The Fly-By-Nights Page 6

  From the scav teams he had requested lead from the roofs of ruined churches, to be beaten into panels in the workshops. (In fact, for at least a fortnight prior to the leader’s actual disclosure of the looming disaster—and a further ten days to the exodus itself—on those several nights when Garth had gone out scavenging with Singer’s team, he had time and time again heard the bully complaining about the seemingly endless loads of lead they were trundling back to the refuge.)

  “Oh, it keeps out a lot of the radiation,” Singer had grumbled, “but in that great burrow under the hills, why do we need so much of the damned stuff? I appreciate the feel of it around me when I’m out and about in a salvage skip, for sure—but in the refuge—under four hundred or more feet of solid rock…? It makes no sense, not to Ned Singer it don’t! And then there’s the boss, our so-called ‘leader,’ Big Jon Lamon, sending us out on these stupid so-called ‘initiatives.’ It beats me why we put up with his nonsense! And tell me this: why the hell do we need a dozen or more new scav teams? I can’t figure it out! Or is it that I just don’t want to?”

  Those last of his questions because much of the heavy metal they had been salvaging was soon to be seen hinged to the roofs and sides of an apparently endless production line of vehicles, including a great water bowser, that were obviously being prepared for outside work; which to Ned Singer’s unimaginative mind could mean only one thing: that Big Jon intended to establish a veritable army of scavengers!

  And in support of Singer’s reasoning, however flawed:

  In the workshops, the entire mech workforce had been set to servicing motors salvaged at least eighty years ago, before anyone alive in the refuge now was even conceived—indeed in the time of their forebears, their great-grandparents! All of these motors, from ancient buses whose carcasses had long since turned to rust—vehicles used all those decades ago to convey certain privileged people and a few surviving remnants of the local populace to the refuge in the earliest hours of the war—had been stored and preserved as best possible and were now being installed and geared into as many metal frames and chassis—however ugly or ungainly—as could readily be made serviceable.

  Just as Ned Singer had observed and just as obviously, this could only be the creation of a small army—or rather a fleet—of transports. But contrary to the bully’s conclusion, it was in no way a fleet of scavenger skips and trundles. Trundles, by all means, but people carriers as opposed to salvage; and by no means an army but a soon-to-be convoy and veritable Ark!

  Similarly, scav boss Bert Jordan and his team had been required to concentrate their efforts on fuels; for out there in the ruins, the locations of several small lakes of gasoline had been known for more than seventy years. Having somehow survived the holocaust’s missiles and fires, these were the subterranean reservoirs of black gold that had fed the pre-war service stations and fuelled the populace’s motor vehicles; and for decades now they had served the refuge in a similar capacity.

  A third team under boss Don Myers had been required to raid the shattered remains of what was once a local military arsenal. While many weapons were beyond salvaging, a small percentage of recovered ammunition—some cartridges, bullets and grenades in their protective crates and packaging—were (amazingly!) still viable. And Myers’ team had searched out and gathered up every last shell of this treasure trove that scavengers had been collecting since time immemorial for use against the fly-by-nights.

  But the scavs had not been alone in their industry. Within the Southern Refuge itself, once the worst was known, there had been plenty of frantic work…the careful filling of hundreds of jerricans, with many gallons of gasoline or diesel allocated to each trundle; while three of the larger, more powerful vehicles had been loaded exclusively with fuel: gasoline, diesel and kero…the filling of the great water bowser from the refuge’s precious reserves…the preparation of preserves, and salting of meats…the continuing culling and destruction of contaminated animals and birds, as their sicknesses gradually surfaced…the gathering of what fodder was available from hydroponics…the building of secure pens and cages in farm trundles, for what healthy livestock remained, without which a dubious future would seem yet more uncertain.

  These things had been done and many more; and then, finally, there had been the closing down of the refuge’s own small reactor which, ironically, had remained “clean” as a result of many decades of specialized tech dedication and industry. The generators had been silenced, the always dim lights had flickered low and gone out, and behind the departing convoy all had been still in the great labyrinth which had been the Southern Refuge…

  All of this and more passed through Garth’s weary mind, and doubtless through the minds of a good many more of the convoy’s folk where the majority rested or settled to uneasy sleep; even as Garth himself now settled down…

  But having closed his eyes for what seemed barely a moment, suddenly Garth sensed a silent figure standing there, silhouetted against the dull glimmer of near-distant daylight: a young woman’s figure and quite motionless. And through half-shuttered eyelids, finally he recognized its owner.

  “Oh!” said Layla Morgan as Garth’s eyes snapped fully open and he jerked upright in his bed. “Garth, I’m so very sorry! I didn’t mean to disturb you, but I saw your father going off on his own and…well, I didn’t think you’d have your head down yet, and if you didn’t maybe we could… I mean, we never seem to get a chance to…so what do you think? Perhaps now is as good a time as any to…to…?”

  Equally or even more tongue-tied, and not yet fully awake—though his weariness was rapidly falling off him—Garth groped for something, anything to say, just as long as it didn’t sound too stupid! And at last: “Yes?” he nodded. “Please go on: now’s a good time to…to what?”

  Layla shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know! Talk, maybe? Oh, dear! This is no good! It’s supposed to be you doing the talking, the…well, persuading!”

  Layla wanted to talk, wanted to be persuaded? Garth’s heart sang! She wanted to talk to him, to Garth Slattery! Previously: a shy smile in passing (most of the modesty being his); or occasionally, in reply to a bout of wistfulness he couldn’t conceal, Layla’s querying, soft-eyed glance (which might mean anything or nothing at all), and that had been all…almost. Ah! But what of that yearning, that anxious, even sad and frustrated expression that she’d worn in the trundle last night, when their eyes met during those few fraught seconds when it seemed likely they were under attack by fly-by-nights?

  And now…now she wanted to talk to him!

  That was what Layla had said, wasn’t it? Yes, yes of course it was! But she’d also said it was supposed to be him doing the talking!

  “You wanted to talk?” Garth blurted, edging awkwardly aside under his blanket, and almost unconsciously, on impulse issuing a silent invitation to sit by patting the barely adequate space that he’d vacated. Which was when he saw that Layla had brought her necessaries with her, a small bundle of items to ensure she got her day’s rest: a rather thin, worn blanket, a pillow (actually a cushion,) and a pair of soft, warm leather leggings.

  Then (amazingly!) Layla threw the cushion down in the space he’d allowed her, got down and sat beside him (somehow managing not to crush too close; a consideration which, to him, mattered not at all, or perhaps a great deal), and shook out her blanket over her knees and feet.

  And now Garth found his voice, the words, and something of his courage. “You’re right: we’ve never had a chance, an opportunity to talk about…well, anything! And I’ve really wanted to…to talk, I mean! Then there’s Ned Singer. It seems whenever you are there, he’s there too, and you haven’t appeared to mind his company. At least not that I’ve noticed. Well, I understand something of that: he’s an older man and experienced, and runs his own scavenger team. Or at least he used to, before the trek. So you see—”

  “—So I see you’ve got it all wrong, Garth!” Layla stopped him short. “Yes, Ned’s always there—because he cuts everyone
else out! Other young clansmen have showed interest in me, too. And more especially since I’ve been on my own. But I’m sure Ned has warned them all off. Anyone who looks at me more than once: they soon lose interest after Ned has talked to them. Why, he’s nothing but a bully!”

  Garth nodded. “Ned’s spoken to me, too. And he made himself very clear. A threat, really, but I don’t much care for threats—and I very much care for you. Ned says he wants you; well so do I, and I’m not about to lose interest!” There, he’d said it! Or had he said too much? “But…as yet I’m a nobody, and he’s got years on me. Also, he’s my boss, and—”

  “Do you really want me, Garth?” Again, in mid-sentence, she cut him off. “I mean really? I know you’re young—younger than me, even—but you’re a lot more than just a boy. Oh, I’ve seen the man in you, Garth Slattery! You’ve been a scav, too; you go out protecting the convoy; and anyway, what’s a year or so when I’m little more than a girl myself? Time is passing, Garth, and who knows how much we have left? You say you want me, but maybe you think you aren’t ready? Well, I think you are—or rather, we are. So what if I tell Ned I’m not interested in him?”

  Then, before Garth could answer, she laughed however uncertainly. And pressing closer, shivering (but not from any chill, he fancied), she repositioned her cushion and finally, stretching out, said: “There. So after all is said and done, here’s me doing the persuading, the arranging!”

  Garth’s throat was dry, his voice husky, when he said, “You know, I think I’ve probably dreamed about this; well, something like this, and can’t help thinking I may be dreaming still! And Layla, I do think—in fact I know—that I’m quite ready. As for Ned Singer: you don’t have to tell him anything. I’ll speak to him myself, for myself.”

  Lying back, he moved over more yet on his mattress; Layla’s lithe body followed his, pressing even closer. He turned on his side in order to face her, and she turned her back to him, snuggling closer yet! Clothed and in every respect decent, seemly—except possibly in their thoughts and desires—they nevertheless fitted together like lovers, which Garth was now sure they would be. And his arm went around her almost of its own accord.

  “Let’s say no more,” he said then. And with a shrug: “If we talk any longer I’m sure to get my words all tangled!”

  “No, not you,” Layla replied, shaking her head and sighing. “Actually, I think we’ve chosen our words rather well!”

  Following which the pair very quickly fell asleep. And all around them in the cool gloom and the shadows of the car park’s lower level, some fifty others of the refugees settled to their much needed rest. Among those sprawling nearby, several couples had witnessed Layla’s arrival, seen how she remained and nodded their understanding and approval; especially the women, smiling and making small, whispered comments to their partners.

  But keeping well back, unseen in the deepest shadows, there lurked a certain cold, calculating figure—a physically unattractive, scar-faced man called Arthur Robeson—who had like-wise kept a discreet distance while following Layla Morgan from the moment she’d climbed down from the trundle. And Robeson was one of Ned Singer’s small coterie of cronies.

  Now, seeing Garth and Layla lying there together, still and warm in the faint, filtered light of day, Robeson smiled sardonically. Then, his mission completed, he moved silently away…

  Garth Slattery dreamed, and for the first time in as long as he could remember his dreams were sweet. He dreamed of a land that was green and pure, with knee-deep grasses in meadows that went on forever, and a clear water river running through where glittering fishes leaped and sported. He dreamed that he lay there, with Layla of course, mostly hidden in the deep grasses of the meadow. All warm, bathed and glowing, Layla slept in his arms.

  And he dreamed that his father, Zach, stood atop a hillock in the near-distance, smiling, waving, and leaning easily on a gleaming metal crutch that reflected flashes of clean, healthy sunlight. There was no rubble or blackened earth anywhere visible: only the roofs of little houses, half-hidden in the trees on gently sloping hillsides, with blue smoke rising from their brick chimney stacks. And on the far side of the river, penned behind fences in pastures of their own, several livestock species grazed contentedly.

  In other words Garth dreamed of paradise. But in the waking world of the convoy’s folk, as time passed, things were rapidly becoming far less than peaceful…

  And almost two hours later, suddenly Garth’s dreams were shattered! He started awake to sounds of guttural shouting—cries of anger, outrage, and pain! It was Layla who was hurting; Layla’s fingers grasping his arm, only to be wrenched away; Layla Morgan, dragged bodily from him!

  At first Garth knew only confusion. Torn from sleep in the dusky gloom, and shivering from the shock of his abrupt awakening, he lurched to his feet near-naked. But as the fog lifted from his mind, suddenly everything was as clear as crystal. Ned Singer stood there: legs apart, a half-empty bottle in one hand and Layla in the other. Holding the girl by the upper left arm, he shook her so hard, so viciously that she skittered and skipped to avoid falling…which finally she did, twirling to her knees on the rough concrete floor!

  “Oh, you slut! You little slut!” Singer yelled at her, his speech slurred with drink. “Didn’t I warn you about this horny pup of a Slattery? Seduced you, has he? You stupid young slut! Or maybe it was you seduced him, eh!?” With which he drew back a booted foot to kick her. By which time Garth was fully awake—and raging!

  Drunk, staggering, thrown off balance as Layla avoided his kick—and surprised by Garth’s attack: its speed and ferocity, and the raw fury written in the youth’s expression—Singer saw him coming almost too late. And it was no mere “pup’s” paw that struck him but a fist as hard as rock, hurled with Garth’s entire body weight behind it! If Singer hadn’t turned his shoulder into that blow—if it had smashed into his throat and crushed his windpipe, it might well have killed him outright; or, if it had landed on his astonished, fallen jaw, it would certainly have broken it in pieces—but Singer’s shoulder was unfeeling muscle and bone and he was simply driven back, his bottle shattering where he was brought to a halt with his back flat against the wall. Then:

  “What? What?” he roared, recovering his balance. “Why, you dirty hound! You take my chosen woman and…and what?—rape her, did you? Oh, I can see it all now! And still not satisfied with your filthy actions, now you offer violence to me, Layla’s intended? Well understand this, you horny Slattery dog: we clan folk know exactly how to deal with such as you!”

  Singer’s great gun hung from its sling around his neck and under his arm. Releasing Layla, who until then had been dragged bodily along with him, he groped for the stock and pistol grip. And with his face a livid, twisted mask of murderous hatred, he swung the weapon up and forward—

  —At which a trio of figures arrived on the scene, emerging as by magic out of the shadows. The last of them, Zach Slattery, came cursing, hobbling on his crutch; but the first of them, Big Jon Lamon, suffered no such physical disadvantage. Putting himself between Garth and the bully, the clan’s leader thrust Singer’s gun aside and, with a speed and efficiency that belied his bulk, sliced through its leather sling with a razor sharp machete! At which the full weight of the weapon, falling unexpectedly on Singer’s grimy, sweating hands, caused it to slip through his fingers and crash to the floor.

  Disarmed and staggering, Singer glowered and snarled at the four men facing him: Big Jon, Zach, and head tech Andrew Fielding; but mainly at Garth who, restrained by the efforts of both his father and the tech, nevertheless continued to rage. And:

  “Bastards, each man-jack of you!” Singer cursed them. “Bastards one and all! Are there no more honourable men in the clan? Have I no more friends, no allies?”

  “Do you deserve any?” Big Jon answered him, as calmly as he was able. “And why would you need allies?” But it was as if the bully hadn’t heard him, and:

  “What? Is there no more justice in thi
s entire, ruined, god-forsaken world?” Singer inquired of no one in particular—and at once answered himself: “No, there isn’t! And so I’ll have to take care of it myself!”

  Rapidly sobering, fully aware now and sly as he was brutal, he dropped suddenly to one knee in an effort to regain his gun…which could not be allowed.

  As he fumbled for his weapon Singer glanced up—in time to see the tough rubber ferrule of Zach’s crutch driving in toward his creased, sweating brow! In the same split second his blood-shot eyes opened wide, his expression changing from one of menace and hatred to one of shock—and with an audible thud! the crutch slammed home.

  Standing on his good leg, Zach had leaned heavily into the blow. Singer’s square head on his red bull neck snapped back as he was straightened up forcefully from his crouch, knocked from his feet and sent sprawling. An instant later saw Big Jon Lamon stooping to recover the bully’s weapon, picking it up as easily as if it were a wooden toy.

  “Tsk, tsk!” the clan’s leader said then, examining the gun, his expression artless, innocent as he pursed rough lips. “Why, just look here, will you, Ned? You’ve left the safety off! Now, that is how accidents happen, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate. So I shall expect better of you in future.”

  Seated on the floor, leaning back on his hands, and shaking his head dazedly, the other said, “I’ll not be forgetting this. You’re all working against me, all of you! You, Big Jon, our so called ‘leader.’ And you, Zach Slattery—you gimpy old sod—you and your bloody upstart son! And—”

  “—And that’s enough!” Zach hobbled closer, scowling. “If I ever hear you call me gimpy again—or my son a pup, dog, or a horny bastard—then the next time I hit you it’ll be to knock your teeth out through the back of your scabby neck!” But:

  “No, Father,” Garth growled low in his throat, as he pulled his trousers on over his breech-clout, then helped Layla to her feet. “Not on my behalf you won’t! I can look after myself. And now that Ned Singer has shown what he’s made of, that won’t any longer be a problem.”