The Fly-By-Nights (20 page)

“And probably a murderer,” Zach muttered under his breath.

“That too, possibly,” Big Jon agreed, “though it was never proven. The point is, how come this great thick thug of a man is suddenly gifted with such amazing mental powers that he can get into a person’s mind?”

“But wouldn’t his dull brain make him all that much easier for
them
to get into?” Garth argued. “And surely you’ll remember that he did hate us, and myself in particular? You’ll recall how he ranted at us, calling us dishonourable, and bastards one and all, and blustered about having no friends or allies? Well, he’s got plenty of friends and allies now, and doesn’t need too much by way of a warped or transformed brain. No, not at all for now he has backing of the fly-by-nights: their massed vampire mentality…!”

And after a moment’s silence: “Your argument is…compelling,” said Big Jon. And Zach added:

“Damn right it is! For there’s truth in my son’s words that even clouded minds can’t deny!”

Big Jon was calmer, far more thoughtful now. Suddenly aware that his old friend Zach Slattery was right, and that indeed as the leader he should be more—perhaps a
lot
more—concerned with what Garth had alleged of the new, greater threat posed by these oddly reticent, curiously inactive fly-by-nights, he was at last beginning to wonder why he wasn’t or hadn’t been!

Was Garth correct then, in his beliefs? In any case it were best to let him continue; for it was apparent that the anxious looking young man standing before him wasn’t yet finished.

And as if Garth was privy to his thoughts:

“Sir,” he patiently continued, “with the greatest respect, you know how both you and my father are in the habit of quoting these old sayings come down from a time before the war, before the refuges? Well, Ned Singer had some sayings of his own. Now, I worked with him, and the saying I remember best—because of the way he would use it when we approached a suspected nest, as in the car park in the ruined town with the church and the well—was this: ‘softly softly catchee monkey.’”

And as Garth paused again to collect his thoughts: “Go on,” said Big Jon, but far more quietly now. “And by the way, I know that saying, too. It’s an adage used by old-time hunters, which advises stealth if you want to catch your prey all unawares as you creep up on him.”

“Exactly,” Garth replied. “As Ned and the fly-by-nights are now creeping up on us! Except in my case it’s an adage that Ned would seem to have forgotten because the strength of his hatred—his need to let me know his intentions, my future fate at his hands—has caused him to show himself physically on the perimeters; and yet again when he’s drawn on this weird fly-by-night mentality in order to invade my dreams!”

“You believe Ned’s using these monsters,” Big Jon growled.

“No more than they are using him!” Garth answered. “And no more than they used Jack Foster…”

“So then,” the leader chewed his top lip, “while I’m still not fully convinced, but assuming you’re right—also because it’s obvious that you anticipate an ambush, but
mainly
because I can’t afford to say you’re wrong!—what do we do about it?”

Garth shook his head. “Sir, I’ve told you the problem, but it’s beyond me to supply a solution. You’ve already doubled our security procedures, and I don’t think it would help our cause very much to have too many more untrained men on watch. But as an early warning measure we can tether our dogs, evenly spaced out, around the perimeters from tonight on. And…and that’s about it! I can think of nothing else—except to suggest that the time may have come to inform the other night-watch members of the dangers that may well be imminent. And that last should be done now, in time for tonight’s watch, for it has to be the best way to keep the men alert and on their toes.”

“Tonight’s watch?” said Big Jon. “As soon as that?”

Garth nodded. “Oh yes, definitely. For there was one very notable absentee from that column of fly-by-nights I saw drifting north last night. Not only that, but after speaking to my father yesterday, I finally managed to get some completely unbroken,
undisturbed
sleep! So that now I can’t help but wonder if Ned’s softly softly approach is at last in force, and maybe into its final phase.”

“Well,” said Big Jon. “Other than implementing these suggestions, it appears you’ve done all the spadework for me! Very well then, Garth, you may consider it done. For despite myriad other tasks awaiting me—” and sighing he threw his arms wide, to encompass and indicate the convoy’s inactivity, “—the good Lord knows I’ll
have
to find the time for this!”

Frowning, Garth looked all around, then glanced at the sun where it climbed steadily into the sky. Before he could ask the obvious question, however, his father preempted him. “Yes, you were right to mention the leader’s enormous problems, of which the most recent is the reason we’re still not underway.”

“Indeed,” said Big Jon, gruffly. “Do you have any idea how few miles we’ve trekked in the last dozen or so days? No? Well I’ll tell you: it works out on average at perhaps
seven
a day! That’s mainly because of vehicle breakdowns, streams, bogs and gullies to cross or find ways around, ruined and suspect towns to avoid, several burials—may God have mercy on their souls—water to ship manually from a handful of clean sources, and, mercifully indeed, some decent fuel that a search party miraculously found and spent time siphoning off from a battered gas station not too far off route. Now, while I can’t tell you I’m not well pleased about those last two items, still all of these things taken together—though more especially the breakdowns—are costing us dearly in mileage. On top of which, lacking a radio, there’s this frustration of not knowing how near or far our northern cousins may be from us, or even if they’re yet en route to meet us!

“As for this morning’s problem: yet another trundle with a clapped out engine clogged with dirty fuel! I’ve got the mechs working on it, of course, for we can’t afford to lose any more vehicles. Each breakdown results in the other transports getting more tightly crowded; which in turn makes
them
more liable to failure! I swear it’s almost enough to drive a man mad—if I’m not mad already!”

“I’m sorry to have added to you problems,” said Garth.

“Me too!” said the leader. “But enough! I must get on. And meanwhile I’m sure that pretty wife of yours must be wondering what’s become of you. You look very tired, Garth, so if I were you I think I might be inclined to ignore or even take advantage of anyone else’s current problems; indeed, I would look to my own, and avail myself of a little decent rest while I could get it.”

Good advice, which Garth at once accepted…

XI

Once again Garth’s sleep was mainly undisturbed; at least until shortly after noon when Zach asked Layla, who was up and about, to give him a shake. Big Jon wanted Garth on hand when he spoke to a now considerable gathering of night-watchmen, a task which he’d put off until now to allow last night’s duties to get some well-earned rest. Still it was a fairly weary-looking gang that the leader addressed, outlining the possible threat before urging them to greater vigilance.

Garth then filled them in on all the finer details, warning them to keep everything that they’d been told to themselves. It would never do to cause unnecessary concern or even panic among the travellers in general. But a final piece of advice—delivered in order to reinforce what they’d already been told—was to make sure that as of now they went on duty with all the firepower they could muster, along with the best ammunition possible from what sparse reserves remained in the convoy’s magazine. And without more ado, that was that.

Very timely too—as with low muttered exchanges and apprehensive sideways glances at each other, the now pensive night-watchmen began to disperse—for a moment later the chief mech, Ian Clement, came hurrying to Big Jon’s rauper, eager to present him with some very welcome news.

In a yet more grimy condition than usual—with his hands, ragged coveralls, and almost unrecognizable face spattered with thick black oil and red rust—Clement breathlessly inquired of the leader: “Well, Big Jon, do you hear it?”

“Eh, hear it?” the other replied—before it dawned on him that he was in fact hearing something from back there, midway along the column of disparate ramshackle vehicles: the throaty rumble and intermittent throbbing of an engine!

And now the chief mech was grinning ear to ear as he said, “We got it running—or if not running, at least walking! Just give it a moment to let that decent fuel they found dilute the lumpy stuff, and the engine should soon settle down.” Which it was doing even as he spoke.

“The trundle?” Big Jon grasped Clement’s hand, and at once released it to clean his own hand on the other’s filthy coveralls. And: “God, you’re a mess!” he said—“But a very beautiful mess! Can we get underway, then?”

The chief mech nodded. “I can’t see why not, as long as the other vehicles aren’t playing up. But I’d best warn you—as if you didn’t know already—some of them are in pretty ropy condition. Not too many miles left in any of them! As for the one we’ve just fixed: well, she’s lost two of her ten cylinders and is now running—or walking—on eight. But as long as we don’t push her too hard she should hold out, though how much longer I can’t say.”

Nodding gravely, the leader said, “I know that you’ve done the very the best you can, Ian, and on behalf of myself and the entire clan I find I must thank you once again. Please don’t go forgetting to tell your team I said so.” As the chief mech went off Big Jon called for a runner, and when he arrived told him: “Go lad, fast as you can, all the way down the line and tell ’em they have fifteen minutes to pack up and get aboard. We’re about to move on…”

The convoy proceeded north, but oh so very slowly now. And even when they came across a badly potholed, shrub and bramble festooned road the going wasn’t too much improved. But things could have been worse; the radiation count was so far down that chief tech Andrew Fielding was beginning to have doubts about his instruments; and the one-time hydroponics chief, Doris Ainsworth, was almost delirious about the quality and quantity of greenery bordering the route.

Close to an ancient farm whose stone buildings leaned under the weight of years and rampant ivy, there were fields of vegetables run wild and apple orchards where early fruit was already ripening on lush, heavy branches. A five minute halt to let the clan folk gather armfuls of good sweet food, and then they were on their way again.

Less than a ponderous mile later there was a great stand of oaks set back from the side of the road, but the travellers had never in their lives imagined anything like this! The thicket—though that was hardly the right word for it—was perhaps two acres in extent and packed solid with trees that soared as much as eighty feet tall, apparently vying with each other for space and light! In the dense, luxuriant outer canopy a vastly sprawling rookery housed hundreds of huge glossy crows who protected their nests with raucous cries, a handful of them even swooping on the column in an attempt to scare the noisy intruders off…