Monsters (27 page)

After lunch, the order of the horses changed slightly and James found his horse behind Lisa’s. Slowly, the trees lining the crumbling road gave way to fields and meadows.

“She told me about the bear and the wolves,” McIntyre said, sitting at the front of the group saddle, holding the reins of the horse. It was strange to converse with McIntyre without looking at him face to face, and James wondered how deliberate this was, if McIntyre was hiding this conversation from Lisa who sat astride the next horse.

“And you believe her?” James asked. It was true, of course, he knew that, but his confidence in Lisa was so shaken he was curious to know what McIntyre thought. Don't give away the farm, his father always told him. If you're bartering, you want to trade from a position of strength, keep the buyer off guard. These were lessons that served him well.

“Should I?” McIntyre asked.

“Yes, but you won’t. Why would you?”

James was glad McIntyre wasn't looking at him. He never was one for poker and couldn't keep a straight face, so this arrangement suited him. He didn't want to be mean, but he wasn't sure what he owed McIntyre. Why he should be in any way accommodating?

“It's a brave man that takes on a bear alone,” McIntyre said, his body swaying with the gentle motion of the horse beneath them.

James replied, “A brave man or a fool.”

McIntyre laughed, “Yes. Or a fool.”

James was starting to like the captain. There was something about the way he carried himself, as though honor were the highest of morals. James had no doubt McIntyre could dispense his military duties with ruthless efficiency, and yet within that he got a sense that the captain held himself accountable for his actions even if no one else did. In another setting, he was sure he'd find a friend in McIntyre, but this was no place for sentiments. McIntyre answered to General Gainsborough, someone James knew only by vague reputation. Rumor had it Gainsborough was a cold-hearted killer, but rumors took on the fears and prejudices of those that spread them.

What had McIntyre seen in Gainsborough? What was there for better or for worse in the service of a dictator? Looking at the captain’s broad shoulders, James wondered what would motivate McIntyre to give his life in service to another. The cut of his uniform, his dark black trousers and polished boots, they spoke of conformity. What had McIntyre given his allegiance to? What had he sworn to uphold, and what jarring contradictions were there between his oaths and reality? It was a jaundiced attitude to assume there were flaws, but the image before James had been carefully cultivated to avoid precisely that realization, and that made James suspicious of what lay hidden beneath the polished veneer. James may have been young, but his father had schooled him well, teaching him to see through the facade of authority and the allure of a fancy uniform.

Shiny buttons and trim, colored ribbons might make a man feel special, but it was what was worn on the inside that defined him. What was hidden inside of McIntyre? What lay beneath the pomp and ceremony? James wasn't sure.

“You could have left her to the bear,” McIntyre began. “No one would have thought any less of you. No one could expect you to risk your life to save a stranger. She was as good as dead anyway.”

He was feeling him out. As much as James wanted to understand McIntyre, the captain was doing the same with him, probing, exploring.

“I couldn't do that,” James replied, not sure what else to say.

“Why?”

“I don't know. I just couldn't. I'm not sure I could explain why. Something within me just wouldn't leave someone to die like that. I had to try something.”

“Trapping the bear in a drift was smart.”

James laughed. “You're giving me more credit than is due. There was no planning, no noble bravery, no heroic fight. I ran for my life.”

McIntyre's head bobbed. He seemed to be considering that in detail.

“And the wolves?” he asked. “Were you saving your own hide then as well?”

James hadn't really thought too much about what had happened, let alone his motives and reasons.

“It just seemed the right thing to do.”

“It's that simple?”

“It's that simple,” James replied, wondering what the captain was driving toward.

“So you've never met Elizabeth Gainsborough before?”

“No.”

“You weren't warned she was traveling through there?”

“No.”

“You weren't hired in advance? Paid to scout for her? Told to meet her just off the pass?”

“No. No. No.”

“We know she had help escaping. We know someone provided her with a fresh horse.”

James was silent. He was surprised by McIntyre's insinuations. He could have denied it more vehemently if he wanted to, after all, it wasn't true, but he was curious. Was this what McIntyre really thought? That James was a mercenary? Would denying that charge change the captain’s opinion, or simply reinforce it further? What would McIntyre make of his silence? Hah, thought James, there was nothing he could say, no point of logic he could put forward that would convince McIntyre otherwise.

“So you don't believe any of it?” James asked.

“Nope.”

James laughed softly to himself, shaking his head, not that McIntyre saw him. McIntyre kept his eyes forward, looking down the road as the horse plodded on.

“I believe she was caught in a bear trap and that you helped her down the mountain, but beyond that, I don't think you're telling me the truth.”

“Well,” James replied. “I don't care what you think.”

One of the advance scouts came bounding down the road toward them.

“We’ve got Whiskey Delta, two klicks,” the scout said, catching his breath as the horse came to a halt in front of him.

“Break east?” McIntyre asked.

“Affirmative. There’s a trail east by north east at 250.”

McIntyre rocked in his saddle, turning slightly and signaling with his hands to the rest of the soldiers. His movements were deft, his hand motions crisp. He raised his hand, pulling downward with a clenched fist and followed with a series of sharp gestures using his fingers that finished in pointing to the east. James was fascinated. He'd entered a whole other world. At a guess, he figured the scout had picked up on monsters moving through the valley below and was directing them around the area.

“Whiskey Delta. Wild dogs,” McIntyre said, preempting the question from James.

Within roughly two hundred yards there was an overgrown side road branching to the north east. It came as no surprise to James when they turned off and followed it through a thicket.

The soldiers that had once been so relaxed as they jogged alongside the horses spread out, extending forward and behind the main party, pikes at the ready. Their fitness was astounding.

Lisa sat calmly on the horse ahead of them. She seemed disinterested, distracted, only occasionally talking to the officer at the reins.

James looked around constantly, soaking up the subtleties of how the troop worked together but Lisa stared ahead, not even looking at the scenery. She'd done this too often, he thought.

As they rounded a steep corner winding down into the valley, the road petered out into a rough, dirt track.

In the distance, James could see a city looming before them. They were close, much closer than he expected.

Skyscrapers touched the moody clouds. Even from the foothills, it was apparent the buildings had been infected with termites or ants. Reaching up some thirty to forty stories, the downtown buildings had been caked with dried mud. Their elongated rectangular shapes, originally so dominant and sharply defined had been softened. Thick packed mud surrounded the base of each building, spreading out into the streets, burying some of the smaller, one to two story buildings.

Snow sat against the northern face of the skyscrapers. Although the occasional sharp corner of a man-made edifice was visible atop several of the buildings, most of them were dominated by pillars of rock-hard mud. Jagged spires reached up into the heavens in defiance of man.

Another soldier came running alongside their horse. They'd already covered at least ten miles that morning. From what James had observed, the troop wouldn't push more than thirty miles in a day, which he considered a phenomenal distance to cover day in and day out. Their fitness was astounding, but he doubted they could maintain such a pace over more than a week.

“What are you thinking, sergeant?” McIntyre asked.

“We should pull back,” he replied, calling out between breaths. “Camp on the ridgeline. Make a run for Richmond tomorrow.”

“It's been a good run so far,” McIntyre replied. “No attacks.”

“Call it in,” the sergeant replied. “But my advice is hold off. If we move now, we’ll have no time to spare within the city, no room for maneuvering if we get into a fight.”

“I'm not keeping her in the wild for another night.”

“Understood.” The sergeant peeled away, jogging over to the soldiers flanking them and barking short, sharp commands.

McIntyre raised a radio to his mouth. James had seen radios before, but only in books. He knew what they did, but thought that this technology had been lost in time. James understood the need for batteries supplying electricity to such a device, but the very notion of a radio seemed spooky, talking to some disembodied voice, some distant specter, and yet he was thrilled to see a working radio.

“Archangel, this is Rec-Force. Over.”

The radio crackled. James found his heart racing. What else had they revived from the Old World? Had they really tamed a city?

“Archangel. Rec-Force. Over.”

“Copy you, Rec-Force. This is Archangel.” The voice was tinny. James struggled to make out the words and found himself substituting what he thought had been said in the scratchy reply.

“Archangel. We are 15 out. How's the weather?”

James found his mind running with the possibilities. He figured they were roughly ten to fifteen miles from the city center, so he understood that reference, but the weather? That had to be something other than a reference to the clouds or the wind.

“Sighting Golf Bravo Regency. Mike Lima Lakeside. Be advised Alpha Tango collapsed Parkway. Over.”

“Copy that, Archangel.” McIntyre released the transmit button.

He must have known how much this was eating up James. For his benefit, he clarified the incoming message, saying, “They've sighted grizzly bears in Regency Woods, which is our usual approach. Mountain lions have been seen moving through the suburb of Lakeside, and either the ants or termites have undermined the parkway bridge crossing the river. It doesn't leave us with a lot of options.

“Ordinarily, I'd take Mitch's advice and hold here, wait for tomorrow and circle around to the east before heading in to base, but every night she's out here in the wild she's in danger.”

McIntyre was assuming James was interested. He was, but McIntyre never turned around to talk directly with him. James was impressed with his concern for Lisa. As hostile as she was toward McIntyre, he really cared about her, so much so he wasn't willing to risk another night out here.

“So what do we do?” James asked, finding himself swept up in the bravado of the moment.

“Archangel,” McIntyre said, talking into the radio. “Advise on Delta Echo, Downtown Expressway.”

There was a pause for a moment. James had no idea about the tactics involved, but that McIntyre was exploring possibilities, looking for alternative approaches was thrilling. He sensed the determination of the man.

“Rec-Force. Romeo Mike, Yankee Juliet. Recommend you bravo, box the southern route.” The words were barely audible to James, sounding more like the scratching of an animal on a barn door than a man talking, but McIntyre provided the translation.

“Romeo Mike, Yankee Juliet. Rats and mice are active in the downtown region, along with yellow jacket hornets,” he said, the radio resting on his leg as the horse rocked beneath them. “They're telling me to cross the river to the south, circle around to the east, then cross back to the north, but that would mean a night in the open on the southern plains.”

“We have the package,” McIntyre said, talking with as much clarity as he could muster into the radio. “Repeat. We have the package. Running for home. Rec-Force, out.”

“Copy that,” came the reply. “Archangel, out.”

McIntyre slipped the radio back into a leather satchel on the side of the broad saddle. James didn't need any explanation of the last message, the meaning was clear. McIntyre must have sensed that as none was offered.

It took an hour before they began to wind their way through the suburbs on the outskirts of Richmond. Everyone was on edge.

Monsters seemed to sense them coming. Somewhere in the distance a wild dog barked. The soldiers closed ranks as the troop returned to the cracked concrete roads. With their pikes by their side, they ran with a sense of urgency, as if time was the greatest enemy they faced.

As they joined the expressway, with its median barrier separating the two sides of the wide road, McIntyre seemed to stiffen, as though he was expecting to be attacked by something out of the shadows.

James had only ever been into one town, one much smaller than Richmond, and he’d only ever been there to visit the library. The route his father had followed was carefully calculated so that it contained safe-points, places of refuge in case they were approached by a monster, but the route into Richmond felt exposed. If they encountered a pack of wild dogs, there was nowhere to run to.

A giant cockroach scurried beneath the rusted hulk of a car chassis.

The broken slabs of concrete making up the highway had shifted with time, subsiding in some places while rising up in others, slowing their progress. To either side of the road, large banks covered in long grass and trees hid the approaches. They'd have no warning of a bear or mountain lion until it was almost on top of them.

Several of the bridges crossing over the expressway had fallen, forcing the troop to climb over the rubble. The horses struggled with the debris, slowing them down.

To the west, the faint outline of the sun sat low in the sky, hidden by dark rolling clouds. For James, it felt as though the expressway would never end, but McIntyre explained it was easier than risking the suburbs. He said the low elevation tended to hide their scent, making it safer than perhaps it seemed.