The Fly-By-Nights (11 page)

For three more days the clan stayed in the shattered town. Then on the fourth night the fly-by-nights found them, and they came in some strength. Where they came from—who could say?—some far quarter of the ruins, most likely. But for a fact the faithless night breezes had borne up and dispersed abroad the scents of humanity, such scents as were irresistible to fly-by-nights.

Meanwhile the water bowser had been filled and the well had refreshed itself. Moreover Ned Singer’s scav team, which included Garth Slattery, had found subterranean gasoline tanks, miraculous survivors of the bombing and all the years of aftermath. While the fuel was badly degraded and sludgy, and the radiation count fell barely within Andrew Fielding’s safety levels, still it was better than nothing; the clan filtered it carefully into their containers and the thirsty tanks of their vehicles. While the engines might sputter and fume, balking at impurities, they would nevertheless work however falteringly.

As for the fly-by-nights:

Big Jon had ordered teams of armed night-watchmen posted on the perimeters of the accommodations. An hour or so before dawn on the fourth night, Garth was a member of Ned Singer’s team of nine men stationed in the approaches to the car park at vantage points where external views were mainly unimpeded, with arcs of fire that overlapped where possible. Chosen by Singer, however,
perhaps
as chance would have it, Garth’s location just happened to be the loneliest…

The leader had designated the best, most trustworthy of the clan’s old scavenger teams to this task, and only the
very
best to the protection of the car park, which held by far the majority of sleeping clan folk. Ned Singer himself had no station as such but constantly prowled his team’s positions to ensure that they were keeping their wits about them…in other words that they were staying awake and watchful.

That was how things stood when for the third or fourth time Singer came silently upon Garth where he sat uncomfortably on a knee-high stack of bricks behind a low, broad barrier built of rubble, his keen eyes probing the debris-littered expanse that lay beyond, with the barrel of his rifle pointing through a gap in the barrier’s rim.

During previous visits Singer had not been so quiet; he had whistled a few low notes, so alerting Garth to his presence. On this occasion, however, the first the youth knew of it was when the man’s heavy hand fell on his shoulder as Singer got down on one knee beside him. And:

“Aha!” the bully grunted. “You might well start, ’prentice! But if you think I’m quiet, what of the fly-by-nights, eh? Why, they can come upon you out of the night like so many ghosts! So you need to be aware of what’s behind you as well as in front.”

And despite that oaths and cursing were not in Garth’s nature, “God
damn
!” he said, as he shrugged Singer’s hand from his shoulder. “Too true, I started! But I might just as easily have jerked off a shot! And at this hour—”

“—You’d look a right fool, waking everyone up in the dead of night, eh?” Singer chuckled unpleasantly…but was serious again in a moment. “Except for a fact I didn’t think I was
that
quiet! What, you didn’t hear my whistle?”

“I heard no whistle,” said Garth, knowing there had been no such warning. “I heard nothing, not this time.”

“Oh really?” said the other, as he got to his feet. “Now, I know you’re not deaf. So…a bit tired maybe? Not getting too much sleep just recently? Other things occupying your mind, eh? Too much to think about, er, down there under the covers, as it were? Too much to do? Need someone to give you a hand, maybe?”

Singer’s meaning was perfectly obvious and Garth’s reaction to it was exactly as the bully had suspected and hoped it might be. Resting his rifle in its niche on top of the makeshift wall and rising awkwardly from his uncomfortable position as fluidly as his cramped limbs would allow, Garth turned on the older man with his fists swinging. But of course Singer was ready for him. Swaying easily aside from Garth’s attack, he drove the hardwood butt of his heavy weapon into the youth’s stomach, and as Garth doubled over brought it up under his chin.

That last was a glancing blow that only scraped the side of Garth’s cheek in front of his left ear and sent him off-balance; but as he tripped, toppling sideways among scattered rubble and debris, Singer advanced to stand over him, the butt of his ugly gun poised to fall upon his face—which didn’t happen!

For in that precise moment as Garth came down on the broken bricks, so there sounded near-distant cries that carried on the still night air…and a split-second later shrill whistles…and finally gunshots, a great many of them!

Torn three ways—between revenge, duty, and personal survival—Singer stood like that, with his gun poised like a great hammer, before muttering: “Damn it to every hell!” And as Garth gathered his wits the bully turned away, a black blot of a silhouette that glanced back just once before disappearing into the greater darkness.

Dazed and furious, stumbling awkwardly to his feet, Garth’s initial thought was to go after his tormentor and pay him back. But the stutter of automatic gunfire was almost continuous, and in addition to the sharp crackle of single shots and the shrill whistle blasts that issued an increasingly frantic alarm, there now came the nerve-rending sound of human voices, some of which screamed!

Garth’s hair stood on end! Layla was back there, in the car park, not fifty yards away! She would be awake by now, huddling in their scant bedclothes, desperately afraid—for herself but also for Garth—and here he stood gazing out at nothing, listening to the gunfire, hoarse battle-cries and screams of men in dire straits!

What to do?

Like Ned Singer—but also unlike him, for Garth’s thoughts were least of all for his own safety—he was tempted to hurry off, run back to Layla. But no, for the attack could be on several fronts. It certainly sounded that way: a battle whose like Garth had never before experienced; an uproar of terror and confusion! And of course there was only one thing he could do: his duty to the clan. Why, just beyond his arc of vision, the night could even now be seething! And so, having turned from his position for just two or three seconds, he now turned back—

—Barely in time!

For as in Singer’s prophesy however inadvertent,
they
were coming, like so many gaunt ghosts floating out of the darkness. Four of them in fact, a quartet of fly-by-nights, their eyes as luminous as burning sulphur. And they were coming fast, surging through—or
over,
as it seemed to Garth—an ankle-deep ground mist which like themselves had sprung up as if from nowhere!

This time the safety catch on Garth’s weapon was in the off position, and despite that he was still a little dazed he aimed at the closest of the monsters and squeezed off a hurried shot. He was lucky; one flaring eye was snuffed as half of the creature’s head flew away like so much vile froth. The undead horror at once stumbled to a halt, threw up its arms and crumpled down into the mist and rubble.

The others were much closer now, far too close, and Garth’s mouth was dry as dust as he saw them separating, making targeting more difficult. Again he took aim, this time at the central
apparition
for that was how they appeared—like insubstantial revenants, wisp-like—despite that they were real and at least partially solid! But for all Garth’s terror he concentrated and stilled the trembling of his hand and trigger finger to squeeze off a second, far more measured shot.

Ah, but the fly-by-nights knew that he was here now and had begun to weave from side to side, shifting like blown smoke and rapidly closing the distance between themselves and their intended victim! Garth’s shot had struck its target in the shoulder, by no means a fatal injury. The creature’s shoulder slumped and its arm fell to its side, dangling there; but its other arm and incredibly long hand remained stretched out in front as before, with talon fingers crooked and grasping. And its face…!

But Garth mustn’t so much as
look
at its face…except to frame it in his rifle’s sights before pulling the trigger. This time he was dead on target, and the fly-by-night uttered a thin mewling sigh or cry—as if it knew that this was the end—in the instant before its face flew apart.

Garth’s yell, of triumph and horror combined, was a sandpapered rasp as he tried to lift his weapon from its niche in the brick barrier. But to his amazement, his disbelief, he no longer had the strength! Fear had not unmanned him, but it had drained him!

And the two remaining fly-by-nights were upon him, rags of clothing and long hair fluttering, eyes blazing, and salivating jaws chomping vacuously where the monsters flowed over his makeshift barrier almost as if they sailed upon the writhing ground mist! The closest of the things was directly in front of Garth, its breath foul in his face, its hands clutching broken masonry to find a measure of purchase and launch itself at him. He need only unfreeze, wake up from this hypnotic-seeming nightmare and squeeze his trigger…which he did, with scarcely a second to spare. And shooting the fly-by-night in its skinny neck he blew its head off!

But out the corner of his eye Garth saw the final member of the quartet in midair, shrilling in maniacal rage as it flew at him like the vengeful—or simply crazed?—wraith that it was. And the barrel of his rifle was trapped beneath the cadaver of the one he had just this second destroyed!

Garth gasped his dismay and jerked back his head as taloned fingers stabbed at his face—only to be snatched away from him as a deafening blast sounded nearby and his attacker was thrown back onto the tottering barrier like a bundle of rags. Then, as the fly-by-night hissed and screeched, trying to drag itself up onto its scrawny knees, there came a second blast that silenced it, hurling it back over the barrier and down out of sight.

But that sound, those blasts: Garth recognized them of old. The ear-splitting roar of his father’s pump-action shotgun! And there stood Zach Slattery, his weapon smoking and mouth framing silent curse-words. And never a sight more welcome!

Before Garth could speak his father had hobbled around the barrier to its far side, and once again—just once this time there sounded his weapon’s booming voice, and there was no more mewling, no more screeching…

Zach came back and father and son clasped each other. Then: “Listen!” said Zach, drawing apart. But sounding from the near distance there was only a sporadic spatter of gunshots now, and the shouting of men was urgent but less fearful, and no one was screaming. “It’s over,” said Zach then. “For now at least, it’s over.”

“If you hadn’t come—” said Garth.

“—But I did,” Zach quietened him. “I couldn’t sleep; I was up and about and headed this way when the first alarm sounded. I knew where Ned Singer had positioned you and came as quick as I could; didn’t much care for the notion of your new wife becoming a widow so soon! And from the way the warning whistles were sounding, I figured the fly-by-nights must be coming at us from all quarters—including yours. Appears I was right.”

“I killed three of them,” said Garth, suddenly shuddering. “But that fourth one…he almost killed me!” Turning away, he grasped his rifle, pulling it free of the fly-by-night’s corpse. It came away quite easily now, for Garth’s strength was flowing back into his limbs, his body. And shaking his head, he said:

“I…I’ve never felt so afraid, so weak!”

But Zach only said: “And I’ve never seen you so strong! Now look, it’ll soon be dawn. The sky is starting to lighten up. By now any fly-by-night survivors will need to be drifting on back to their roosts. I think it’s safe now to get back inside, find Layla and reassure her. Then…maybe we can find out what the damage is. But damn it, I believe we’ve lost some good men this night…”

VII

They had lost some men, most of whom were very good men indeed; and they had also lost Ned Singer.

As the sun came up, Big Jon called a get-together of family heads and craft leaders in the church. He deemed it unnecessary to assemble the clan in toto, many of whose members were carrying out important tasks…which now must include the building of funeral pyres. Also present, however, were witnesses: twelve survivors of the sixteen men who had guarded the perimeters. It was one of them who told how Ned Singer had been taken.