Alas, Babylon Part 19

"Would you mind marrying Miss McGovern and me? We don't have a regular courthouse license, naturally, but I have fixed it up to make it legal under martial law."

"Miss McGovern told me you was going to wed, Mister Randy. I will be happy to marry you. I don't need papers. I've joined maybe a thousand pairs in my life. Some had papers, some didn't. Some stuck, some didn't. The papers didn't make the difference. It's the people, not the papers."

So they were married, in a room filled with flowers of the season and furniture of less bitter centuries and people of all ages. Randy produced the certificate and when Preacher signed it he signed "Rev. Clarence Henry," and Randy realized that this was the first time he had ever known Preacher's full name although Preacher had always been there.

Randy had found a large-scale county map in his desk and they had planned their movement as carefully as a Q-ship captain plotting his course through submarine alley. There were four roads that led out from Fort Repose. River Road stretched east along the Timucuan until it swung into a main highway to the beaches. The Pasco Creek Road ran north, the San Marco Road west, from the bridge across the St. Johns. A narrow, substandard road followed the St. Johns toward its headwaters.

The map, with two crosses to mark where the highwaymen had stopped Dan Gunn and killed the Hickeys, lay on the garage floor. They bent over it, Randy tracing the route they would take. The highwaymen could be anywhere. They could be one band, or two, or more. They could be gone entirely. It was all guesswork, and yet it was necessary to plan the route so as to cover the most territory using the least amount of gas, for when the truck's tank was empty, that would be all. There was no reserve, not anywhere. They would take River Road first because it was closest. After twelve miles a little-used lateral led toward Pasco Creek and they would go almost to Pasco Creek and then cut into the road for Fort Repose. Thus, by using the clay or washboard laterals, they could avoid retracing the same highway and save a few miles.

On his hands and knees, his seagoing cap pushed back on his pink head, the Admiral murmured, " 'Give me a fast ship for I intend to go in harm's way'-Paul Jones. Remember, Randy, this should be a very slow ship. The slower we go the less gas we use and the more chance they have of spotting us."

Randy was going to drive. Malachai, Sam Hazzard, and Bill McGovern were to be concealed in the body of the truck. Randy said, "I don't like to drive slow but I can. I think about twenty miles an hour is right. Anything slower would look suspicious."

He checked the weapons. They were taking everything that might be handy-the automatic sixteen for the Admiral and the double twenty for Bill McGovern. Malachai would have the carbine. The big Krag, long as a Kentucky squirrel rifle and as unwieldy, would be in reserve. From Dan's description of how the highwaymen had acted, Randy guessed that the fire fight, when it came, would be close in, and the shotguns of greater value than the rifles. He himself, alone behind the wheel, would have only the .45 automatic on the seat beside him. That, and the hunting knife which was almost, but not quite, razor sharp, in a sheath at his belt.

Randy walked around the truck for a final look. He thought he was doing something that was familiar and then he remembered that he had seen aircraft commanders do this before takeoff He examined the tires. They were good. The battery water had been replenished and the battery run up. Malachai and Bill had done a good job on the gun ports, fairing them into the big, painted letters, "AJAX SUPER-MARKET." On each side, one port in the "J" and one in the "M." Camouflage. The holes cut into the rear doors, under the tiny gla.s.s windows, were more conspicuous. Randy went outside and returned with a handful of mud. He spread it on the edges of the ports, erasing the glint of freshly cut metal.

It was four o'clock, the time to sortie. "You know your positions," he said. "Sam, you have the starboard side. Bill takes the port. Malachai, the stern. If I see your fire can't be effective from inside I'll yell, 'Out!' and everybody gets out fast while I cover you."

Then, at the last second, there was a change.

Malachai suggested it. "Mister Randy, I want to say something. I don't think you ought to drive. I think I ought to drive." Randy was furious, but he held his voice down. "Let's not get everything screwed up now. Get in, Malachai."

Malachai made no move. "Sir, that uniform. It don't go with the truck."

"They won't see it until they stop us," Randy said. "Then it'll be too late. Anyway, all sorts of people are wearing all sorts of clothes. I'll bet you'd see highwaymen in uniforms if they got their hands on them."

"That ain't all, sir," Malachai said. "It's your face. It's white. They're more likely to tackle a black face than a white face. They see my face they say, 'Huh, here's something soft and probably with no gun.' So they relax. Maybe it gives us that extra second, Mister Randy."

Randy hesitated. He had confidence in Malachai's driving and in his judgment and courage. But it was the driver who would have to do the talking, if there was any talking, and who would have to keep his hands off the pistol. That would be the hardest thing.

The Admiral spoke, very carefully. "Now Randy, I'm not trying to outrank you. You're the Captain. You're in command and it's your decision. But I think Malachai is right. Dungarees and a black face are better bait than a uniform and a white face." Randy said, "Okay. You're right. You drive, Malachai. You take the pistol up front. Keep it out of sight. There is only one thing to remember. When they stop us they'll all be watching you. They don't know we're here. They'll be watching you and they'll kill you if you go for your gun. So leave your gun alone until we start shooting."

Malachai grinned and said, "Yes, sir," and they got in and departed. Looking through the gla.s.s in the rear door, Randy saw his wife and Helen and Dan on the porch. They were waving. Peyton was there too but she was not waving. She had her face buried in her mother's dress.

They drove east on River Road. After a few miles Randy told Malachai to look for signs of the place where Dan Gunn had been decoyed and beaten. They found a sign. Since there was no longer any care of the roads, the gra.s.s had grown high on the shoulders and in one place it was trampled. In a ditch, nearby, they discovered slivers of broken gla.s.s. Then they found the twisted and empty frame of Dan's gla.s.ses. The frame was useless and yet Randy picked it up and shoved it in a pocket. A lawyer's gesture, he thought. Evidence.

They drove on, past the Sunbury home. Randy was tempted to order a stop to inquire about the children's typhoid. Dan would want to know. He did not stop. The Sunburys were good people and he trusted them, but the truck was a secret, a military secret, and it was senseless to expose it.

River Road was clear. Nothing moved on River Road. They took the lateral north. Even though Malachai avoided the worst potholes and drove with exasperating deliberation, it was rough riding. It shook up Bill McGovern and Sam Hazzard. They were older and they would tire.

Near Pasco Creek they pa.s.sed a group of inhabited shacks. Approaching them, Malachai called back, "People!"

Randy turned and looked over Malachai's shoulder. He could see, from behind the front seat, but not be seen. He saw two children scurry indoors and at another place a bearded man crouched behind a woodpile, training a gun on the truck. He made no hostile move, but the muzzle tracked them. It was obvious that few people traveled this road and those who did were not welcome.

Randy was relieved when they turned into the better road toward Fort Repose. They were all stiff by then, for it was impossible to stand upright in the panel truck. The Admiral and Bill could sit cross-legged on the floor and view the landscape through their ports, but Randy had to half-crouch to see through the rear windows. When the truck reached higher ground, where the road was straight and they could see anything approach for nearly a mile, he told Malachai to stop. "We'll take ten," he said.

He threw open the back doors and got out, groaning, feeling permanently warped. He walked, waving his arms and flexing his knees. Bill McGovern shuffled down the road, humpbacked. The Admiral tried to stretch, and a joint or tendon cracked audibly. He cursed. Malachai grinned.

"Now I see why you wanted to drive!" Randy said. He looked both ways. Nothing was coming. He went back to the truck and found the thermos Lib had given him. He opened it, expecting water. It was sweetened black coffee. "Look!" he said. "Look what Lib-my wife did for us!" He knew it was the last of the jar.

There was a cup for each, but they decided to take only half a cup then, saving the rest for the tag end of evening when they might need it more.

They got back into the truck and continued the patrol, past the Hickey house, empty, door open, windows wantonly smashed. Randy noticed that the beekeeper's car was gone. Jim Hickey, with such valuable trading goods as honey and beeswax, must have been holding gasoline. In the past month anyone who had it would have traded gas for honey. The objective of the highwaymen was probably the car and the gas, Randy deduced, rather than honey. This conclusion disheartened him. The highwaymen might be hundreds of miles from Fort Repose now.

Nearing Fort Repose-they must avoid being seen in the town-they turned off on a winding, high-crowned clay road that ran two miles to an antique covered bridge across the St. Johns. Once across the river they would turn south and shortly thereafter hit the road to San Marco.

Rattling over the clay washboard, it seemed hardly worth while to keep a watch from the back, and yet Randy did. Suddenly he saw that they were being followed. He had seen no car on the Pasco Creek Road before making the turn. They had pa.s.sed no car on the clay lateral, nor any houses either. The car was simply there, following them at a respectable distance, making no effort to catch them and yet not dropping back. He recalled an abandoned citrus packing shed at the turn. It must have been concealed there. Randy called so that Malachai could clearly hear, "We've got company-about three hundred yards back."

He strained his eyes through the dirty little rear windows. It was difficult to make them focus, like trying to train a gun from a bouncing jeep, and it was almost dusk. It was a late model light gray hardtop or sedan and Jim Hickey had owned such a car but all makes looked pretty much alike and it seemed half of them were either light gray or off white. He called to Malachai, "Speed up a little. See what happens."

Malachai increased their speed to forty or forty-five. The car behind maintained its distance, exactly, as if it were tied to them. This proved nothing. This would be standard operating procedure for an honest citizen following a strange truck on a lonely, unfrequented road. He wouldn't want to get too close, but he was probably in a hurry to get home before dark. So if the truck sped up, he would too. "Drop back to twenty," Randy ordered.

The truck slowed. So did the car. Again, this proved nothing except caution.

Randy turned to Sam Hazzard and Bill McGovern. "This fellow behind us is either an innocent bystander or he's herding us."

"Herding us?" Bill said.

"Herding us into the gun of some pal up front." They hit a smoother strip of road and Randy could see two men in the car. He thought the back was empty but he couldn't be sure. "Two of them. Both men."

They rode on, silently. This was entirely different from a patrol in war when you went out in fear and despite your fear, hoping you would find no trouble. His only fear was that they might miss them, exhaust their gas in futile cruising, and lose their one best chance to wipe them out. This was a personal matter and a matter of survival. It was like having a nest of coral snakes under the house. You had to go in after them and kill them or certainly one day they would kill a child or your dog. In a matter such as this, the importance of your own life diminished. So he prayed that the men behind were highwaymen.

In a minute or two he knew that they were, because the opposite end of the narrow, covered bridge was blocked. They were being herded into a cul-de-sac and the tactical situation was changed and their plan useless. There would be no field of fire from the side ports of the truck. The fight would have to be made entirely from front and rear. He said, "Keep going. "They had to drive right into it. If they stopped short of the bridge and jumped out to make their fight at a distance then the highwaymen could shoot and run. They had to get in close.

Malachai kept going.

"Sam, you and Bill take the ones in back," Randy said. "I'll help Malachai in front. Forget the sides."

The Admiral and Bill crawled to the rear. Randy crouched behind Malachai's back. He checked the carbine. It was ready. He shifted an extra clip to his shirt pocket where it would be handiest.

The block at the opposite end of the bridge was their Model-A, its boxy profile unmistakable. A man waited at each b.u.mper. You could ram the car but you could not ram the men so this tactic would do no good. Randy recognized them from Dan's description. The one with gorilla arms and the submachine gun stood at the front. The gun was a Thompson. The man with the bat was on the other side. He carried a holstered pistol, too, but from the way he hefted the bat, like a hitter eager to step to the plate, the bat was his weapon. Four men, then, instead of three. And no woman. Understandable. The personnel of these bands probably changed from day to day. "Right up to them," he told Malachai. "Close."

The wheels. .h.i.t the first planks of the bridge and Malachai slowed.

Randy saw the muzzle of the Thompson rise. This was the one he had to get. He pushed the b.u.t.t of the carbine into Bill McGovern's ribs. He said, "Let them come right up to you. Let 'em come right in with us if they want. We've got troubles up front."

Bill nodded. The rhythmic timpani beat of tires on planks stopped. They were twenty feet from the Model-A. The man with the bat advanced toward the left side of the truck. The Tommy gunner stayed where he was. In his light Randy doubted that they could see anything in the truck body but he did not stir. He was immobile as a sack. He whispered, "Make the son of a b.i.t.c.h with the gun come to us. Make him move, make him come."

The man with the bat was three feet from Malachai and five feet from the carbine's muzzle. If he looked into the truck cab Randy would have to shoot him and in that case the Tommy gunner might get them all. There was nothing more Randy could say or do. He could not even whisper. It was all up to Malachai now.

The man whacked his bat viciously against the door. "What you got in there, boy?"

"I ain't got nuthin, boss." Malachai whined. From the set of his right shoulder Randy knew Malachai had his right hand on the .45, but he was acting dumb and talking dumb, which was the way to do.

The Tommy gunner moved a step closer and two steps right so he could observe Malachai. He said, "Come on, Casey. Get that dinge outta there!"

The man with the bat said, "Step down, you black b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

Randy knew that the man couldn't use the bat while Malachai stayed in the truck and he prayed Malachai would wait him out. He watched the gunner. Please, G.o.d, make him take one more step so I won't have to try through the windshield. A shot through the windshield was almost certain to miss because of light refraction or bullet deflection. It would be foolhardy and desperate and he would not do it.

The gunner said, "Drag him out or blow him out. I don't care which."

Malachai cringed and cried, "Please, boss!" The fear in his voice was real.

The man with the bat put his hand on the door handle. At the instant he turned it, Malachai uncoiled, hurling himself through the door and on him, pistol clubbed.

The gunner took two quick steps and the Thompson jerked and spoke. The gunner's thick middle was in Randy's sights and he squeezed the trigger, and again, and again before the Thompson's muzzle came down and the gunner folded and began to fall. When he was on his face he still twitched and held the gun and tried to swing it up and Randy shot at him again, carefully, through the head.

He had not even heard the shotguns but when Randy crawled over into the front seat and got out, looking for another target, the battle was over. Close behind the truck two figures lay, their arms and legs twisted in death's awkward signature. The Admiral stood over the man who had held the bat, his shotgun a foot from his head. Malachai was curled up as if in sleep, his head against the left front tire. It had lasted not more than seven seconds.

Malachai choked and groaned and Randy dropped to his knees beside him and straightened him and lifted his head. Malachai choked again and Randy turned Malachai's head so the blood could run out of his mouth and not down his windpipe. He tore open Malachai's shirt. There was a hole large as a dime just under the solar plexus. In this round well, dark blood rose and ebbed rhythmically, a small, ominous tide.

The Admiral said, "Shall I get rid of this sc.u.m?"

Randy said, "Just a minute." He picked up the bat and forced himself to think ahead. First, Malachai. Get Malachai home in a hurry so Dan could do something if there was anything to be done. Dan didn't have his tools, or much eyesight. He might make do with one eye if he had the tools these men had stolen. Randy ran to the Model-A. It was empty. The doctor's bag wasn't there.

He walked back to the truck where Sam Hazzard stood over their captive. One side of the man's face was sc.r.a.ped raw. Malachai's plunge had carried the long-jawed, twisted-mouth face along the bridge planking. "Where's the doctor's bag?"

The man said nothing. Randy saw his right hand moving. He still had a holstered weapon. Randy tapped him on the nose with the bat. "Keep your hand still." The Admiral leaned over, unbuckled the holster, and took the weapon. A .38 police special. "Talk," Randy said.

The man said, "I don't know nuthin'."

Randy tapped his face with the bat, harder. The man screamed. Randy said, "Where's the black bag?"

The man said, "She took it. Rumdum took it." "Where is she?"

"I don't know. She goofed off with somebody last night maybe it was this morning-I don't know-goofed off with some b.a.s.t.a.r.d with a bottle."

Randy called, "Bill! Where's Bill?"

Bill McGovern was on the other side of the truck. He said, "I'm here, Randy."

"Bill, go look in that car and see if you can find Dan's bag. And be sure those two back there are good and dead."

Malachai choked again. Randy tried to ease him over on his side but he began to bleed more from the stomach wound so he had to let him be.

Sam Hazzard said, "I don't think this one's doing us any good. He's just holding us up. I think we should convoke a military tribunal right now and pa.s.s sentence. I vote he be executed."

"So do I," Randy said, "but I want him to hang. If he makes any trouble let him have it, Sam, but I'd like to have him alive." Bill came back with a cardboard carton. "Nothing in that car, except this. A little food in here. A few cans of sardines and corned beef hash and a box of matches. A couple of boxes of ammunition. That's all. Not a sign of Dan's bag. And the sedan is finished. It was in our line of fire and it looks like a sieve with all that buckshot through it. There's gasoline all over the road." Randy started the Model-A and looked at the fuel gauge. It showed almost empty. He backed it away from the bridge entrance, put the key in his pocket, and left it. He said, "We'll lift Malachai into the truck and get going. First, I'll collect their weapons and ammo." He was thinking ahead. There would be other highwaymen and this was armament for his company. "What about these?" Bill asked, pointing his shotgun at the bodies.

"Leave them." He looked up. The buzzards already attended. "I'll come back tomorrow or we'll send somebody. Whatever they leave-" he watched the black birds wheeling and swooping-"we'll give to the river."

One of the highwaymen trailing them had been Leroy Settle, the drugstore cowboy. When Randy examined his two guns he was surprised to find that they were only .22 caliber, lightweight replicas, except in bore, of the big frontier .45's. His companion's pistol apparently had gone into the river, for it wasn't on the bridge although he had a pocketful of ammunition.

Then Randy leaned over the leader. He saw that his shots had all been good, the three in the belly making a neat pattern, diagonal ticktacktoe. When he picked up the Thompson the dead man's arm astonishingly rose with it, clinging as if his fingers were glued to the stock. Randy jerked it free and saw that it was glue, of a sort. The man's hands were smeared with honey.

It was after dark when Randy wheeled up to the front steps of the house. As he cut the engine he heard Graf barking. All the downstairs windows showed light. Lib burst out of the door and ran down the steps, saw him at the wheel, and was there with her arms and lips when he got out.

Preacher Henry appeared, and Two-Tone, Florence Wechek and Alice Cooksey, Hannah and Missouri, the children. Dan Gunn came out, robe flapping, carrying a lantern. They had all been waiting.

The Admiral and Bill were in back with the prisoner and Malachai. Bill stepped out, holding a pistol, and then the man with the bat, called Casey, prodded by Sam Hazzard's shotgun. Sam climbed down and that left Malachai. Malachai had been unconscious after the first mile. Until they reached Fort Repose, the road had been very bad.

Randy said, "Killed three, grabbed this one. They got Malachai through the middle. Look at him, Dan. Is he still with us, Sam>"

The Admiral said, "He was a minute ago. Barely." Randy said, "Ben Franklin, get some clothesline."

"We going to hang him right now?" Ben asked, not casually but still as if he expected it.

"No. We'll tie him."

Dan crawled into the truck. He held up the lantern, shook his head in exasperation, and then tore the patch away from his right eye. The eye was still swollen but not entirely shut and any a.s.sistance to his left eye was helpful. He crawled out and said, "He's in shock and shouldn't be moved and ought to have a transfusion. But we have to move him if I'm to do anything at all. On what?"

There was a discarded door in the toolhouse. They moved him on that.

They laid Malachai on the billiard table in the gameroom and then ma.s.sed lamps and candles so that Dan would have light.

Dan said, "I have to go into him. Ma.s.sive internal hemorrhage. I've got to tie it off or there's no chance at all. How? With what?" He leaped on the edge of the table, swaying not in fatigue or weakness but in agony of frustration. He cried, "Oh, G.o.d!" Dan stopped swaying. "A knife, Randy?"

"My hunting knife, the one I shave with? It's sharp as a razor, almost."

"No, Too big, too thick. How about steak knives?" "Sure, steak knives."

The short-bladed steak knives even looked like lancets. The Judge and Randy's mother had bought the set in Denmark on their summer in Europe in 'fifty-four. They were the finest and sharpest steak knives Randy had ever used. He found them in the silver chest and called, "How many?"

"T'wo will do."

From the dining room Helen called, "I've put on water to boil-a big pot." The dinner fire had been going and Helen had piled on fat wood so it roared and Dan would soon have the means of sterilizing his instruments.

Randy put them into the pot to boil. After that, at Dan's direction he put in his fine-nosed fishing pliers. Florence Wechek ran across the road for darning needles. Lib found metal hair clips that would clamp an artery. Randy's six-pound nylon line off the spinning reel would have to do for sutures. There was enough soap to cleanse Dan's hands.

Dan went into the dining room, fretting, waiting for the pot and his instruments to boil. It was hopeless, he knew. In spite of everything they might do sepsis was almost inevitable, but now it was the shock and the hemorrhage he couldn't lick. He wondered whether it would be possible to rig up a saline solution transfusion. They had the ingredients, salt and water and fire; and somewhere, certainly, rubber tubing. He would not give up Malachai. He wanted to save Malachai, capable, quiet, and strong, more than he had ever wanted to save anybody in his years as a physician. So many people died for nothing. Malachai was dying for something.

In the gameroom Helen was at work, quick and competent. She had found their last bottle of Scotch, except what might remain in Randy's decanter upstairs, and was cleansing the wound with it. Randy and Lib stood beside her. The pool of blood in the round hole ebbed and did not rise again.

The water was boiling in the big iron pot when Randy walked into the dining room and touched Dan's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm afraid it's all over."

In a dark corner of the room where she thought she would be out of the way and not a bother, Hannah Henry had been sitting in an old scarred maple rocker. The rocker began to move in slow cadence, and she moaned in this cadence for the dead, arms folded over her empty b.r.e.a.s.t.s as if holding a baby except that where the baby had been there was nothing.

Dan Gunn went into the gameroom and saw that Randy was correct, that Malachai was gone. His shoulders felt heavy. He was aware that his head throbbed and eyes burned. There was nothing more to do except empty the makeshift sterilizer with its ridiculous makeshift tools. He did this in the kitchen sink. Yet when he saw the knives and the pliers and the hair clips steaming he realized they were not really so ridiculous. If he was very careful and skillful, he could make do with such tools. They had not and probably could not have saved Malachai. They might save someone else. A century ago the tools had been no better and the knowledge infinitely less. Out of death, life; an immutable truth. Helen was at his side. He said, "Thanks, Helen, for the try. You're the best unregistered nurse in the world."

"I'm sorry it was for nothing."

"Maybe it wasn't for nothing. I'll just keep these and try to add to them. I wonder if we could find a small bag somewhere? Any little traveling bag would do."

"I have one. A train case."

"We'll start here, then, and build another kit." His eyes hurt.