The Fly-By-Nights (22 page)

And a few minutes later the convoy was underway again…

Chief mech Ian Clement’s predictions were proving all too accurate: one of the larger tractors and the water bowser failed to make it down into the valley. The latter’s driver jumped for it, saving his life when his cumbersome vehicle toppled on a crumbling surface, burst open and lost its load. As for the tractor: worn-out, its engine coughing and sputtering, it simply gave up the ghost, coming to a grinding halt where its front wheels ran into a deep rut and refused to come out—which meant that the trundle it towed was also stuck there. Wear and tear, bad fuel, harsh conditions: all of these things had taken, and were still taking, their toll. For even as the column crossed the valley’s floor toward the mighty forest, yet another vehicle quit; which left many travellers hanging on like grim death to groaning and heavily overloaded trundles, trying to keep up as best possible by running alongside, and disappointed to be on their feet even sooner than they had anticipated.

Then, on the final approaches to the looming green barrier, Big Jon’s rauper lost a track, spun out of control and broke an axle on a tilting slab of concrete. At which, cursing his luck and anything else he could think of, the leader tossed his belongings down, dismounted, patted his sorry beast once on its red-rusted flank, and without looking back walked the last hundred yards into the resin-scented verdure of the massive trees.

And there, beneath those huge branches, a surprise awaited Big Jon; and not only him but the clan in its entirety. For indeed the forest had spaced itself out! The boles of the giants were not so close together that they denied entry to the smaller trundles; the lower branches were off the ground to a height where they would cause no real hindrance; and while needles and leaf-mould were thick on the ground, there was little by way of undergrowth. Moreover, the greater the penetration—and as the canopy thickened high overhead—there, apart from the deepening, dusty gloom, conditions in general even appeared to be improving.

Not that the leader intended to penetrate the forest to any great depth; the afternoon was already lengthening towards evening, and the sky beginning to darken, growing heavy with rainclouds. No, the night’s camp must be made right here and now on the forest’s edge…and
then
made safe! Nor would Big Jon try to bring the entire column in; it was obvious that the majority of the vehicles wouldn’t make it, and to try would simply be to clutter the entire area. Wherefore all the larger vehicles must be abandoned in the open, while the clan and their few precious possessions and beasts would be brought in beneath the trees to enjoy whatever small measure of comfort the forest would afford them. And tomorrow morning? Time enough then to move on, facing the problems that the new day would doubtless bring…

Garth was with Layla, putting up their rude shelter against the bole and between the spreading roots of a forest giant, when he was called to attend Big Jon at the small vehicle he had commandeered and positioned at the hub of the encampment. The battered old open-sided bus was one of just four transports which so far had shown their maneuverability over the forest’s floor and between its great trees. From this time on—in darkness or whenever else the clan made camp—it would serve as the leader’s command post; on the move it would carry sick or incapacitated passengers, such as Zach Slattery by reason of his troublesome leg. Thus the vehicle would be in use at all times, with everyone’s best interests in mind.

On arriving at Big Jon’s vehicle, Garth saw that the other night-watch bosses were already there; and so was Garry Maxwell and his “sniffers.” Appearing less than enthusiastic, Maxwell’s charges whined and fidgeted on their leashes, huddling as close as possible to his skinny legs and almost tripping him.

“What’s wrong with your animals?” Big Jon frowned and waved Maxwell back a pace or two. “Other than their smell, I mean…”

“Can’t wash dogs without water!” Maxwell protested. “‘Least ways not for some time now, not while it’s been hard to come by and we kept it for drinkin’. But for a fact they do stink some. Maybe I’ll give ’em a treat and take ’em back down to the river for a swim on the end of a rope—not that they’ll thank me for it! We came in that way, me and the sniffers, so’s I could stop and fill some bottles from the river—just for drinkin’, mind. And didn’t they kick up a fuss around that fallen bridge? You bet your life they did! Which is why I’m here reportin’: ’cause they don’t like it here, neither by that bridge nor here under the trees. Too gloomy for ’em, and damp with moisture risin’ up off the river. And then there’s the sharpish smell of these big trees and their gooey gum and what all, gettin’ up their noses, makin’ ’em sneeze and gen’rally confusin’ ’em. What I’m sayin’: they don’t much like not knowin’ what they’s sniffin’, and they can’t sniff any too good anyways, not with all these new smells gettin’ in the way and irritatin’ the hell out of ’em!”

“
Huh!
” Donald Myers issued a derisory snort. “Well, I don’t know about confused or irritated, Gangling Garry, but sometimes I fancy your dogs have a lot more sense than you! Should I tell you why they’re so nervous, so jumpy?”

“Oh, by all means!” Maxwell answered, trying to appear offended and failing. For with his thin or at best wiry frame, his shambling gait, unkempt hair and long nose, he looked almost as much a hound as his dogs! “Do tell, since it appears you knows so damned much about my business and my sniffers!”

“Then listen!” Myers growled. “Once I’d got myself settled in, I found I had a little time on my hands. So as not to waste any, I took a couple of lads from my crew and a pot of luminous paint out in the forest to mark up some trees in a circle round the camp: a perimeter maybe sixty or so yards in diameter, with pretty much clear line of sight from tree to tree. I was making myself useful, that’s all, and saving my good friends here some time and effort before nightfall—”

“—Which won’t be long in the offing now,” Big Jon prompted him, “so save us a little more time and effort by getting on with it! Then I’ll want to speak to all of you.”

Myers nodded. “Away from the forest’s fringe and the deeper we went, and with the sky outside clouding over, it was getting very gloomy; so I was pleased to note that the paint was beginning to glow, however faintly, but still enough to pick out the perimeter from tree to tree. Then one of my men noticed a different glow just a short distance deeper into the forest outside the perimeter. It was the sort of glow that some toadstools and rotting timbers make.

“Since we were well armed we investigated and found a deserted fly-by-night site. There were small animal bones and lots of other shit—I mean
real
shit: fly-by-night filth, I suppose—all of it softly alight with that unhealthy glow. And worse, at first sight there were what looked like human bones and a human skull mixed in with it! Or maybe not—no, definitely
not
human, not any longer—for the bones were horribly misshapen, crumbly as chalk, and as long and thin as Garry here; while the skull was like eggshell but very long in the jaw, with teeth as sharp as knives…!”

“Oh really!” Maxwell muttered. “So accordin’ to these skinny old bones of mine I’m scarcely human, am I?
Huh!
Well thanks a lot—I don’t think!” His indignation went for nothing, however, for Myers simply ignored him and got on with his story:

“Well, the site didn’t look all that fresh, and not having any burning desire to linger there I hastened my lads back into camp; but I reckon we’ve found the reason why Garry’s dogs have been acting up. Oh, resin and river damp may have played a part in what’s bothering them, but mainly it’s what they’re smelling out there: that glowing fly-by-night nest in the forest! And as for those freakish remains—” Seasoned scav that he was or had been, still Myers paused and shuddered, “—well, I reckon this must have been one
very
hungry pack, for it now seems to me…”

At which Big Jon cut in, finishing up for him: “It seems to you, and to me, that now in desperation they’ve resorted to eating their own!” And Myers, done with his story, simply nodded.

Then after several long moments—perhaps in order to shake off some of the spiritual gloom, the disquietude that the group as a man could feel descending—their leader shrugged, cleared his throat and finally found his voice: “Well here’s the thing: I called you here for your thoughts on tonight’s security measures, much more important now that we’ve learned of Don’s discovery: that the fly-by-nights have used this place at some time in the past and are not averse to nesting nearby in the forest. So just keep that in mind and tell me—” his gaze fell on Bert Jordan, “—Bert, what do you think? Have you any suggestions?”

Scratching his chin, Jordan said, “Let me give it a little thought.” And after a moment: “We’re not short of watch personnel, and I believe we should use every man-jack of ’em tonight out there on the perimeter that Don’s marked for us. We should allocate at least two men to each station—or at least every other station—and wherever possible with no more than one or two trees between manned locations. And incidentally, but importantly, this will make for a lot of weary lads come morning; so when it’s a question of who rides the trundles, night-watch personnel must take priority. Let’s face it, you can’t use ’em over and over, night after night, and still expect ’em to walk the next day!” He paused, shrugged and went on:

“So, that’s about all from me…except I probably should report something I saw on my way in. See, I was riding in this trundle that got stuck in a deep rut coming down the big slope. By the time we’d dug it out, it was just about the last vehicle in the entire convoy, and I reckon I pretty much
was
the last man to make it in under the trees on foot. But on my way in, that’s when I saw these flashes of light—or maybe lightning?—and heard the thunder…at least it
might
have been thunder.”

The leader frowned and said: “Thunder? Well that’s reasonable; the sky was full of rain clouds, that’s for sure. As for lights, or lightning: I suppose that’s perfectly logical, too, for after all, the two do go together! Just exactly where did you see these flashes, Bert?”

“North of us, in the forest,” the other answered. “Maybe a little less than three miles along the river, and half a mile deep in the trees, where they start rising toward the valley’s western rim. It was after I heard the first of these thunder sounds and was looking for the source, that I saw the canopy there lit by this flash of light—a split second sort of thing, you understand, which I only just glimpsed out the corner of my eye. So I stood still a while, watching for it to happen again; but the thunder had died down and nothing happened…at least until I looked away!
Hah!
But isn’t that just typical? For then I heard more dull rumblings and saw three or four more flashes of light centered on that same area of the canopy; flashes that vanished as quick as they’d come, leaving nothing I could focus on…”

And after a moment: “That’s it?” said the leader.

“That’s it,” Jordan replied.

“Hmm! Sounds like St Elmo’s Fire—electrical discharge—which I’ve seen once before while scavenging down south. Well, we may be passing by that way tomorrow. Do you reckon you can show us the spot then?”

“Pretty close to it,” said Jordan. “Sure thing.”

“Very well, since there’s nothing we can do about it right now, we’ll leave it till then…”

Big Jon grunted, nodded, and turned to Garth. “Young Slattery I see from your expression that there’s something you want to say. So out with it, speak up. There’s only an hour or so to dusk, by which time you’ll need to be out on the perimeter.”

“And not just the perimeter,” said Garth. “At least, not in my opinion.” And then, aware of a sudden tension and the frowns that were appearing on both Bert Jordan’s and Don Myers’ faces, he quickly followed up with: “Not that I disagree or find fault with the work that Don’s already done, or Bert’s suggestion. Of course I don’t, but I think there may be something more.”

“Go on,” the leader prompted him.

“It’s something that Garry said about those collapsed bridges over the river,” Garth went on. “The fact that his sniffers baulked when Garry brought them in that way, and that they seem very uneasy and at odds with things even now. I mean, from what I saw of those bridges, they’re half submerged but still pretty much passable. And on the far bank there are those large industrial-looking buildings, more or less intact. Just the sort of places where—”