mile away. And it's tougher to feed seven than six. Thanks, anyway.”
“Suit yourself, Jack,” the private told him. He stared at the tanned, well-fed body Gary had acquired on the beach. “Where'd you winter?”
“Texas,” Gary answered promptly. “Lots of cattle.”
“I'll keep it in mind. Hey — wait a minute, you can't get across to Texas!”
“No? Well maybe it was Arkansas — I'm not much good on geography.”
“Wise guy! Just don't ever cross us again, Jack, if you're packing grub. You don't get a second chance.”
“That goes double,” Gary replied. “But I'll see you long before you spot me. If you've never been up in the line, soldier, put somebody in charge who has. You won't last long without scouts.”
He watched them out of sight, working their slow way over the hills to the east. The last man in the troop turned around to wave briefly at him before vanishing over a ridge. Later, Gary wondered if they complained to the private about their back pay.
Little good it would do any of them to complain, himself included — they'd probably never see it. The high brass would trot out some fancy excuse for not paying up — like A.W.O.L. And there would be a full year shot to hell. Thirteen or even fourteen months perhaps — it had been at least that long since the unforgettable day he had celebrated his thirtieth birthday. More than a full year for certain, for he had already spent most of this summer working his way northward.
He had no particular destination, nothing but a vague desire to see how far up the Mississippi he could go and still encounter troops. Someone he had met, someone coming downstream from the north had told him the river watch extended all the way to the Canadian border, and that after the river ended — or began rather, in a Minnesota lake — the troops patrolled overland to the border. The Canadian Mounties took over at that point but the risks and chances of slipping between their patrols were useless, for the United States had armed the border and the friendly nationals to the north were no longer permitted entry.
Gary squirmed on the hard ground and rested the rifle in the crook of his arm. The long, scraggly beard on his face was dirty and itched continually. He wondered again when the quarantine would be lifted. He had seen no exploratory patrols coming across the bridges as yet, testing and sampling as the schoolteacher had said they would. As far as he knew there had been nothing done to reunite the two halves of the country. The river spans remained closed and no one crossed to either side. There had been an occasional plane overhead but it did not attempt contact with anyone on the ground — reconnaissance, he guessed, photographing the towns and perhaps the people who stood in the open to watch it.
A full year now had passed, and perhaps even more.
A year. And in the dim beginning he and a thousand like him had supposed it might last a couple of days, perhaps a week or so. What blind and stupid fools they had been. The schoolteacher had been more of a pessimist in his opinions — his early thoughts were that the quarantine would last a month, even two. And now the first full year had passed and he was in the beginning months of another. How much longer would the cursed thing continue? Wasn't a year long enough to wear away the dangers? Wasn't a year much, much too long to be cut off from your own kind?
The damned brass was responsible.
The first few drops of rain fell on his upturned face and he waited to see if it were a false alarm, or the beginning of a shower. The rifle was snuggled under his coat to keep it dry. After a few hesitant minutes the rain began in earnest and Gary struggled up out of his earthy bed. Down near the river there were ragged trees and a hedge that would offer brief shelter from the sky.
He trudged across the field, soggy and dispirited.
7
GARY waited with beads of sweat standing out on his neck, knowing how near they were and not liking it. They were behind him and creeping in, moving slowly and without real nerve or daring because of what they were, but coming in nevertheless for he was alone and they were three. He hugged the bulky object between his knees and waited, tense.
“Don't move!”
Gary jerked himself up in simulated surprise and then held deathly still, waiting for the man behind the voice to reveal himself. The voice was not too unexpected — shrill, nervous, but still carrying a note of bravado because its owner held a gun at the seated man's back. The man would have two companions. There had to be three of them, although he hadn't been able to distinguish their number by the muted sounds of their slow approach. It had been a clumsy approach and he had followed it with ease, his back turned, his nerves tingling.
“Throw out that gun!”
Very carefully he tossed the rifle away from him. There must be three of them. He had spotted the three Scavengers moving along the river during the day, parallel to his route, and he knew that with the coming of darkness they would remain in the vicinity of the bridge. He and they must have unknowingly followed or leap-frogged each other all the way upriver, from where he had first sighted them a week ago.
The nervous voice spoke again. “Now stand up — easy.”
He did as he was ordered, climbing slowly to his feet and putting his hands in the air without being told. Instantly a pair of quick, fluttery hands was on his body searching for concealed weapons, for tobacco or food hidden in his pockets. This would be the second of the trio.
“I haven't got anything,” he said quietly.
“Shut up!” The bravado was stronger now that Gary was disarmed and at a physical disadvantage.
The hands went away from his body and the second voice became known. “He's clean, Harry.”
There were shuffling footsteps to one side and a man slid into view carrying a shotgun. Gary looked at him briefly and recognized the scavenger, Harry. His glance dropped to the shotgun and he stiffened with interest.
“Now don't get no funny notions,” Harry warned him.
“That gun,” Gary said, “I never saw one like that before. What is it?”
“None of your damned business.” The owner of the weapon motioned with its muzzle to the object on the ground. “What's that?”
“None of your da—” He cut it short as the gun came up on a line with his stomach. “Diving gear,” he explained sulkily.
“What'cha got it for, anyhow?”
Gary hesitated only long enough to sow the suspicion. “I found it.”
“You're a liar!”
“Well — I picked it up back there a piece. In a store.”
“Step away from it — over there.”
Gary took a dozen careful steps to one side and turned to face the three of them. The other two stood there uselessly, equally nervous and apprehensive, watching him and their leader. All of them were in ragged clothing and all smelled offensive from long weeks or months without a bath. They appeared unarmed. The leader held the shotgun on Gary and made a motion with his thumb.
“Take a look at it, Sully.”
Sully trotted over to the gear and pawed it, not knowing what it was and therefore not knowing how to examine it with intelligence.
“It's clean, Harry,” was all he could think to say.
“Spread it out!” Harry barked. “Let's have a look.”
The scavenger spread it out, eagerly and clumsily, displaying the few pieces on the ground. Harry advanced and stood over it, looking down.