The Fly-By-Nights (9 page)

Garth Slattery dreamed, and for the first time in as long as he could remember his dreams were sweet. He dreamed of a land that was green and pure, with knee-deep grasses in meadows that went on forever, and a clear water river running through where glittering fishes leaped and sported. He dreamed that he lay there, with Layla of course, mostly hidden in the deep grasses of the meadow. All warm, bathed and glowing, Layla slept in his arms.

And he dreamed that his father, Zach, stood atop a hillock in the near-distance, smiling, waving, and leaning easily on a gleaming metal crutch that reflected flashes of clean, healthy sunlight. There was no rubble or blackened earth anywhere visible: only the roofs of little houses, half-hidden in the trees on gently sloping hillsides, with blue smoke rising from their brick chimney stacks. And on the far side of the river, penned behind fences in pastures of their own, several livestock species grazed contentedly.

In other words Garth dreamed of paradise. But in the waking world of the convoy’s folk, as time passed, things were rapidly becoming far less than peaceful…

And almost two hours later, suddenly Garth’s dreams were shattered! He started awake to sounds of guttural shouting—cries of anger, outrage, and pain! It was Layla who was hurting; Layla’s fingers grasping his arm, only to be wrenched away; Layla Morgan, dragged bodily from him!

At first Garth knew only confusion. Torn from sleep in the dusky gloom, and shivering from the shock of his abrupt awakening, he lurched to his feet near-naked. But as the fog lifted from his mind, suddenly everything was as clear as crystal. Ned Singer stood there: legs apart, a half-empty bottle in one hand and Layla in the other. Holding the girl by the upper left arm, he shook her so hard, so viciously that she skittered and skipped to avoid falling…which finally she did, twirling to her knees on the rough concrete floor!

“Oh, you slut! You little
slut
!” Singer yelled at her, his speech slurred with drink. “Didn’t I warn you about this horny pup of a Slattery? Seduced you, has he? You stupid young slut! Or maybe it was you seduced him, eh!?” With which he drew back a booted foot to kick her. By which time Garth was fully awake—and raging!

Drunk, staggering, thrown off balance as Layla avoided his kick—and surprised by Garth’s attack: its speed and ferocity, and the raw fury written in the youth’s expression—Singer saw him coming almost too late. And it was no mere “pup’s” paw that struck him but a fist as hard as rock, hurled with Garth’s entire body weight behind it! If Singer hadn’t turned his shoulder into that blow—if it had smashed into his throat and crushed his windpipe, it might well have killed him outright; or, if it had landed on his astonished, fallen jaw, it would certainly have broken it in pieces—but Singer’s shoulder was unfeeling muscle and bone and he was simply driven back, his bottle shattering where he was brought to a halt with his back flat against the wall. Then:

“What?
What?”
he roared, recovering his balance. “Why, you dirty hound! You take my chosen woman and…and what?—
rape
her, did you? Oh, I can see it all now! And still not satisfied with your filthy actions, now you offer violence to me, Layla’s intended? Well understand this, you horny Slattery dog: we clan folk know
exactly
how to deal with such as you!”

Singer’s great gun hung from its sling around his neck and under his arm. Releasing Layla, who until then had been dragged bodily along with him, he groped for the stock and pistol grip. And with his face a livid, twisted mask of murderous hatred, he swung the weapon up and forward—

—At which a trio of figures arrived on the scene, emerging as by magic out of the shadows. The last of them, Zach Slattery, came cursing, hobbling on his crutch; but the first of them, Big Jon Lamon, suffered no such physical disadvantage. Putting himself between Garth and the bully, the clan’s leader thrust Singer’s gun aside and, with a speed and efficiency that belied his bulk, sliced through its leather sling with a razor sharp machete! At which the full weight of the weapon, falling unexpectedly on Singer’s grimy, sweating hands, caused it to slip through his fingers and crash to the floor.

Disarmed and staggering, Singer glowered and snarled at the four men facing him: Big Jon, Zach, and head tech Andrew Fielding; but mainly at Garth who, restrained by the efforts of both his father and the tech, nevertheless continued to rage. And:

“Bastards, each man-jack of you!” Singer cursed them. “Bastards one and all! Are there no more honourable men in the clan? Have I no more friends, no allies?”

“Do you deserve any?” Big Jon answered him, as calmly as he was able. “And why would you need allies?” But it was as if the bully hadn’t heard him, and:

“What? Is there no more justice in this entire, ruined, god-forsaken world?” Singer inquired of no one in particular—and at once answered himself: “No, there isn’t! And so I’ll have to take care of it myself!”

Rapidly sobering, fully aware now and sly as he was brutal, he dropped suddenly to one knee in an effort to regain his gun…which could not be allowed.

As he fumbled for his weapon Singer glanced up—in time to see the tough rubber ferrule of Zach’s crutch driving in toward his creased, sweating brow! In the same split second his blood-shot eyes opened wide, his expression changing from one of menace and hatred to one of shock—and with an audible
thud!
the crutch slammed home.

Standing on his good leg, Zach had leaned heavily into the blow. Singer’s square head on his red bull neck snapped back as he was straightened up forcefully from his crouch, knocked from his feet and sent sprawling. An instant later saw Big Jon Lamon stooping to recover the bully’s weapon, picking it up as easily as if it were a wooden toy.

“Tsk, tsk!” the clan’s leader said then, examining the gun, his expression artless, innocent as he pursed rough lips. “Why, just look here, will you, Ned? You’ve left the safety off! Now,
that
is how accidents happen, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate. So I shall expect better of you in future.”

Seated on the floor, leaning back on his hands, and shaking his head dazedly, the other said, “I’ll not be forgetting this. You’re all working against me, all of you! You, Big Jon, our so called ‘leader.’ And you, Zach Slattery—you gimpy old sod—you and your bloody upstart son! And—”

“—And that’s enough!” Zach hobbled closer, scowling. “If I ever hear you call me gimpy again—or my son a pup, dog, or a horny bastard—then the next time I hit you it’ll be to knock your teeth out through the back of your scabby neck!” But:

“No, Father,” Garth growled low in his throat, as he pulled his trousers on over his breech-clout, then helped Layla to her feet. “Not on my behalf you won’t! I can look after myself. And now that Ned Singer has shown what he’s made of, that won’t any longer be a problem.”

But as far as Singer was concerned, it was as if no one had issued a single word of warning; he simply picked up where he’d left off:

“As for you—” glowering at Layla as he got to his feet, he took a step toward her. “Yes,
you
—you little whore! I’ll—”

“
You’ll do nothing whatsoever, Ned!”
Big Jon Lamon now thundered, no longer playing the artless innocent but the leader he had always been. “And you’ll
say
no more—” He got between Singer and his would-be victims. “—Not another word, or I guarantee you’ll regret it!”

And at last Singer’s senses—something of them—seemed to return to him. “But I’ve been…I’ve been
courting
this girl!” he said. Which now caused Layla herself to speak up:

“Don’t you mean ‘this little whore,’ Mr. Singer? And ‘courting’ me?’ Is that what you were doing? Chasing the young men off and stripping me naked with your eyes whenever you caught sight of me? Leering at me, and asking me back to your quarters on at least a dozen occasions; despite that I refused you every time? Well, let me tell you this,
Mr
. Singer —that the mere sight of you is enough to make me sick! Why, I would have
any
man of the clan before you! But Garth Slattery here is the one I’ve chosen, if he’ll have me—”

“—Which I will, gladly!” said Garth, with his arm around her waist. “I’ll keep and protect you, too. And listen, ‘Ned’—” he glared at Singer: “—don’t you
ever
again so much as look at Layla! Don’t try to speak to her, or speak badly of her. You’re a bullying, piggish liar, ‘Ned.’ But not around me or mine, not any more.”

The scav boss clenched his fists and puffed himself up, but before he could do anything or make any further comment Big Jon nodded curtly and said. “Then that’s settled. And you two: I’ll marry you within the hour, if that’s what you wish, in that gutted church across the way…which should leave little else in dispute.” Then, stripping the magazine from Singer’s weapon, he tossed it over to the crimson-faced bully who only just managed to catch and hold on to it. But in another moment, red-eyed and scowling, he turned the gun’s gaping snout on Garth and Layla!

It seemed a mere gesture, an empty threat however ugly, for Big Jon Lamon had the magazine. Or maybe not so empty; the look in Singer’s eyes was a threat in its own right. And for several long seconds he held that pose—

—Until with a sneer and a grunted, “Huh!” he made to turn away; only to have the clan leader step into his path. And:

“I never would have thought I’d see the day, Ned,” Big Jon spoke quietly now. “But it seems something needs saying, and a warning is very much in order. You’re an intimidating man—a bully, as Garth Slattery here has named you—but in the clan there’s things allowed and things we can’t allow. I smell hard liquor on your breath, Ned Singer, and I’ve seen death in your eyes, heard murder in your words. None of which sits well with me, for it’s a mix that bodes ill for all of us.”

“Huh!” said the other again, moving to step round the clan leader, who once more blocked his path. And:

“Hear me out!” Big Jon’s eyes had narrowed now, his brows creasing in a deep frown. “I know Garth Slattery’s a member of your team; but there are other teams, other duties, and things can be moved around—”

“—Not on my account!” Garth spoke up. “We know now where we stand, but that must be the end of it. Ned Singer’s good at what he does and there’s things I’m learning from him. We don’t have to like each other, but protecting the convoy is all that really matters and in that respect I’ll do whatever I’m called upon to do, and no ill feelings. This other thing…it should have been a private matter, but in any case it’s over now.”

At which the leader slowly nodded. “Sounds good to me. Very well, so let it be.” But he turned back to Singer nevertheless, saying: “Let me remind you, Ned: the clan has had enough—more than enough—of death, both natural and as a result of fly-by-night depredation. Why, we’ve even had a murder, though that was many years ago, when even I was a young man. As to how we dealt with that: well, if memory serves the killer was taken out into the badlands and left there to fend for himself…”

His pause was deliberate; it allowed the other to ask: “Oh, and what has that to do with me?”

But Big Jon shook his head. “Why, nothing at all!” he said. “No, I should hope not! It was only a reminder…that between here and our destination—if we ever get there—there’s bound to be badlands aplenty.” And then, stepping aside, he said, “Now you can go.”

But as Singer made to slink away, again the leader stopped him. Big Jon’s voice was suddenly lighter now as he reverted to his artless, innocent mode once more, and said: “Oh, and by the way, that was a decent bit of scavenging, Ned, and I know everyone in the clan will think well of you. We’ll never have enough of medicinal supplies, which are always welcome.”

“What’s that?” Frowning, Singer glanced back. “Medi—” But there he broke off and his jaw dropped, for he knew well enough Big Jon’s meaning… 

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