The Fly-By-Nights (15 page)

He had not kept them waiting. Seated on the vehicle’s rusting flank along with head tech Andrew Fielding, the leader had worn a smile as broad as his face as he commenced his address:

“People, today is going to be remembered as a very special day, for we’re in receipt of two items of marvellous news! Give me just a moment and I shall tell you about the least of these. But first—” Pausing he had turned to Fielding, only then continuing: “—first I must mention our most remarkable head tech here,” with which he had clapped the other on the back, setting the much smaller man rocking where he was perched, coughing until he seemed close to choking, “who has been busy since first light taking radiation readings. Now, we’re talking about ultraviolet radiation, of course—the sun’s harmful rays—about which all previous knowledge was restricted to the locality of the Southern Refuge and thus limited in scope; radiation which to our understanding has been at lethal levels for over a century and a half, ever since atomic warfare poisoned the atmosphere. However, according to head tech Fielding’s readings, taken just an hour ago…but no, it’s only fair that I let him tell you of this himself. Andrew?”

Fielding’s coughing fit had occasioned some nervous, sympathetic laughter from the crowd, which had quickly tailed off as finally he controlled the spasms and his thin, reedy voice took over from Big Jon’s deeper, booming tones:

“Honoured by our leader’s comments,” he began somewhat hesitantly, “still I find myself in an unenviable, at best awkward position; perhaps because I feel unduly honoured. The last time I voiced opinions and made statements such as I’m about to make now, they rebounded and came back to haunt me! That happened in the town with the car park, the church, and the well. It was my belief then that we had driven into more benevolent latitudes—the result of wishful thinking as opposed to scientific observation—which raised high hopes that were all too soon dashed: an error of judgement on my part, and one that I’m reluctant to repeat. But…I can only report things the way I find them!

“Since leaving that ill-omened town I’ve been taking solar radiation readings on the hour, each and every day, and yesterday I was obliged to give our leader some bad—though not
too
bad—news. In short I reported that the sun’s ultraviolet radiation appeared to be fluctuating, in my opinion as a result of a layer of particles high in the atmosphere which is constantly on the move, sometimes blocking the lethal rays while at others parting to let them through. Which was true yesterday, and also for a few hours this morning when the levels were a little high…since when these atmospheric changes seem to be working very much in our favour! Let me explain:

“As Big Jon Lamon has told you, I have been out since first light, and hour on hour my readings have steadily improved. Indeed, in less than a day they’ve improved to such a degree that they are now better than those I took in the town of the fly-by-nights—much better than at any time since we left that place—and better than I have ever imagined or dreamed possible! Alas that there’s no way I dare estimate the future duration of this change—at least, not the immediate future—for I certainly have no wish to repeat the errors of only a few days ago! But—”

At which point the leader had held up his huge hand and cut in: “—
But,
let me remind everyone how wonderful it was during those few days: to be able to travel by daylight and rest up by night! Yesterday after I heard Andrew’s disappointing report, I admit to having felt despondent—but no longer! The gloom has been dispersed! I now feel buoyed up and eager to get on! Which we will, and very shortly, just as soon as we’ve heard the head tech out…” And having turned again to the slight technician—who had winced as he shied away from Big Jon’s heavy hand:

“My friend, you must excuse me,” the leader had apologized. “It’s true that in the past I’ve interrupted you far too often, but this time forgive me my excitement and continue. Tell us if you will the rest of your news…the
best
and by far the most
important
part of your news!”

“Yes, yes!” the other had responded. “I’m coming to it! But first let me take a chance and risk my reputation one last time—though this time I have reason to believe that such a risk is minimal. For as I was about to say: it seems the farther north we trek the more these atmospheric anomalies appear to be working in our favour! In spite of their vacillations and however gradually, the levels of both ultraviolet
and
background radiations are finally—dare I say ‘definitely?’—becoming more acceptable! Oh, they swing this way and that, but each high is never as high as the last, and the lows are always lower!”

At which the almost breathless silence of the crowd had at last been broken by the sound of pent sighs, gasps, other small but audible exclamations…then some shouted, barely articulate queries…and finally a gathering storm of raised voices! Until:

“Now hold!” Big Jon’s cry as he rose to his feet had risen above all else. “Hold on, I say! For the man’s by no means done and the best is still to come!”

Falling silent, still the people had pressed closer, and in the forefront Garth had felt their excitement almost as a tangible force at his back.

“The
very
best, yes!” Fielding had nodded his head vigorously. “For while I’m the so-called ‘head’ technician, my colleagues are no less worthy and all have worked at least as hard, if not harder, than I myself. And now I’m talking about Earl Jones and Glenn Garrison—my radio men!”

On hearing that last the hush that had fallen was suddenly utter: a total silence from a gathering that might only be described as hypnotized. For surely the small tech’s final revelation could have meant only one thing?

And in corroboration: “It seems a very long time,” Fielding had continued, his voice suddenly tremulous, “since last we had communication with anyone outside the clan or beyond the Southern Refuge. But this morning when I was out and about, Earl and Glenn achieved precisely that! It was one of those old radios—fallen apart and scrapped—salvaged and fitted with makeshift parts that were never intended for such use—written off time and time again only to be revamped, reassembled, reconstituted. And finally this morning when an all-too-frequent hiss of meaningless static suddenly went away, finally there were voices—real human voices…and…
and a
message!”

But that had been all from the head tech. Emotionally overcome, trembling in all his limbs, Fielding had been helped down from the iron flank of Big Jon’s vehicle and a path cleared for him through the assembled clan folk. 

Then before the stunned crowd could react again, the leader had reached down, offering his hand to a man years younger than Fielding—Earl Jones, who for all those years might have reckoned himself a radio operator, if only the radios had operated!—and hoisted him aboard the rauper. For it was tech Jones who had heard and recorded the all-important message, and head tech Fielding had left it to him to tell the rest of the story:

How while searching pensively, almost idly through the wave bands, as he had done on a hundred previous occasions, suddenly he had picked up a repetitive signal, and a voice so very faint it might have been coming down from the stars! Scarcely daring to touch or interfere with the radio’s unlikely jumble of wires, tubes, and fuses, he had finally managed to adjust the gain and make a scribbled record of the message; which was a tired, even forlorn-sounding request, almost as pensive as Jones’ own mood: that if anyone was “out there” listening, he should try to make contact on the more viable wavelength which had then been specified.

Feeling he needed help and someone to corroborate, validate what was happening, Jones had called out for Garrison to attend him. Sleeping close by in a trundle where much of the technical equipment was stored, Garrison had started awake, quickly joining Jones where he had already tuned in to the other wavelength and was even then talking to some fantastic, incredible other!

At this point in the story Glenn Garrison had been eager to join Jones and the leader on the rauper’s deck, and between the two techs the details of the unique, exciting event had quickly been filled in:

They had indeed been in communication with a more northerly band of nuclear survivors—a group that for years had searched the airwaves for others, hopefully to expand a small population depleted by fly-by-night depredation and so freshen and fortify diminishing gene pools; not only theirs but also those of their surviving animal species… And yes, while certain technicians and craft specialists continued a semi-subterranean existence—primarily for the maintenance of “the sanctuary,” as a precaution against any possible future disaster—the majority of “the kindred” were now living their lives
above ground,
in farms and a small village they had gradually been rebuilding and renovating for close on a decade!… As for the fly-by-nights: following the massed attack that decimated the population of the sanctuary, the survivors had begun a campaign, venturing out during daylight hours
en
masse
into the nearby village and countryside around to seek out and destroy the vampires where they hid from the sun… The ruined village, with its cellars and other dark places, served as the swarm’s main roosts; the vengeful kindred had hunted them down, burned them out, cleared off the area all around while setting booby-traps and installing advance warning systems… All of this made possible by the fact that the ozone layer in their more northerly latitude had slowly settled down, replenished itself, until now the region was totally safe above ground—from the sun at least—and comparatively free of the monsters; though there was still the occasional, however ineffective raid, always from the south: the very region into which the clan’s convoy was now about to venture…

Then, as the two techs approached the end of the story, Big Jon Lamon had cut in on them. Determined to have the last word, he had begun to bring the meeting to a close with the following statement:

“Now hear this:

“I’m aware that there have always been those among you who had doubts—who believed there was small chance that we would make it even this far—but I also know that all of you, each and every one of you, has put his or her heart, body, and soul into our great adventure. Moreover you should know that I have not been without doubts of my own, but that I now feel as if a huge burden has been lifted from my shoulders. And since it is my fervent desire to witness this relief that I feel reflected in you—to actually see it written in
your
faces, the weight lifted from
your
shoulders—I have kept the very best of the news to the last so that I might report it to you personally.

“So then, what is this wonderful news I’ve been holding in reserve? Simply this: that these sanctuary people, the kindred, are a clever lot who have either developed or retained from the olden days a means of radio triangulation; by which I mean that they have located
us
, this very convoy, at a point no more than a hundred miles due south of their refuge! Moreover, if we keep in regular touch and as we draw ever closer, it’s their intention to send out a strong party to meet and guide us in! People, my friends,
we’re almost at the end of our
trek!”

At which, after a brief pause to let that sink in, someone in the crowd had cheered, thrown his hat in the air, and done a little dance; which in turn had set the rest of them off: laughing, shouting and back-slapping.

Big Jon had let it go on for a moment or two before bellowing: “Now listen! Go and prepare. We have rested up here—most of us—but now it’s time we moved on. I was thinking: perhaps we should stay on here another night. Ah, but I learned a valuable lesson in that damned town back there! Namely, that if we stay in any one place too long, the fly-by-nights are bound to smell us out! So now, with all this good news buoying us up, I reckon it’s time we got underway again; and we will within the hour. Why, there are people
waiting
for us, and even coming to
meet
us! And it seems only right that in our turn we should do our best to make that meeting happen as quickly as possible.

“So, we’ll ride the rest of the day and coming night, then sleep tomorrow from dawn till dusk. But with any luck tomorrow will be the last time we rest up in daylight, and if the ozone layer will only quit its wobbling for good we may even be able to dispose of some of the lead that’s weighed us down all this terrible time! Now, what do you say to that?”

The clan folk had been with Big Jon all the way; but thinking to remind him of something, the chief mechanic, Ian Clement—a man with grease-smudged features, calloused hands and ragged oily coveralls: the hallmarks of his trade—had called out, “Big Jon! As you are aware, all that bad sludgy fuel we’ve been using has knocked out a couple of motors, making them irreparable. Now every trundle—and indeed every vehicle—will have to he packed to the gills with people and gear; which will put an even greater strain on the motors and slow us down more yet. Moreover and even worse, the one thing we can rely upon is that there’s bound to be at least a few more breakdowns!

“Now you know I’m not trying to put a damper on things, but these good people must understand that we’re not out of trouble yet; no, not by a long shot! Let’s face it, the best speed this convoy has ever achieved is something less than ten miles in any twenty-four hour period! Which I suppose is as much or more my fault as anyone else’s, me being the one who cares for these cursed engines! But now—what with fuel problems, earlier its conservation, and more recently its poor quality; and the lousy roads if and when there
are
roads, not just potholed rubble and cratered dirt; plus the fact that we’ve regularly had to detour to find safe harbour during daylight hours, while going with extreme caution through the badlands at night; and now the breakdowns, which can only get worse—well, I just don’t know what to say any more! But one thing for certain: while there’s nothing we can do about all this, still it makes that hundred miles seem one hell of a long way!”

“Ian, you’re quite right,” the leader had at once replied. “Which makes it all the more needful that we get underway with as little delay as possible. At least we know there’s no longer any requirement to be so frugal with the fuel and water. On the other hand, and where frugality is concerned, from now on we’ll need to be sparing with our remaining handful of domestic animals. Meaning that other than any wild game we may trap or shoot—assuming the fly-by-nights haven’t had them all—there can be no more roast suppers from the flesh of our caged creatures! No, for the kindred need our beasts’ genes to invigorate and reestablish the quality of their own animals: which is to say
our
animals, or humanity’s animals, as they will become in some far future time. And that’s not to mention our human genes—which are perhaps the future of humanity itself…!