Drink For The Thirst To Come Part 3

Boss, Chris figured. Watches them others do the work. Caught himself. A plink like that! He wanted to punch himself! Decided to wait.

The black crack in the cellar wall had been a coal bin. They eased inside. Waited. The 'Tweener's grunts and giggles seemed farther off, had less edge, but they were there, still pa.s.sing.

Took time before he realized the girl had been punching his arm. Her eyes were wide and white, her face dark. "Yeah, well," he whispered and eased the pressure on her mouth and nose.

She sucked air.

'Least she breathes quiet!

Time hung. There was noise. Some noise. He couldn't see worth s.h.i.t, stuck down here, what the h.e.l.l, what the h.e.l.l to do... You almost choke her? Responsibility! His responsibility. He felt himself shaking.

She tapped his arm again, held a small thing under his nose. Took a second, dark as it was, but no s.h.i.t, a watch! No band, just a round old watch. Its face glowed dull green.

"Five minutes!" she mouthed the words against his ear, pointed to the dial. The tick, tick, ticks were loud in close-like that news show he never watched. He stared at the d.a.m.n thing like it was a blessed TV Johnnie, itself; couldn't take his eyes off. The ghost-thin hand swept the dial like he hadn't seen one do since, cripes, since forever. Five years. No! Longer! Not since Grandpa Mutt's Waltham-Ball Railroad watch with the radium dial! Little gears and springs unwinding. Mutt once pried the back off, showed him. One thing moving another on that windy watch! Windy watch still worked; mechanics, not batteries, something you could see move, no magic c.r.a.p. The minute hand flowed, disengaged from the 7, headed into s.p.a.ce toward 8.

The rolling crush of the 'Tweeners' pa.s.sing peaked, grew faint as the glowing hand crept. In three minutes the noise was near gone. Four minutes and it was. The rot-meat stink of the 'Tweeners thinned, the hiss of pulver tumbling down the bank dissolved to wind-sigh as the last seconds pa.s.sed and the hand touched, then covered the 8.

"Okay?" she breathed.

"What?" Close her smell was different. "Yeah."

He leaned out of the coalhole. Not a sound, nothing moved.

"Shall we?" she breathed.

He held up his hand. He was, by G.o.d, gonna let naught happen! That was sure! "You wait. I slither," he said with his hands.

"My hero," she whispered.

Up he slithered. He was still a fair creeper but it took breath. He was winded by the time he peeked the lip. No denying, he was getting on. On the deadland flats, the world was a close ring of pulver and busted brick. In the few minutes they'd been below, the sky had darkened and the gray dome around them had narrowed. Two new tracks cut the dust where he stood. The 'Tweeners-five, six of them-had rolled or shoved something large and heavy by.

When she touched his shoulder it about sent his spine through the top of his head! "Gone?" she said.

"Hsshh," he hissed and s.n.a.t.c.hed hold of her.

"Gone?" she mouthed.

He looked at the narrowing world around them. "Guess."

"What was that they were pushing?"

"Cross', I reckon."

"Cross'..."

"Big crossbow dealy!"

She shook her head.

"They set them up and shoot bolts into where there's folks. For f.u.c.k's sake. Pins someone, sometimes, mostly not."

"Those people made a ballista?" she said.

"What?"

"'Big crossbow dealy,'" she said. "A Roman thing. They built a ballista just to hara.s.s your group?"

He stared at the path.

She looked around in the haze. "So? Which way?"

"Well," he said. "Well."

"You have a compa.s.s?"

"Well, we find where we was and I figure where from there."

They backed along the edge of the hollow and the girl suddenly perked. "There!" she pointed.

Their packs lay by the tracks of that-what'd she call it? A b.a.l.l.ster? Before he could say, "shh," she was running to them like a tip-toed coyote.

The thought hit him like thunder. 'Tweeners pa.s.sed. They'd seen their stuff.

She s.n.a.t.c.hed up her pack, turned, and her eyes went wide.

Saved his worth. Realization-and the 'Tweener-kicked him in the nuts at about the same time. Nut-pain, fierce and chilly, shriveled him blind! He dropped like a shot as a hollow whoosh from a length of pipe moaned the air over his head. The world was a dusty sudden mouthful. He rolled, grabbed himself best as he could, reached for whatever. Life could be over in three, four seconds and he worried over his nuts! All that growing and school, hanging with the guys and Jaycee, driving bus, the walk to Chicago-everything he saw, did, knew and wanted, done forever.

He skittered sidewise.

The pipe whooshed again.

He'd been out of the swim for a time, this kind of thing. The big 'Tweener's stink gagged him as he grabbed dirt, reached for rock, brick, anything to hand for a weapon! Nads hurt like he'd never known nad-hurt. His eyes wouldn't stay sharp and his gut wanted to ralph every chew he'd grunted that week. Topping that, he heard the Boss saying how much this trip was worth, his only pair of nuts and all...

Another ba.s.s whoosh and a thud as the 'Tweener's pipe smacked pulver where his head had been. Things moved too fast for figuring. Keep moving, stay lucky! That's enough. The critter-man trying to nut or brain him was a blur of greasy gut, a pair of bare legs, a quick blink at mismatched chukka boots (no socks), grub-white flesh, smooth like a baby's. Rolling past, his eye caught a scratch on the critter's right ankle. Small. An "ah s.h.i.t" thing you might could get brushing a rock. How'd he notice that?

Another whoosh!

Didn't know. His head pounded. Head pain from a shot to the nuts, what the h.e.l.l...?

He rolled...

Hollow whoosh, m.u.f.fled thud... The 'Tweener grunted. Chris felt its breath, smelled its sweat.

Roll! ...and the world skewed sideways. Keep grabbing for... A brick swept by as he twisted in pulver that filled his nose, mouth, eyes, ears. He grabbed.

Missed.

Another stinking oink and the pipe shattered the brick Chris had missed. Broken shards sprayed the back of his head, nicked his ear, caught the corner of his right eye. How long? Chris wondered as he tried to roll upright, gain a weapon, stay off target. How long do I stay lucky?

It was luck! Scary. He'd never been a lucky son-of-a- The world buzzed like an alarm clock. Life went herringbone...

...and she was standing over him. Then kneeling. She touched him. His face was numb where it didn't hurt like h.e.l.l. A glancing blow, like they say, otherwise he'd be dead.

...and he was still dodging. The girl was talking but he was twisting, rolling. Finally, he snagged a pair of bricks, rolled to his feet, stood ground, looked every way for the 'Tweener, the 'Tweener's moaning pipe, and what the h.e.l.l, there was the girl and she? She was standing over a pile of skin and cloth, blood and white thin hair. It was over. Then she had him by the elbow, steering, carrying both their packs!

"Wait, G.o.dd.a.m.n, wait!" It was the top of a whisper. Chris tried to stay with her, keep his bearings, not let every 'Tweener in the deadlands know they'd survived. When he got moving on his own she let go his arm. She took off like a rabbit into the pulver mist a dozen yards ahead, leaving the probably dead 'Tweener at the edge of the bas.e.m.e.nt hollow. h.e.l.l, she done him; girl done a 'Tweener! He knew he hadn't; hadn't even seen him, except for that little cut. And now she's running, probably, toward the Wet, toward the Monadnock.

The whole thing? Ten minutes. Less, he guessed: one or two, sliding and slinking, five waiting, another couple, three him d.a.m.n near getting c.o.c.ked stupid by a 'Tweener ambuscade! Ten minutes ago they'd been having a bite. Now his nuts throbbed, the side of his face was starting to buzz, and she's running. What for? Not for life!

He caught up, grabbed her arm. "Wait!" he whispered. She spun toward him and...

The world came back into focus. He was on the ground. She was leaning over him again. He hated the taste of pulver. "Cripes," was all he had.

Her voice chittered. "Collateral damage. It's instinct. Jesus on a stick!" She snuffled, "World War's what, five years old, and I just now make my second kill?" She offered her hand. "Almost my third. Sorry. Not a good American, I guess." She was babbling. She looked at his face, touched it. "Look, as Big as it is, there's not a lot going on in the Tunnel. Once you fuel the gennies, clear the vents, clean the filters, make sure the batteries are charging, there's not a lot to do for the day except walk past each other from time to time and get ideas. We had different ideas, Mike and I.

"Anyway, he'd made sure there was a gym. Important his Eve keep fit. Me, that is. I did. Unarmed combat Blu-rays were to my taste. I learned a lot. In theory. Mike had other tastes." She pulled Chris to his feet. "Don't like being grabbed, I'm sorry. Mike found out." She shivered, looked at her hand. "That's irony," she said.

He didn't ask any more. Her "plump" was mostly muscle.

The bong-bongs were close.

"Funny," he said. He winced. Talk hurt. "Woke this morning thinking 'I'd like to find out about that...'" His face hurt as much as his nuts. His nuts felt better, though. The over-sky was still swirly black, but the air had settled some. No wraiths. No static. Good seeing was a hundred, hundred and fifty yards. In the last quarter mile, the ground had flattened. Blast and firestorm had blown it all to flinders, reduced the residue to ash, left only pulver ground and bas.e.m.e.nt holes and they walked a graveyard of neatly s.p.a.ced holes.

"Man," she said, "that's, I don't know, it's familiar."

"What?"

"That gong! Jesus. Drive you nuts or what?"

"Been there's long as I been here. Almost don't notice it no more."

"Like living near the 'L'"

"Like?"

"Never mind. That tone. It's so..."

The ground was rising.

"Fifteen minutes," she said.

"What?"

"That." She c.o.c.ked her chin at the gong-gong. "Every fifteen minutes. Four per hour." She looked at the watch. "Like clockwork."

"Someone keeping time?"

She shrugged.

"So it ain't wind..."

"That is really familiar," she said.

"Coming up on something," he said.

The rising ground resolved into a gray ma.s.s that blocked the way.

"The Kennedy," she said. "I-90, I-94. Collapsed."

A solid ridge of blasted concrete and fused metal, eight, nine stories high, stretched north to south as far as sight took them. The highway supports had dissolved in the blast, girding, signs, arches had evaporated, been blown away. Roadways, clover leafs, on-ramps, interchanges, overpa.s.ses, vehicles and people had tumbled, pancaked, one atop the other. What had been a highway was a gray-green range of cliffs. Rivulets of black water emerged from it, caught the dim light. The runoff chattered and rippled. Here and there waterfalls cascaded from halfway up the face.

"What's sourcing that?" she said.

He shook his head but she was talking to herself.

"Artesian? Hydrostatic pressure?" She was shaking her head.

"You wanted a bath!"

"Smell. You don't bathe in that," she said, "you test for it. Come on, this is your trip."

Smelled like too-long dead.

Took a nasty hour, meaty water washing their feet most of the way. Mosses and wild toadstools had gone to grip along the seeps and runoffs. The slick ma.s.ses, inches thick in places, made the climb difficult, made Chris look clumsy. Here and there, the ground gave way as fissures opened or the cliff face collapsed inward. Echoes of falling debris came back. Lousy stinks oozed from the interior.

Just short of the top, a creva.s.se six, seven feet wide cut their way. From what seemed deeper darkness came a hollow rush of distant running water interlaced with questionable splashes, chatterings. A yawning groan sounded as Chris leaned over to look.

"Like a mama lion with cubs."

"Don't wonder at it," she said. "I spent five years below. There are things you want to stay away from."

Chris gave the expressway a good plink. "Guess we'll work back a ways," he started.

The girl landed easily on the other side. "'S okay. Just a long step, really." She held out her hand.

He hardened his plink on her. "I wasn't asking. I said we scout another way."

She reached a little farther.

The jump was easier than it looked, even for a guy near fifty. He didn't need her help!

"By the way," she said, "what's down there? They want to stay away from you too."

As they neared the top the clouds opened some and Chris's shadow preceded him. The air cleared. For a good three minutes, it stayed that way. What had been a river cut along the base of the Kennedy ridge. Ahead, hollow ponds caught daylight like silver paddies. Bright pools dotted the landscape, north and east. The stump of the Monadnock and other masonry ruins rose from the waters like jagged islands. Between the ponds and the buildings spread flat heaths of brown and green.

The bong tolled from the peak of a shattered building directly across the river from where they stood. The sound gained detail. Each peal arose from a soft impact, not metal on metal like bell and clapper. Each stroke quivered pure but ended as a ragged buzz that emerged from under the main tone.

"Turandot!" the girl said. "I knew it was familiar. The gong!" She pointed to the source. "It's the Lyric Opera's Turandot gong. I saw it a year before The Day. They-whoever they are-hauled that thing up and mounted it on top of what's left of the Civic Opera House."