Winter Duty (32 page)

It did neither. It headed straight for the woods south, toward the river.

Valentine jumped, felt the cool night air rush up his trouser legs. He landed on his good leg, cradling the rifle carefully against his midsection as though it were a baby.

With that he was off, settling into his old Wolf lope, the bad leg giving him the port-and-starboard sway of a tipsy sailor or perhaps an off-balance metronome.

He cast about with a coonhound’s frantic anxiety at the edge of the woods. The tracks were there, hard to see in the deep night of the woods. Only the Reaper’s furious pace allowed him to find the tracks at all.

Valentine searched the woods with his hard ears. The wind was smothering whatever sounds the Reaper made—if it was in fact running and not just trying to lure him into the woods.

Deciding on handiness over firepower, Valentine slung his rifle. Drawing his pistol and sword, he tucked the blade under his arm and began stalking into the woods with the pistol in a solid, two-handed “teacup” grip, searching more with his ears than his eyes.

His footfalls sounded like land mines detonating to his nervous ears. Of course, anyone venturing into thick woods after a Reaper would be a madman not to be nervous.

Motion out of the corner of his eye—

Valentine swung, the red fluorescent dot on the pistol’s foresight tracking through wooded night to . . .

A chittering raccoon, blinking at him from a tree branch.

Valentine lowered the pistol barrel.

In a cheap horror movie, this would be the moment for the Reaper to come up behind. Valentine turned a full circle. The woods were empty.

A half hour later he’d traced the tracks to an old road running along the bank of the Ohio River above the flood line. Above what was technically the flood line, that is; the road showed evidence of having survived at least one flood. The Reaper could have continued on to the river or headed down the road in either direction. It might even have stashed a bicycle somewhere—a Reaper could reach a fantastic speed on two wheels.

Now all that was left was the grim accounting. Perhaps the Reaper had grabbed some poor sentry and terrified him into giving an estimate of their reduced strength once Bloom had departed. There’d be a name to report missing and fear in the camp.

Such a loss would be worse to take than an ambush or a fire-fight, where at least the men could feel like they shot back. A single man’s death after so many weeks without a casualty worse than a broken ankle would loom all the larger over dinner conversation.

It took three hours for word to come back to the alarmed operations center: all in-fort personnel present and accounted for, from the most distant sentry to the cook stocking potatoes in one of the basements against the winter.

One other person had caught a good look at the Reaper, and Valentine and Lambert heard the story from a shaken-up mechanic named Cleland, brought in by Frat, who’d found him in crouched on the unpleasant side of a board over a pit toilet and helped him out. Cleland was up late winterproofing a pump, went to the cookhouse for a hot sandwich and coffee, and saw a tall figure standing silhouetted against one of the security lights.

“Just looked like he was trying to keep warm, wrapped up. Didn’t notice how tall he was right off as I was headin’ up the hill, you know.”

Valentine’s nose noted that Cleland hadn’t done the most thorough job cleaning up before giving his report.

“Standing in the light?” Valentine asked.

“Turned toward it, more like. I saw something in its hand.”

“He needed light,” Lambert said, looking at Valentine. “It’s a dark night.”

“Could you see what it was?” Valentine asked.

“Piece of paper, maybe. It shoved whatever it was into its cloak when it heard me. Damn thing looked right at me. Yellow eyes. Nobody ever told me how bright they were. A man doesn’t forget that. Don’t think I ever will.”

“What then?”

“I ran like the devil. Or like the devil was after me, more like. Dodged through the transport-lot and jumped into the old latrine.”

“You can go, Cleland,” Lambert said. “Get a drink if you like at the hospital. Medicinal bourbon.”

“What do you think?” Lambert asked Valentine after Cleland left.

Valentine looked at the alert report. “They found a garbage can overturned by the cookhouse. Could be raccoons again.”

“A Reaper snuck onto the base to go through our garbage? Not even the garbage at headquarters; a can full of greasy wax paper and coffee grounds?”

Valentine had the same uncomfortable feeling he’d had on his first trip into the Kurian Zone, when he learned that one of his charges had been leaving information for Kurian trackers.

“A message drop,” Valentine said.

“Possibly. People go to the canteen at all hours. It’s a good spot. Almost everyone’s there once a day.”

“That means—it could be anyone.”

“In a camp full of Quislings,” Lambert said.

“Not anymore . . . at least I hope not,” Valentine said.

Lambert lowered her voice. “They turned on their superiors once. We have to consider the possibility that they’ll do it again. How many of them are above going for a brass ring and an estate in Iowa?”

“Will you take tea with me, Mister Valentine?” Mrs. O’Coombe asked as Valentine passed through her mini-camp on a blustery afternoon with blown leaves rattling against the Rover’s paneling. “You look chilled.”

Valentine had no need to be anywhere. The column was waiting for a report from the Kentuckians about the status of their wounded left behind, not to mention offical permission to move through the new Freehold with an armed column. “Yes. I would like to talk to you.”

“Tea elevates any social interaction,” she said, placing an elegant copper pot on the electrical camp stove running off the generator. Valentine admired the long spout and handle. The decorative top had elaborate etching.

She opened a tin and spooned some black leaves into the holder at the top of the pot.

“You’ll forgive me—I make some ceremony of this,” she said. “Teatime was always my time on the ranch. Even my husband, God rest him, didn’t disturb me if I closed my library door.”

She poured.

“Tea is the smell of civilization, don’t you think?”

Valentine sniffed, briefly bringing the old mental focus to his nostrils. Not a strong scent, even to his old Wolf nose. Just wet leaves and hot water.

“Not much of a smell.” Valentine said. “I’ve heard people put, er, that oil, berge—”

“Bergamot,” she corrected. “Yes, Earl Grey. A classic. Not that hard to make. Are you a fan of teas, Mister Valentine?”

“I used to drink some good stuff in New Orleans. Lots of trade there. I had sage tea in Texas. I trade my whiskey and tobacco rations for tea, the Southern Command stuff.”

“Dusty mud,” she said. “These are real leaves, from China and India.”

They drank. Valentine sniffed again, letting his Wolf’s nose explore the pleasantly delicate aroma.

“No, it’s not a strong smell,” she said. “But then civilization isn’t a strong presence either. The whole idea is the sublimation of coarser practices. Yet when it disappears—just as when your cup is empty—you’ll notice its absence more. Receiving mail is an ordinary experience until it doesn’t show up for a week; then its interruption is keenly felt.”

“We’d like nothing better than weekly mail out here.”

“How is the bond tour going, Mister Valentine?”

“Poorly, I’m afraid. These Kentuckians keep their gold close. We’ve had some donations of whiskey, boots, and craft goods that we might be able to trade for butter and eggs, if we come across a farm wife in a patriotic mood. You’ll see that on the road.”

“I am anxious to get started. I wish to see my son again.”

“You know, there’s a chance we may never find Corporal O’Coombe.” Valentine thought it better not to list all the reasons—sepsis, an illness, discovery by Moondaggers sweeping across Javelin’s line of retreat looking for those left behind to take and torture . . .

“I’ve prepared myself for that eventuality, Mister Valentine.”

“You seem like a woman used to getting her way. I hope we’ll be able to complete our sweep and bring back a few more of Southern Command’s own.”

“My staff and their vehicles are entirely at your disposal, sir. Our agreement still stands. I am allowed to search for my son; you are allowed to bring back any you have left behind. If we cannot find news of my son, all I ask is a finding that he’s been killed in action so that his memory may be honored accordingly.”

Valentine would be glad to have Mrs. O’Coombe’s crew out of his graying hair. Her precious doctor was always asking for better water, more sanitizer, more hands to pick up shifts changing bandages and bedding.

In the end, Mrs. O’Coombe’s doctor came along after all, but only after the remaining Javelin doctor personally spoke to Valentine and explained that having a doctor along might mean the difference between a continued recovery and a setback as they moved the wounded.

Though Valentine wondered how much of a specialist Mrs. O’Coombe’s doctor really was. He went by the unimaginative moniker of “Doc” and seemed more like a country sawbones than an expert in difficult recoveries, though his nurse, a thick-fingered Louisiana-born woman named Sahita, had the serene, slightly blank look of an experienced caregiver. Sahita looked at the entire world through narrowed eyes and seemed naturally immune to chitchat, responding only in monosyllables if at all possible to any conversational efforts.

Valentine and Frat did a final inspection before boarding the vehicles. Food, clothing, gear, guns. Everyone a first-aid kit, everyone a tool for finding food or making shelter.

Frat had a big shoulder bag over his arm as well, stuffed with maps and battered old guidebooks to Kentucky. Valentine was rather touched by the imitation, if that’s what it was rather than coincidence.

Though Frat had avoided choosing a diaper bag for his miscellany.

Inspection complete and vehicles pronounced ready, they boarded their transport and put the engines in gear. Despite his misgivings, Valentine was relieved to be on the move at last. The sooner they started, the sooner he could return.

The vehicles rolled out of Fort Seng in column order the next morning.

The motorcycles blatted out first, followed by Rover with Valentine riding shotgun and Mrs. O’Coombe in back, looking for all the world like an annoying mother-in-law in a comedy of the previous century. Duvalier slumped next to her, head pillowed on her rolled-up overcoat, already settling in to sleep. Bee had reluctantly taken a place in the Bushmaster behind but soon amused herself by unloading magazines, cleaning the bullets, and reloading the magazines.

The rest of the camouflage-painted parade followed.

Valentine had a big, comfortable seat, and there was a clip for his rifle in the dashboard. A clever little map or reading light could be bent down from the ceiling, and there was even a little case in the seat for a pair of binoculars or maps or sandwiches or books or whatever else you might desire on a long trip.

For such a wretched, ungoverned, miserable place, the Old World sure put a lot of thought into conveniences, Valentine thought ironically. Of course a New Universal churchman would counter that the conveniences applied to only one half of one percent of the world’s population.

Habanero the wagon master controlled the wheel and gearshift in Rover, his earpiece in and a little control pad on his thigh that allowed him to radio the other drivers. He gave Valentine an extension so he could plug in to listen—and to speak if he had to.

In the cabin of Rover, Valentine felt his usual isolation from the outside world when riding in a vehicle. While he enjoyed the comfort and convenience, you lost much of the appreciation of landscape and distance, proper humility before wind and weather.