The Fly-By-Nights (13 page)

Heading back toward the car park as the morning air brightened, Garth spoke to his father:

“Weren’t you and Big Jon Lamon being a bit hard on Robeson? It’s not as if everyone has what it takes to be a scav. I mean, it’s hardly the right kind of work for someone with bad nerves, any man who is easily frightened, or a man who—”

“—Who isn’t a man at all?” Zach cut him short. “Peder Halbstein was right, and Big Jon too. As long as I’ve known Robeson he’s only been good at one thing, or maybe two: sneaking around and doing as little as he can get away with! Until this morning I had wondered if I was of that opinion simply because I didn’t much care for the man’s looks, but now it seems Big Jon is of a like mind. And you know, Jon Lamon is a damn good judge of character. Anyway, the hell with all that! Any friend of Singer’s—dead or alive—is no friend of ours!”

Inclined to agree, Garth nodded, and after a moment’s pause said: “You and Big Jon have always been good friends, right?”

“We grew up and were scavs together,” Zach replied. “Why do you ask about something that should seem obvious to you?”

“Because back there at the meeting in the church, there was that moment when I thought you were about to argue with him, or at least talk back to him.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, it was when he said that nothing good comes of speaking ill of the dead. I somehow had the feeling you didn’t much go along with that, and I wondered why.”

Zach looked taken aback. “You thought I didn’t respect the dead?” he answered. “Well then, you were wrong. I’ve got nothing against the dead; I was speaking of Ned Singer’s character when he was alive! The way he was treating you.”

Which sounded a little like sophistry to Garth, who frowned and began to comment: “But—”

“No buts about it!” his father growled. “Listen: the fly-by-nights took him away alive, it’s true; probably to drain him of his blood at their leisure, then to eat his flesh.
We
must hope it’s so!
Ah, but I see a certain look on your face! What, shock is it? Well, don’t you worry, for I didn’t hate him that much—I could never hate any man
that
much! But son, between life and death as we understand such conditions, there’s another kind of existence known only to the fly-by-nights, by which they ‘live’ and ‘reproduce,’ if such words make any sense at all when speaking of them! And frankly that’s why I prefer Ned Singer dead. By which I mean
truly
dead, very
definitely
dead, and gone forever!”

And finally, as understanding dawned, Garth said no more… 

During the following handful of days life was scarcely idyllic; not even for recently wedded Garth and Layla Slattery, for whom true happiness remained far distant in a longed-for Eden beyond the northern horizon. However, their new-found joy in each other never faltered, and the few rare occasions when they could sleep in each other’s arms they sometimes dreamed of that northern Eden.

Less agreeably but more often, they also nightmared, as did the majority of the clanfolk: both the younger and less experienced members and the older, more hardened travellers alike; in particular the outriders and the men of the night-watch. And as the disparate makeshift vehicles and trailers had gone creaking and groaning along—not only during night hours but almost as frequently in daylight too, now that the blazing sun posed less of a threat—there had rarely been a lack of things to nightmare and worry about.

For one thing the trek had no sooner got underway again—heading due north as before, on a route determined by Big Jon’s tattered handful of ancient maps and faded notes, the legacy of long-dead forebears—when on the fourth evening, as the convoy made camp in woods shaded by sheer cliffs, unassuming head tech Andrew Fielding regretfully informed the leader of an inexplicable increase in background radiation.

“That town back there,” he had said, giving his head a bewildered shake, “I don’t know: maybe it was the exception that proves the rule? Surrounded by low hills like that, it’s possible that after those mercifully brief hours of insane nuclear warfare so long ago those hills were effective in deflecting or containing a lot of the fallout. As for the well in the churchyard: it was probably sourced by an aquifer so deep underground that surface radiation never found its way down there to poison the water.”

“But that was then and this is now,” Big Jon had answered, his broad shoulders sagging a little. “Are you telling me that after barely four days we’re back to square one with the radiation and what all?”

“Well, perhaps it’s not quite
that
bad,” Fielding had answered, making as light as he could of the situation. “But it’s definitely not as good as we were hoping.”

“And the ozone layer?” queried the leader, obviously sorely disappointed. “What of that? Or was it just wishful thinking?”

“No, not really. There
has
been something of an upsurge in solar or ultraviolet radiation, but even when the sky is cloudless from horizon to horizon, still the levels constantly fluctuate. Even at their worst, however, they’re still weaker than any readings I ever recorded outside the Southern Refuge. Thus it would seem that in this latitude the ozone layer is forever shifting, waxing and waning. Or perhaps the changes are due to sunspots? I’m sorry but I just don’t know! Maybe if I had made a greater effort to study surface conditions down south in the old times…if I had spent more time above ground? But no, I had my work cut out for me in the refuge…” With which he had offered his customary, apologetic shrug.

“
Hmm!
Well, to my mind you’ve already done far too much of that!” Big Jon had told him. “Going out to take your readings, I mean; out there in the sunlight, without a decent radiation suit. Oh, I’ve seen you often enough! Just make sure you don’t do it once too often, my friend, for we certainly can’t afford to lose such as you.”

“Thank you for that,” the head tech had gratefully replied, “but it’s my job—it’s what I do—and if I don’t keep an eye on it, then who will? Anyway, I find I always sleep much better knowing exactly how strong our enemy is!”

“Huh!” said Big Jon. “‘Our enemy’—even the golden sun—our enemy!” And then as an afterthought, with a sharp glance at the sky, which was beginning to lose some of its brightness, he had continued: “Aye, but by no means our
only
enemy…”

Having been called to attend Big Jon, Garth and his father had been present during this conversation, and since nightfall had been only an hour or two away they not only understood Big Jon’s comment but something else, possibly, of why he’d wanted to see them. And as the soft-spoken head tech had wandered off, still shaking his head, finally the leader had turned to father and son.

“Speaking of enemies,” he had said, “the shadows are already lengthening. Dusk in little over an hour, and an hour later the dark of night. Well, I’ve recruited or ‘volunteered’ some men to replace the ones we lost, but not yet enough. Fortunately these almost sheer cliffs, in some places overhanging, make easy work of guarding our western flank; why, they’ll do the job for us—for even fly-by-nights are subject to gravity! So then there’ll be plenty of men to guard the front and the rear of the convoy—‘the thin ends,’ as it were—but the most important flank by far is to the east, which is to say the sprawling length of the entire column.

“And now to the point. Garth, I would like a word with you, if I may. And your father should hear it, too, so that he knows my mind and what I’m asking of you.”

“Of course, sir,” Garth had answered, and nodded. And Zach had added:

“Go on then, Jon…what is it?”

“Lad—” Big Jon had begun, grasping Garth’s upper arm in a huge hand “—or perhaps ‘lad’ is more than a little demeaning, for I’ve had my eye on you and you’ve certainly proved yourself as worthy a man as any of the best of the clan’s men—but anyway: you’re just recently wed; what, all of three or four days? And you and Layla have scarcely been having the best time of it together. What with outriding when we move by night and patrols and night-watches when we’re camped up—as right now—well, it hasn’t been an ideal beginning for a young couple just starting out. I know there’s been one hell of a weight of responsibility on your young shoulders, and a whole world of worry, too; especially on Layla, when you’re out there in the dark guarding the convoy. And now here I go, proposing to add yet more weight and responsibility!”

Again Garth’s nod as Big Jon had paused, and: “Tell me what you want,” he said, “and whatever it is I’ll do the best I can as long as I’m able, just as long as it helps to keep Layla and the convoy safe.”

“Which is exactly how it should be!” The leader had at once replied. “But I’m about to ask a great deal of you, and you being so young and all—and if Zach Slattery’s good blood wasn’t running in your veins—then I wouldn’t dream of asking so much. Anyway, let me tell you what I’m talking about:

“You see, I’m far from happy with the way things stand, and there are changes I must make. For example, now that Ned Singer is gone we’re short of one scav boss…no, hold—let me try that again; for scavs as such are now things of the past. We’re short of one
team
boss, a man to patrol and control the outriders on the move, and the night-watch when we’re at a standstill. Singer had the biggest team; his crew worked very well together before your bust-up and I believe they should stay together. So it’s Ned’s old team that will be guarding the eastern flank tonight, and which will be performing most of the tougher jobs in future. So as a member of that team, what do you say to that?”

In answer to which Garth had offered a puzzled shrug, answering, “Well, it’s only what I expected, what I’ve been getting used to, and what’s best for the convoy and clan, I’m sure. And even after suffering that attack back in the ruined town, still I think the team has held together—but how best to put it?—as well as can be expected, maybe; and at the very least reasonably well, under Peder Halbstein.”

“Hmmm!” Big Jon had nodded thoughtfully. “Reasonably well, eh? Loyal to the last! But as for Peder Halbstein, well that’s something else. Are you saying you’ve seen no change in Peder? Ah, but no—you don’t need to answer that, Garth—for I sense that in this case the truth wouldn’t sit well with you. And the truth is that Peder Halbstein’s no longer the man for that kind of pressure. To be honest, he simply can’t handle it; he hasn’t fully recovered from the doings of that terrible night. And the few hours of sleep he gets, Peder nightmares, wakes up shouting, crying out to his old pal Dan Coulter. His hair is going white, and he’s rapidly losing weight; his face is grey and gaunt, and he gets the shakes, trembles and stutters. No, he’s been a scav, an outrider and night-watchman for too long; he’s done his fair share. So let me ask you once again—not only for the good of the clan, you understand, but also for Peder’s—are you really saying you’ve seen no change in him?”

To which Garth had answered: “I…I didn’t realize it was quite that bad. So what will you do?”

“No Garth,” the other had replied, giving his head a shake. “It’s not what I’ll do but what
you
must do! I want you to take over as boss of the team—that’s as of now—and you’ll be the youngest clansman who ever held such a responsible position. As for poor Peder: I’ll find something a little less demanding for him. So then,
now
what do you say?”

For a moment Garth was lost for words; he had looked at his father, who stood silent, expressionless.

“Well?” said Big Jon.

“But it’s like you said,” Garth had finally answered. “I’ll not only be the youngest ever boss, but the youngest man in my own team! And there are others in the team who—”

“—Who’ll probably be glad that the weight doesn’t rest on
their
shoulders!” The leader had anticipated him. “As for being young: haven’t you noticed, Garth, how there’s no such thing as a truly ‘old man’ in the entire clan? Me, your father, and head tech Andrew Fielding—oh, and a very small handful of others—we’re just about the oldest you’ll find! Quite a few old ladies, it’s true, but damn few old men! Then again, there’s never been any female scavs. Which probably says it all…”

At which Zach had spoken up. “And of course, that’s what’s wrong with Peder Halbstein. He knows it’s only a matter of time. He’s seen friends die, far too many of them, but this last time Peder himself came much too close…”

And still uncertain, Garth had said, “It sounds like you’re warning me off!”

“No!” Zach shook his head. “Never! If you take this on I’ll be able to advise you, even come out now and then if things are looking especially rough, but the decision has to be yours.”

“I have no desire to be ‘volunteered.’” Garth had faced Big Jon squarely, determinedly.

“I would never do that to you—if only because I know your father would never forgive me!”

“But it won’t come to that—” Garth had made his decision, “—because I’ve already said I’ll do it. And so I accept. Well, with one condition.”

“Oh? A condition?” Big Jon had raised an eyebrow.

And Garth had nodded. “Yes, but just the one. Which is that you’ll be the one who tells Layla Morgan—er, Layla Slattery! —exactly what you’ve asked of me. Or better still, what you’ve ‘ordered’ me to do…?” And after a moment’s silence: