Skylock (23 page)

"Ninety miles; might as well be a thousand. And off in the wrong damn direction."

He stood pensive for a moment then flung the gauze aside and stood.

"Pack up. We're going for it."

Josef Dobruja wiped his knuckles clean of blood. Flexing his fingers against their swelling, he read the note sent over by the departing American goodwill tour.

"You say the dignitaries left this?"

Sergeant Karelian stepped from the shadows behind the prisoner. Normally indifferent to interrogations, even he was amazed by the major's brutality toward this simple, witless creature.

"Yes, sir. It was given to a returning street patrol not long ago."

Dobruja frowned inquisitively.

"Interesting that complete strangers should feel the need to report suspicious activities of their own countrymen—especially ones they themselves have been seen in the company of."

"If the said direction of travel is true," reasoned the sergeant, "they could indeed be rendezvousing with a freedom fighter band out in the Wilds. And that is something we should prevent."

Dobruja glanced at the bloodied, quietly sobbing imbecile before him. With eyes blackened, nose broken, and lips split wide, he still clung to his ridiculous story. Tied to the interrogation chair, Fibs' mouth gleamed with a glossy mix of spittle and blood.

The sergeant dutifully lifted his superior's blood splattered blackjack from the floor. "Finished, sir?"

Josef nodded. "The simpleton irritates me. No one clings to a lie like that. But I can't force myself to believe such a fairy tale, either—an airplane that reappears and never lands."

The major again regarded his swelling hand.

"Mount up our infantry squad and draw a couple week's rations," he ordered. "We'll see for ourselves. And take this one to the cliffs. He won't be missed."

The sergeant opened the door and beckoned some soldiers.

Three days were lost moving due east. Following sporadic tracks, it was obvious that if there was water out here someone else knew of it—and was there ahead of them.

Baker shifted his weapon about and looked disgustedly at the limp white flag slumped between them.

"Don't mind sayin', I don't care for goin' in this way. Might as well have a damn target painted on us."

Trennt swiped a clammy hand against a pant leg and brought it back to the heat-slick steering wheel. His own eyes darted uneasily among the rising canyon walls.

"So you've been reminding me. And like I've been saying, I'm betting the only reason anyone else would be out here is if they were travelers like us. Or settlers. No bandits would have the patience to hang around, hoping to ambush somebody."

"Maybe nobody's out there at all," offered Geri optimistically.

"Oh yeah," replied Top. "Been watching us for the last half hour, at least."

"Why not show themselves?" growled Baker.

"Probably don't know what to make of us," said Trennt. "So don't give them any reason to be hostile."

Their eyes met and Baker looked away, making no promises.

"Two hunnert meters."

"Less," corrected Top.

The voice boomed down from the near hills almost simultaneously.

"Stop where you are, white men!"

A smattering of Bedouin riflemen sprang from easy concealment in the rocks. They wore loose-robed, handmade desert garb, neck-veiling caps, and split-skin goggles. Sun glinted off the worn gun barrels they aimed at the convoy.

A lean spokesman in ancient, wire rimmed mirror shades stepped daringly into the open. Carrying the lone automatic weapon in the group seemed to impart some authority over the others.

His thundering voice added more.

"You have violated the territory of New Africa! Surrender your arms or die where you are!"

Baker kept his eyes low and forward, leaning slightly toward Trennt. An evil I-told-you-so smile cracked his dry lips.

"All I see is that one auto, Jimbo. If we move quick, me dropping him and Whiskers fanning that flank, you kin throw'er in reverse and make some cover."

Trennt's reply was firm.

"No. They've got the water we need."

The group sat still as the black riflemen filtered down to encircle them.

"Throw out your weapons!"

Even behind the mirrored glasses, their leader's expression was intense: rabid and hating. His prominent cheekbones glistened with the raised keloid braids of ceremonial scars as he screamed further, gesturing menacingly with his rifle.

"Out of that truck! Hands on your heads!"

Gun metal speared hot sand in gritty
chugs
; ammunition bandoleers clattering in fallen heaps like dead metallic snakes.

"You people are prisoners of New Africa!" he announced proudly. "Invading our borders has labeled you as enemy spies, who will be tried and sentenced accordingly!"

Trennt raised his voice.

"Our truce flag means we've come here in peace. We mean no harm, but need water for our travel."

The headman cuffed it aside.

"That rag means nothing to us!"

"To bandits, no," countered Trennt, "but to honorable men, it would."

The headman glared at his prisoner, yet he said no more. The group was shoved into a single file, flanked by his soldiers. Top walked first, then Geri, Baker, and Trennt. Their commandeered truck led the way, its horn blowing vigorously in triumph.

The blistering sand shallowed out near a hillside and firmed to sandstone footing. A narrow path led to the deep groove of a slot canyon and a series of naturally concealed passageways set low among the towering overhangs.

Here, hidden from the merciless noonbake, was the heart of a settlement. Women and children clustered in the refreshing cool of the sudden heavy shade. Nursing mothers tended their young. Other women worked at meager meal preparation, slicing cave mushrooms into chunks and carving out the pithy yellow meat of dwarf desert gourds.

The adults gazed at the paraded captives with lackluster eyes. Ancient hatreds had been long dulled by the harsh reality of their spartan existence; but some of the smaller children, having never seen a white person, ran brazenly forward to touch and cuff at them, then scamper aside, giggling.

The distractions kept both prisoners and guards moving at a jerky, irregular pace, one that Baker measured. Catching his subtle glances, Trennt watched the shooter's fingers loosen their weave against his head. The inevitable came seconds later; so quick that even having read his mind, Trennt was hard pressed to react.

Baker's hand darted to his belt. A small-caliber gun flashed up and targeted on the parading headman. Trennt sprang from behind and dove forward. Gun and men pitched ahead. A wild shot echoed in the canyon.

A moment later rough hands were on them, rifle muzzles pinning both men to the ground.

"White devils!" snarled the headman. "We should kill you where you lie!"

Looking into that pool of frothing wide eyes left no doubt. On his own, the man would've done just that, but Trennt saw his livid hovering face respond to some standing order even more powerful than his own flaming emotions. After a tense breath, he withdrew his skewering gun muzzle from Trennt's chest.

"Into the pit!"

The foursome was marched on and shoved headlong into a deep, natural cistern. Thick sand at its bottom was all that cushioned their dark, twenty-foot fall.

Baker immediately heaved himself up and away from the group. He kicked up a hard spray of frustrated sand, storming off to the far side of the dim hole where he scowled disbelieving at Trennt.

"Dammit, Jimbo! Why'd you do that! I could've dropped Scarface, no trouble! Now what chance do we have?"

Trennt, too, shoved himself up.

"A whole lot less than if you'd listened from the start!"

Baker dropped to his rump and slammed back against a different spot of the flat sandstone wall. Folding his arms, he sank into a deep self-indulgent sulk.

Sometime later, Geri's voice rose tentatively.

"Any idea who they are?"

"Does it matter?" challenged Baker.

"Maybe. Remember back before the crash? That black TV evangelist who called for a separation of the races? The reverse apartheid thing?"

Trennt dimly recalled headlines. "That guy they called the new Moses? You think this bunch is them?"

"Or what's left."

"As I remember," Top added, "he had no great love for the white man. And I don't think we've made it any better."

The ledge above them lightened. Torches flickered a greasy orange radiance down on the captives. Two guards and the headman appeared. The guards carried hand-crafted swords and the headman had traded his carbine for a brutally honed machete.

"Who is your leader?" he demanded.

"Me," said Trennt squinting up at the invading firelight.

A rope ladder plopped in their midst.

"Come up, then. And the rest, behind you. But no one talks, unless told so."

They started up the ladder.

Another series of even deeper passages led to a large cavern divided into several adjoining cubicles. Inside one they glimpsed a group of dour faced tribespeople hovering about a form set prone and motionless. At its feet Trennt saw their own appropriated medical kit spread wide for a detailed examination.

Their particular destination waited further, a sort of meeting chamber, not far beyond. Thick homemade candles illuminated it; years of spent wax cascaded in tall dusty cones on the rock floor. A number of carved sandstone boulders served as chairs. Against one wall was a collection of shields, spears, and ceremonial long bows, painted in brilliant reds, yellows, blacks, and green, tied with graceful clumps of eagle feathers.

Seated before them was an imposing figure. Late middle-aged, yet muscular and trim in the wrap of a loose fitting garment. Oddly, he was unarmed. But his coal black eyes burned with an inquisitive intelligence that said even so, violence was not beyond him. His voice issued bell clear.

"From what our soldiers say, you have invaded our borders—a charge worthy of immediate execution."

"We came under a flag of truce," declared Trennt. "We didn't see any off-limits signs."

"And why should we?" chimed Baker. "New Africa, my ass. Ain't nuthin' but old California desert out there!"

The remark earned him a shove from behind.

"Shut your mouth, dog!"

The seated man raised a calming hand. But the headman circled between him and the captives.

"Leader, why waste time on these pigs? They're no better than others who've tracked us. Execute them and show our people a grand victory over the white devils!"

The pair of guards closed, clenched sword handles showing agreement. A quick damning silence rose about the captives like a sudden crest of rushing flood waters.

"
Machu!
Take the guards and leave us!"

The headman recoiled. "Alone? With the prisoners? White men can't be trusted!"

The chief rose. "In this case, I suspect otherwise. Now go."

Ushering his reluctant guards from the room, the chief passed within easy attack range, offering his back.

"Would you try to overpower me?" he asked. "Take me hostage to free yourselves?"

"No," answered Trennt.

The chief paused beside him. "I believe you."

He went quiet for a time. When he spoke again, his voice held an abrupt change of tone, almost cordial.

"Who are you people?"

"My name's Trennt. We're here looking for water to continue on our trip northwest."

"For what purpose?"

"To find a lost plane."

"Lost where?"

"In the Wilds."

"Your style of weapons say you're prepared to kill."

"Not here. We came in broad daylight with holstered guns."

The chief's gaze shifted to Baker.

"The slim one thought otherwise."

Trennt sighed. "He's not always quick to obey."

His point seemed to touch home. The chief appraised Baker and nodded.

"Hotheads, yes. I know the problem myself."

His admission opened a door to neutral ground. Suddenly a different man stood before Trennt, a man much burdened.

"I appreciate your honesty. Permit me to return something of the same. The sad little band you've seen here is the lone remnant of a grand idea—an exodus from the cities that was to build a free-standing state of honor and respect for the black man."

"You're Freeman Whitney," declared Geri bravely.

The chief allowed himself a bittersweet smile.

"Yours truly, miss," he replied kindly. "Thank you for the recognition."

A bit of tarnished pride lit Whitney's face as he looked at the torch-blackened rock ceiling. His eyes misted over, remembering a day from long ago.

"It certainly started out grand enough. Me, the TV preacher, leading my people from the yoke of their urban self-oppression, to the misguided vision of my own dreams.

"What a glorious day it was. Thousands of the faithful gathered behind me for an unknown spot of desert where we'd settle and build our own Jerusalem. Tired pickups and new Cadillacs, vans and flatbed trucks—all lined up with headlights blazing. Everyone singing hymns and going to the Promised Land.

"But that place proved to be a sour reality. The lowlifes and hot bloods had no commitment, no pride in industriousness; saw no point in hammering sheet metal into the solar collectors and methane generators we'd need. They bullied and stole; broke off in splinter groups that fought among themselves before dying off.

"In the end, even our grand city betrayed us with poisoned water from the wells. Many died. More left. Myself and barely a hundred others were all that remained. And as you have seen, even that has been reduced by the nomadic hardships of our seasonal wanderings, between here and our hunting grounds, in your own direction of travel.

"Now, in the room beside us, my other son lies sick from such a journey; he may be the next to die."

Whitney nodded at Trennt's sudden realization.

"Yes, the hothead who captured you is my eldest, Machu."