To Make Death Love Us (17 page)

Serena's hands
touched a tremor that was death for them all.

The rain fell
undiminished.

The Colonel
examined the intricacies of the Chinese puz­zle of gear and goods that kept Pepino imprisoned.
The right arm and head of the Rubber Man were free but his movement was otherwise severely
limited.

"Move your right
arm," the Colonel said.

As Pepino moved it
cautiously, defining the parameters of motion, the midget watched most carefully.

"Now the left
leg."

Pepino drew it up
by trying to set it free of a small maze of aluminum tent rods. They fell with a clatter and a
ringing that seemed to go on for a long time.

"Do you need me
again?" Serena asked from the gloom.

"We do," said the
Colonel.

He moved Serena in
his strong arms with the tenderest of care to the place closest to Pepino's left leg. As Serena
touched first this and then some other thing, the Colonel removed a rod here, a box or bag there.
Her hands, like
two ghostly snake
tongues, passed unerringly over the obstacles, sensing their weight and position and whether they
could be safely shifted or not. It was an almost magi­cal act.

The midget pulled
stuff out of the very middle of teeter­ing pyramids of things, waiting always a second for Serena
to tell him if the structure was secure before removing something altogether.

Sweat, strong as
acid and smelling of fear, fell into the Colonel's eyes.

Nearly half an hour
passed while they labored to free Pepino. Each bit of flotsam inside the wrecked truck was
carefully piled elsewhere in the van in such a way and in such spots as served to reinforce the
balance of the whole.

All the while, the
rain fell and the mountain gave up bits of its skin and flesh. The dirt melted all around the mud
caught at the dam of truck tires front and back, and slowly, inexorably built up great weight
upon them. The grains of sand and granite that comprised the mud, the needles of pine and spoors
of moss, the droppings of birds and the bodies of dead insects, all were deposited on one side of
the truck like the billion bodies of those micro­scopic creatures that, in aggregate, created the
chalk cliffs of Dover.

All the splendid
activity of the Colonel and the won­drous moon creature, Serena, was actually keeping them no
more than even in the fight to keep the truck poised upon the ledge.

When, at last,
Pepino was free, Serena lay back down upon the wet, steel floor and began to sob from fatigue and
strain. The Colonel sat beside her, his elbows resting on his raised knees, and stared at her.
Her lids were closed upon shallow pools of crystal tears. He placed his tiny hands against her
face, touching the tears running down
her face and then, recalling some ritual long past, touched his forehead, lips, and
breast as though her tears were holy water in a Christian ceremony.

"Are you all right,
Pepino?"

The Rubber Man was
testing each limb with great care. He rocked his head upon his slender neck, looking very much
like a great preying mantis seeking its next meal.

"Still stiff in the
joints but I can be useful now," he said.

The Colonel nodded,
glad for the help. Secretly, he was beginning to doubt his own abilities, his ability to lead
this rescue mission. He had only a dream to guide him and at times it seemed a thin shield
against the horrors of this night. Pepino at his side would be a comfort.

There came the
sound of low singing from the cab. The song was a nonsense ditty of filthy lyric and intent. It
ended in a hysterical laugh. Someone was moving up front; the truck teetered ever so slightly.
The voice was Will Carney's. The Colonel made his way to the communi­cation window.

"What the hell is
going on in there? What are you sing­ing about? Why are you thrashing around in
there?"

Inside the cab,
Marco opened his eyes at the sound of the Midget's voice. He was tired, so very tired. The dying
Strong Man looked across to Will. He saw the gleaming eyes and the glazed expression on the man's
face. Then he saw the pint bottle nestled in Will's lap.

With one quick
movement of his thickly muscled arm, he snatched the bottle away from Will before he had time to
react. When Will did reach forward, Marco held up a hand, palm forward, very clearly warning him
to stay where he was. There were about three fingers of whiskey left in the bottom. With two
fingers, he nudged the cork out of the bottle, tilted it and drank it down. Will lunged sideways,
grabbing the bottle back. Finding it empty, he
tossed it into the van through the broken window. It nearly struck the Colonel, smashing
at the Midget's feet.

The Midget cried,
"Oh Christ! Are you drunk? Are you both drunk?"

"Nobody's drunk,
you goddamn half-pint," Will shouted. He started to laugh. "Damn it, if you only was a half pint
of mountain dew, how I would hug and kiss and love yew, yew, yew." He belched.

"You'd better
settle down in there, Will," threatened the Colonel. "You'll do for us all if you
don't."

"You settle down,
you little whey-faced weasel! What the hell should we settle down for! We'll be settled all
right! Settled underneath the mud at the bottom of this gorge. Might as well flip us over the
edge and have done with it." Will started to claw at the handle of the door. "I'm going to step
out for a breath of fresh air. Too hot in here," he said loudly.

Will slammed his
shoulder against the door. The truck heaved and canted over. The van was filled with screams.
Marco grappled with Will and dragged him in one quick wrenching jerk back into the cab. He held
Will close to his chest as though they were lovers. With just the one useful arm, he wrapped Will
up and applied pressure slowly, tightening like a human boa constrictor against Will's chest. The
air was driven from Will's lungs. He thrashed about and tried to strike the Strong Man but Marco
held him so tightly that he scarcely moved an inch. Will's vision grew dark. Marco was
unrelenting. Will passed out.

Marco released him
and arranged his unconscious body so that Will's head lay upon the cushion of the seat next to
him. Serena, in the back, despite her great weariness, was the only one in the van aware of the
silent Strong Man's struggle. She had been in his mind, seeing and feeling Will's interference.
She had felt Marco's quiet disapproval of the man's drunken behavior. Marco's strength was
deeply engrained not just in his body but in
his mind, as well. Tasting his strength made her a little stronger.

Marco, perhaps made
more aware by his own imminent death, was aware of the presence of Serena in his mind. He did not
seem surprised. He was in too much pain to do more than sort of dully be aware of her, of the
strange power the tiny Moon Child revealed to him.

Serena gasped,
jerking spasmodically. The pain from Marco was overpowering now, wracking her own tiny, frail
body.

Marco touched his
own chest and a spasm of great pain passed across his eyes like the shadow of a raven's wing.
Glistening drops of sweat like quicksilver sprang out on his forehead. His face was the color of
old linen.

A lesser man would
have been dead long ago.

And there was a
great part of him that wanted to sleep in that terrible and final way. But Serena was there and
dreamed otherwise.

Soon, I shall let
you go. Soon, promised Serena. Hold on, my sweet, whispered Serena in his mind. Stay just a
little longer. We need you.

Marco smiled to
himself; he agreed with her, forcing himself to stay awake just a little bit longer, but he was
afraid it was a promise he could not long keep.

The Midget did not
understand the silence from the front, not completely, but Serena was there to reassure him ever
so gently, probing his fears and doubts and eas­ing them with the touch of her gentle hands. In
any case, there was much that had to be done. The Colonel reck­oned that Marco had probably done
something to Will to quiet him. Still, Will's behavior had sent renewed panic coursing through
him.

He turned hurriedly
to appraising the welter of mate­rial that clogged the escape hatch of the van.

"Can you try again,
my Serena? Have you the strength
to go
on?" he asked gently. "Can you listen with your hands and your fingertips once more to the boxes
and bales?"

"Yes." Her answer
reassured him in the gloom of the truck.

"I'll have to move
you to the wall of things. Pepino's free now. The two of us shall carry you between
us."

They made a cat's
cradle of their arms, Pepino remain­ing on his knees to even off the height of them. Serena swung
her legs off the floor by the strength of her long, white arms and settled herself into their
embrace. They took her to the face of all the poles, ropes, trunks, cases, boxes, bales, cartons,
kitchenware, clothing, towels, can­vas, and all and all.

Serena touched the
tangle and confusion of it, tested first one item, then another, hauling on the one while
touching the other to sense it's trembling and, therefore, it's balance.

"It's a house of
cards," Serena said at last. "If any one thing is pulled out from anywhere ..."

"Even from the
top?" the Colonel interrupted.

"From anywhere,
anywhere. The whole thing might come tumbling down."

They placed her on
the floor close to Paulette's feet. Paulette petted Serena's hair.

"We'll rest some,
and look and touch again," the Colo­nel said.

Pepino threw his
back to rest the muscles of his neck. His attenuated sinews and tendons were not worthy of
extended effort.

"Look there," he
suddenly said.

The Colonel looked
where Pepino regarded the ceiling of the van. He looked at the ventilator.

"Can you reach it?"
the Midget asked.

"I can
try."

Pepino moved
cautiously to a point just beneath the small hatch. The ventilator was of the type that contained
vanes such as those upon the roofs of houses. They spin with the breezes and draw fresh and
cooling air into the attic space beneath the eaves. In such a way the ventilator of the van was
set in motion when the truck drove along, sucking in cooling drafts.

Pepino raised his
hands far above his head but still the crown was higher. He worked his trick loosening the joints
at hip, shoulder, elbow, and wrist until he had grown, his arms had grown, and his fingertips
touched the ring that held the housing in place. His fingers grasped the seam and tried to work
their tips in so far as to create a wedge of flesh beneath the roof. He clawed. Bits of paint
fell into his upturned face but he could not budge the retainer. He released his hold and lowered
his arms. The joints and muscles sang with pain.

"I need something
to pry under the lip of the retainer. A screwdriver."

"The pry
bar?"

"Too thick, I
think."

The Midget went
stealthily along to the pry bar which Serena had dropped upon the floor when its purpose was
done. It was too thick for this job, as Pepino had said.

"Will! Will!" he
called. "There's a screwdriver in the glove compartment. Give it to me. Will? Will?"

Will was
unconscious still and Marco could not hear. He lay with his huge back canted to the window, his
cheek against it, grateful for the slight coolness it gave. His chest was held in a great vise.
There was the tiniest of poppings in his ears, tiny movements of his system.

I am ready to die
now. He thought this as much for Serena's sake as his own. He started, aware of a strange
strength born suddenly within him, a strength that was
not his alone. The pain was unbearable, the urge for the final sleep almost
irresistible.

Serena was bathed
in sweat, her body shaking with the effort she now expended. She was everywhere in Marco's huge
body. She was the beating of his heart and the shal­low hiss of air flowing into his laboring
lungs.

Just a little
longer, brave Marco.

Marco opened his
eyes, staring into the emptiness of the night.

His lips formed a
silent plea, understanding at last the struggle within himself that was not his fight
alone.

No, Serena, let me
go. He thought a silent plea at her.

But her dream was
as strong as the force of life itself and she would not surrender, even in the face of his great
pain.

Marco closed his
eyes.

It was too hard to
fight both death and a dream.

For him there was
no release.

It wasn't easy
being the youngest of fourteen children even in the best of times. In the belly of the Great
Depres­sion, it would have been the greatest of hardships, but Marco was only six months old when
the market finally crashed and he was more interested in his toes than stock reports.