Tales of Downfall and Rebirth (25 page)

Her voice ran down as she saw the expression on Bernie's face. It was as if he'd lost all the color under his tan. He'd taken on a unhealthy-looking grayish pallor and his eyes were as expressionless as stones in a statue's head.

“So . . .” He didn't look at her as he spoke. “Chito's dead?”

“Yeah,” Doc asked. “Did you know him or something?”

When he looked up she was caught between a shudder and a gasp.

“He was my father.”

“Your . . .” Doc's voice trailed off. “Then, Manuelito—”

“Yes, of course.” His voice was dead calm. “My brother.” He continued on musingly. “You came up with a good plan,” he said, “but you weren't the first to think of it. There were farmers, a refinery and the people who worked it. Indians in the swamp. Jungleland employees and the animals. It was hard here, too. At first we fought over the scraps, but Don Carlos pulled us together. The center held here. We're just starting to build again. It's finally coming together. And you sicced the beasts on us.”

Doc felt the truth of his words hit her like a fist. “They may just go home,” she said in a small voice.

“You know Manuelito,” Bernie said grimly.

“I know Manuelito,” she agreed.

He would grab this land with his fat fingers and squeeze until all the blood had run out.

“Does he have maps?”

“Yes.”

Doc had never heard a man growl before. The hair on the nape of her neck rose at the sound of it. She felt the flesh on her arms prickle. The noise coming from his throat brought an answering snarl from Bagheera with angry swishings of his tail and put a horrifying expression on Cheetah's face. The ape bared his fangs and hooted like a maniac, hopping around madly and looking for an enemy to sink them into. The vein throbbed in Bernie's forehead, his powerful hands clenched and the muscles stood out like stone on his arms.

“Come,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

“I—”

He looked at her.

“All right,” she said quietly.

He strode to the canoe and she and the animals followed. He leaped in with an animal-like grace himself and held it steady.

“Can you paddle a canoe?” he asked. There was no real emotion in his voice. Doc didn't know whether to be frightened or grateful.

“I did when I was a kid, on the Finger Lakes.”

“Get in the bow.”

She managed to climb in without tipping it. Bagheera and Cheetah followed. They both sensed Bernie's urgency and made whining noises that made Doc feel uneasy.

“Cast away,” Bernie ordered, “and paddle your ass off.”

*   *   *

Bernie's anger started to fade after a couple of minutes of furious paddling as he came to the conclusion that it really wasn't Doc's fault. She had every right to take reasonable steps to ensure her survival. She wasn't responsible for the actions of others. He wouldn't have liked it if she'd been a willing participant in a ring that barbecued babies or something, but her scheme to mislead his brother had been clever. Admirable, even. He sat back and held his dripping paddle, watching as she matched him stroke for stroke. It took a moment, but she realized that she was the only one paddling. She stopped and looked over her shoulder.

“What now?” she asked, aggrieved. “I thought you were in a hurry.”

“We are,” he said.

“Well?”

“I just wanted to ask you something.”

“What?” she asked sharply, then glanced quickly down at Cheetah, who was staring at her and frowning.

“I mean . . . what?” she repeated in a more modulated voice.

“How'd you get that ring around your throat?”

“What?” Her hand flew up to her neck.

“I've been wondering about it since I first saw you.”

“Oh.” She looked at him steadily. “Manuelito chained me up each night so I couldn't run away from him.”

Bernie nodded judiciously. “Sounds like Manuelito. Listen, I'm sorry I was angry at you. I was out of line.”

“Oh.”

Her expression softened into a relaxed uncertainty that almost made Bernie laugh, but he was good at projecting a stoic front.

“Whatever happens,” he said, “it's not your fault.”

“What's going to happen?”

Bernie shrugged. He didn't want to get into details. It might destroy the mood he sensed developing. “Who knows?” He dipped his paddle into the water, propelled the canoe forward with a powerful stroke. “Let's go.”

She watched him, seemingly studying him, Bernie thought, as if he were a particularly interesting bug. Finally she nodded and turned back to the task herself. Cheetah gripped the sides of the canoe and held his face up to the breeze as they slipped smoothly through the water. The chimp grinned widely, making little sounds of delight. Bernie wished he could emulate his friends and faithful companions, but the days of living in the present had slipped away from him without him even realizing it.

The towering presence of Don Carlos had shielded him from responsibility even as the old man had deftly passed it down to him. With him gone, Bernie realized that he'd stepped into the role he'd been unsuspectingly groomed for. The old devil had done it slyly, starting him off by giving him a tiny, sharp-clawed kitten to care for and ending with, well, as he'd said to Doc, who knows? Perhaps Don Carlos had already shown him the best path forward.

Take in those who come to your doorstep and make a place for them.

He watched Doc as she paddled steadily. He didn't have to bear this burden alone. He had Cheetah and Bagheera and their kind who were trusting as children and loyal as saints. They would follow him to Hell if he had to take them there and be parted from his side only by death. He had human allies, too, fractious and uncertain at times. Some, like Don Carlos and Johnny Tiger were as dependable as Cheetah and Bagheera ever were.

He found himself staring at Doc's tall, slim form, wondering what she looked like without the dust, blood, and sweat-stained old clothes. She was so close that he could smell her over all other things and he wanted to be closer, much closer, but they were already at the junction with the creek. They'd been traveling pretty fast.

“We turn here,” he said.

She glanced back without missing a stroke. “Do you mind telling me where we're going?”

“Of course not.”

He steered into the creek. It was wider than the canal with irregular banks, twists and turns, and rock outcrops and silt bars to be wary of. The character of the surrounding land also started to change, becoming forested.

“We're heading for the
chikit
.”

“What's a chicklet?”

Doc was concentrating on the more uncertain waters they suddenly found themselves in. Cheetah hooted excitedly. He knew where they were going. There was food there. Bagheera was majestically unconcerned, insouciantly licking his paw.

“Chikit,”
Bernie corrected tolerantly. “It's the Mikisuki word for their native dwelling—also what they call a group of them, like we'd say village or hamlet. It's not a place name, but we use it as shorthand for the indios territory in the Coalition.”

“And that's?” Doc asked.

“What we call our community—the alliance between the Native Americans, Jungleland, local farmers, and plantation and refinery workers.”

“That's—impressive.” He could tell she actually was impressed by the tone of her voice.

“All due to Don Carlos,” Bernie said.

“I'd like to meet him,” Doc said.

“He died,” Bernie said briefly, “in the Parking Lot War. He died saving my life from a hammer-wielding maniac before the gates of Jungleland.”

“Oh. I'm sorry.”

Bernie shrugged, though she couldn't see him. “Me too. But what can you do?”

“Remember him?” Doc asked, and they moved farther up the creek and into the reaching fingers of the swamp, which seemed to draw them in.

*   *   *

Doc welcomed the shade, but not so much the swarms of gnats that threatened to carry her off. She batted fruitlessly at them, and Bernie called a halt.

“There's some insect repellant in the first aid kit. Give it a try.”

She took a deep breath, regretting it immediately as she spit out half a dozen of the annoyingly tiny insects she'd inadvertently sucked into her mouth.

“Cheetah,” she said, “hand me the first aid kit.”

She was kind of surprised when the monkey passed it over with a big smile.

“Thanks,” she found herself saying without half realizing it. She slathered some gooey gray paste on her face and hands. It smelled surprisingly sweet, like lilacs.

“We still have some of the commercial stuff,” Bernie said. “But this is better. Tiger's people make it.”

“Tiger's people?”

“Johnny Tiger's the indio chief.” Bernie paused for a moment. “He's . . . kind of hard to describe, but he's my best friend. You'll meet him soon enough.”

Doc nodded and offered the bottle to Bernie. The gnats were swarming him as badly as they'd bothered her pre-lotion. And, she observed, there was a heck of a lot more of him to swarm.

“Want some?”

At the last moment she bit back an offer to slather his back that had popped unbidden into her mind.

Bernie shook his head. “I'm used to them,” he said.

“You get surprised at what you become used to after a while,” she said.

“Yeah,” Bernie agreed, “but I gave up using stuff like this before the Change. It just—I don't know. I kind of accepted it all, even these petty annoyances. It's part of my world. It's natural.”

He smiled briefly. “I draw the line at mosquitoes, though. I hate those vampires.”

“Bugs belong in the woods,” Doc muttered.

“And you don't?” Bernie asked with a raised eyebrow.

“It's not my natural environment,” Doc said.

“What is?”

“Somewhere where I can figure out how to build stuff.”

Bernie brightened. “Plenty of things need building around here.”

Doc's lips quirked. If it was a pitch, it was clumsy, if sincere. She looked around as they worked their way up the creek. The swamp was gloomy and stinky. It could do with a lot of improvement, but she doubted that that was what Bernie had meant.

She thought of ribbing him a little about it, but she wasn't sure how he'd take it. So far he didn't seem to have much of a sense of humor. But it had been a trying day all around. She was really running low on energy. For a while she'd been caught up in the excitement and she'd forgotten that she was hungry, but now it had come back to bite her in the stomach like a pack of ravening weasels. Her arms had stopped aching a while back. Now they felt like wooden blocks. The numbness was spreading into her shoulders, but she wasn't going to let Bernie know that as long as she could grip the paddle. The big stiff.

Still, she pondered over his last words. What was it she'd heard in his voice? A note of relief? Gladness? She peeked back over her shoulder. For a moment she simply enjoyed the sight of his muscles rippling in coordination under perfect control like a well-oiled machine.

His face was fixed in a goofy grin, somewhat unfocused, totally carefree.

What a strange dude,
she thought.
Quick to anger, quick to, what, joy? Contentment, maybe?

Another thought struck her, not for the first time.
Is he simple?

He hung out with animals, treated them like friends. Yet, except for the obvious flashes of anger, he seemed kind.

He's certainly been kind to me,
Doc realized, even when, to put it frankly, she'd been alone and, face it, pretty much at his mercy in a world that had forgotten the niceties of civilization. She appreciated his restraint. She had a sudden thought.
Maybe he is gay?

He shifted his gaze fractionally and for a moment their eyes met. She literally caught her breath. Incoherent thoughts flashed through her brain and then he blinked and broke eye contact, breaching the current that had passed between them.

She turned and looked straight ahead.
Jesus Christ,
she thought,
not gay. Not fucking gay at all.

She couldn't catalog everything she'd seen. Hunger. Uncertainty. Need. Worry. Burning lust and quiet tenderness.

Simple?
she thought. More like multiple personalities clamoring to escape. Her gaze narrowed. Or maybe like someone with a complete array of feelings. Not emotionally stunted. Not solely fixated on his own needs—
I'm looking at you, Chad
—but fully aware of the world around him and the part he could play in it, for good or bad, depending on the path he chose to walk.

Doc started when he quietly said, “We're here,” and guided the canoe to the shoreline.

*   *   *

The
chikit
seemed deserted, but Bernie knew that it wasn't. He waited at the stern as Doc disembarked, his eyes glued on her tight, round buttocks clad in torn, fragile jeans that he could rip off her with a single finger, swallowed, and shut his eyes to break the spell. Once on land she turned back to the canoe, holding the prow as Cheetah clambered out and Bagheera, graceful as ever, levitated himself onto the bank.

Their eyes met for a brief second and Bernie grinned goofily. No wonder she thinks I'm an idiot, he thought, and erased the smile from his face. He replaced the grin with a stolid expression of frank noncommittal. She frowned and turned to tie the canoe to the mooring bar sunk into the creek bank. She looked around, briskly.

“So, this is a
chikit
 . . . Where is everybody?”

The communal area with
chikits
scattered about it like toys abandoned by giant children was bereft of noise and activity. The romping children, their barking dogs, the women gossiping by the ever-present cook pots, which were in fact not present, the men working leather and making arrows as they told lies about their hunting skills and prowess in bed, all were gone. The empty stillness made Bernie feel queasy. There was always life here. It had all vanished in the face of the approaching threat, leaving a vacant landscape alone and waiting. Only a single parrot, a red and blue feathered behemoth sitting on the branch of an oak draped with Spanish moss—one of the multitude that helped define the living-space—watched them, mute and stony-eyed, looking down from his perch like a judge.