Slaughter stood and walked to the bars. "Well, I don't know what's wrong with the rest of you, but this coffee tastes just fine to me. If you don't want it, pass the other thermos down."
"Be careful, Slaughter," Owens told him.
"I know what I'm doing. Hell, I'm thirsty."
"Suit yourself." From the far end, Lucas passed the thermos down. They moved it, hand to hand, along the cells, and Slaughter set it by the thermos he had poured from.
"I'll save this for later."
"If you're not too sick," the second guard told him, grinning.
"You don't know what you're missing."
"I think you'll show us soon enough."
Slaughter shrugged and went back to his bunk, pretending that he sipped and liked the coffee. "All the more for me." And he was yawning. As he lay back in his bunk, he wondered if another worm was in the second thermos and if he would figure out what it was and how to use it. On the wall, the clock showed half past midnight.
NINE
In the barricade, Altick waited. He and his men had been hearing noises for some time, but that was normal. Night sounds in the forest. Animals come out to hunt or graze or simply wander. Coyotes howling. Nightbirds singing. There had been no evidence of danger. They had formed a circle within the barricade and stared out toward the darkness, reassured by what from all signs was another pleasant night spent in the mountains. Then the noises stopped completely, and the men inhaled, their stomachs rigid.
Silence in the mountains was something to be afraid of. One man jerked. An antelope or something big like that was suddenly charging down a wooded slope, its hoofbeats thundering, as if in panic to escape what chased it. There was scurrying through bushes, branches snapping, and abruptly the night became silent again, and they were sweating.
Altick tapped the man beside him. In the almost perfect fullness of the moon, the other man could see Altick pointing. Over to the left, a sound so vague, so indistinct that maybe it was only their imagination. Over to the right, another sound, and now there wasn't any question. Something cautiously approached them. From the forest on the far edge of the barricade, leaves brushed. Then a twig broke, and whatever was out there had encircled them.
Now take it easy, Altick thought. Three things out there can't encircle you. But then he heard a subtle fourth and then a fifth and howling.
"Jesus."
The howling wasn't like wolves or coyotes. It was unlike anything Altick had ever heard, first from the woods before him, then behind him, then no longer singly but in concert all around him. He remembered how the enemy had tried to spook him with their noises like this back in Nam. They'd shout or laugh or play rock and roll. Sometimes they'd talk in English.
But this howling. He'd never heard anything like it. Hoarse and crusty. At the same time, high-pitched and strident. Altick told himself that in Nam he'd endured about the worst thing that a man could live through. This could surely be no worse than that.
You hope, Altick thought. Again he tapped the man beside him. While they'd worked to build the barricade, Altick had explained the significance of each tap and gesture so they could understand each other without talking. Now he passed the sign that emphasized the need for silence. They would have their guns and flashlights ready, and he passed another sign, reminding them to hold their fire until whatever might be out there reached the barricade. He wanted to be certain of a target, but the howling was persistent and unnerving. Lord, it wouldn't stop.
It must have hidden other noises because suddenly he felt the pressure on the barricade. He heard the snap and scratch of something climbing. As he switched on his flashlight, he was slammed aside, his gun went off, and he was struggling with a thing that clutched him. All around him, he saw flashlight beams and muzzle flashes, diving bodies, heard the shots and screams and gasps of struggle.
The scene was a swirl of chaos as he rolled and punched with his gun and pulled the trigger at the obscene thing that grappled with him. He was suddenly in Nam again, and that remembrance was familiar, helped to give him courage, but the thing that faced him, swinging with its club, was more grotesque than anything he'd survived in Nam, and for an instant he was fearful that his shock had slowed his reflexes. The club swooped toward him, and the angle of his flashlight showed the spike at one end, streaking toward his eye, as he stumbled to avoid it, firing again. Abruptly something struck his back. Oh, Jesus! He swung to fire. Too late. Shadows swarmed, and he was falling.
TEN
"What's that?"
"Your imagination."
"No, it's shooting."
"It's just thunder or a rockfall."
The ranchers and the men from town went back to their drinking.
They had their Jeeps and trucks parked in a circle on an upper mountain meadow. They had posted guards who watched the darkness, and they'd built several campfires which they sat around. They ate and drank and checked their rifles. They were anxious, glad to be enclosed in something, and with that accomplished, Parsons sat among some hunter friends, pretending to be one of the guys.
So far he had taken chances, inciting a mob, imprisoning those five men back in town, particularly Slaughter. There'd be trouble about that, he knew, but not as much as he could make for Slaughter. After all, so many people had gone along with this that few were left to make accusations.
But Parsons couldn't keep the pressure on. If for a brief time he had taken charge, he'd have to self-efface now, ease off, let inertia carry forward. Because the men had come this far, they'd keep going, and he'd have to make it seem as if from now on he just went along with what they all intended. That had always been his method, and he knew that it would work again. They'd solve this problem; he would still have power; and the valley would continue. With the precedent of 1970, he didn't see how clearing out these hippies could be anything but good for him. He'd have to do this with some care, though. He would have to stay in the background.
What was more, he'd have to take care that these men weren't drunk when they went up to face the hippies. Image was important. There couldn't be any accusations that this group was just a drunken mob. He whispered to a few subordinates, and acting as if on their own, they went around to tell the men to stow the whiskey. Anyhow, the night was well upon them. They'd need sleep if they expected to wake up by sunrise and start moving. There was plenty to do tomorrow, a lot of miles to cover yet, a long trek through the high, thick, twisted mountain ridges.
ELEVEN
They were waiting. They had crept up to the forest fringes, staring at the once familiar objects in a circle, at the fires and figures near them, hearing voices, watching shadows.
They were nervous, glancing toward the moon and trembling. On occasion, they couldn't resist the urge to howl, but the men across there only turned in their direction as they spread their blankets by the fires. Then the forest fringes were deserted. They were backing toward the high ground, moving deeper through the forest. They were eager for the taste which, although it sickened, they nonetheless craved, but this was not the moment or the place. Higher, deeper in the mountains where the quarry would be less protected-that was what they wanted. So they shuffled through the underbrush, and far beyond the upper ridges, they heard rumbles that rolled down like thunder. The echo of gunshots. They moved toward it.
TWELVE
Slaughter waited in the darkness. He was lying on his bunk, pretending to sleep as through his half-closed eyes he glanced out through the bars toward where the two guards, having dimmed the lights, were tilted back in their chairs, their heads against the wall. He knew he had to move soon, but if too soon, he would rouse them.
He was cursing to himself. He had been safe. A cell to keep him occupied while everything went on without him. Now the force of choice was on him once again, and if he didn't act, he knew that Rettig then would understand him. Did it matter? Yes, he finally decided. He would not relive his past humiliation. He had come here for a fresh start, and if he ignored this opportunity, he would never feel whole again; he would have chosen a progressive pattern of defeat; he'd just keep moving pointlessly. Of course, he could pretend to Rettig that he hadn't understood the objects in the coffee, but he didn't know if he would be convincing. Even so, he wouldn't be convincing to himself. He had to do this.