The Fly-By-Nights (19 page)

The only exception came toward morning, something less than an hour before first light, when a weary Garth visited the most northerly junction of perimeters and met up with the phlegmatic Don Myers who had arrived at the same sentry point while patrolling his own adjoining stretch of the perimeter. On this occasion, however, the normally dour Myers seemed much more disposed toward conversation, and after Garth had spoken to his men the older squad boss took his elbow and drew him aside.

“Garth,” he said then without preamble, “how about it, eh? I mean…what do you think?”

“What do I think?” Garth was mystified. “About what?”

“Why, about what’s going on here, of course!” Myers rasped. “Or rather—” and he flicked an urgent, suspicious glance into the unknown night, “—what’s going on out there!”

“Out there?” Garth repeated him listlessly. “What, you mean the movement?” He spoke inadvertently, without thinking what he was saying, and only then considered his words.

But the other had immediately tightened his grip on Garth’s elbow. “
Ah!
” he said. “So you
have
felt it, eh?” And he glanced this way and that, and once again into the swirling mist beyond the perimeter before continuing: “Yes, the movement! Damn right that’s what I mean! They’re on the
move,
these bloody things!”

And finally it struck home: that insidious, flowing
motion
that Garth had been sensing all along, without that it had registered as anything especially sinister. A thing of the mind—a mental thing, more often sensed than visible—yet stemming from a physical source. Oh, sinister enough, certainly, as anything remotely connected with fly-by-nights always was; but at the same time cloaked in this disarmingly dreamy inertia, this hypnotic effect, with which Garth, the other watchkeepers, and perhaps even a majority of the clan as a whole had become so—but so what?—so
familiar,
that it had indeed bred contempt in them…or if not contempt, then at least some kind of acceptance or leaning towards the inevitable!

Donald Myers was nodding his head knowingly. “Oh
yes
, I can see that you’ve definitely felt it! And so have I, often—
and
mainly ignored it, at least until tonight—until it changed!”

“A movement, yes,” said Garth thoughtfully. “But haven’t we known about it, been aware of it, for quite some time now—at least a week or more? Haven’t we spoken of it at some length to Big Jon Lamon and the other elders? Isn’t it common knowledge?” Now he felt as though he was arguing with himself!

“Yes, yes!” Myers answered, impatiently. “But that was when the bloody things were only watching us, keeping up with us and doing bugger all else! I reckoned maybe it was because there weren’t enough of them to mount an attack, but—”

“Not recently!” said Garth, cutting him short. “I’ve sensed that there are plenty of them, far too many, in my opinion! And getting stronger, gathering reinforcements as they follow us—though of course I could easily be wrong, because even one fly-by-night is too many in
my
opinion!” (Indeed, and in particular the one who was there even now in the darkest inner recesses of his mind!) “And anyway, being few in number—even when they’re down to a handful—never stopped them before! But Don, what’s this you say about a change? What’s happened tonight that’s got you so excited?”

“Excited, me?” Myers looked taken aback. He’d never considered himself excitable in any way, and didn’t much like it that others might. “No, not so much excited as feeling that I’m only just waking up! As to what I’m waking up to…” He paused for a moment to consider the best way to explain himself, then said:

“It was one of my new lads, a Big Jon Lamon ‘volunteer’ on his first night’s duty and maybe a bit more timid than most. An hour or so ago I visited him and his partner, one of my regular guys. I found them snapping at each other, as nervous and jumpy as Southern Refuge mice when cats were on the prowl.”

Nervous, and jumpy! Garth’s thoughts flew back two hours to his visit with Davis and Carter—but more especially Carter—and suddenly he was wide awake. “So, they had some kind of problem,” he said. “But what was it?”

“Not just them but me too, now!” Myers replied, and went on: “It was the young kid. He swore that he’d seen something out in the night and was arguing with Tom Griffin—the older guy, who I’ve known for years to be steady as a rock—that they should be sounding the alarm! But old Griff, with a load of experience back of him, was having none of that because he’d seen nothing. And there and then as I tried to reason with them: ‘Look!’ says the new kid. And we looked…”

Garth felt a shiver run down his spine. “And you saw…?”

“Movement!” said the other. “Out there where the mist broke on the far edge of darkness,
they
were on the move!”

“Fly-by-nights!” Garth barely breathed the words, and Myers nodded.

“It had to be,” he said. “And yet even now I can’t be sure! Even though—or perhaps because—I not only saw it but
felt
it, as if it was in my head! That forward-flowing motion; those gliding, spectral figures; that drift of tattered shapes, leaning into the night, hardly looking at us at all—but when they did with burning eyes, like so many fireflies at that distance, and quickly blinking out—and moving as if driven by the mist, or as if they were a part of it or even riding it! For a moment they were there, and then…there was just the swirling where they’d been, and they were gone!”

“But where to?” Garth’s mouth was dry as a stick. “In which direction?” And before the other could reply: “North!” he answered his own question, and with certainty. “And yes, now you’ve woken me up, too. For Donald, I’m sure that you have seen them,
and
felt them: the fly-by-nights! No longer satisfied to remain parallel with the convoy, they’re moving on, going north—
and
getting there before us!”

With which Garth also realized there was no longer any need to speak to Gavin Carter. He already knew what Carter had seen, and pretty much what he would tell him… 

As the new dawn broke, however, and the sun lifted free of the horizon into a blinding blue sky, there were people whom Garth
must
speak to. And so, having stood his squad down, he at once sought out his father and the clan’s leader.

Accompanied by Donald Myers, he found Zach and Big Jon engaged in apparently gloomy conversation at the latter’s rauper. There, when the elders saw the squad bosses approaching—their serious expressions and grave manner—they broke off talking and instead prepared to listen.

In deference to Myers’ seniority, Garth held his tongue and let him tell the story of the night’s occurrences, then corroborated it word for word. But as he was finishing he gave Zach a look whose meaning the other clearly understood: that there was more to be told, perhaps best in private, at least for the time being.

“So,” said the leader when Garth had finished speaking, “It appears they’re moving ahead of us and getting stronger as they go.
Huh!
As if we needed more bad news! When I saw you two corming I had dared hope you weren’t bringing me problems, for I’ve enough of my own. And anyway let’s face it, the fact that a body of fly-by-nights is heading north isn’t proof that they’re especially interested in us. I mean, they haven’t attacked us yet, have they? And who can say why they’re on the move, or why they do anything for that matter? Enough, for I have other things on my mind! Off you go to your rest—and thanks for nothing very much!”

But then, as if he suddenly realized there was little else they could have done but make their discovery known to him, Big Jon added: “Wait! There’s an immemorial saying: ‘don’t kill the messenger.’ Or in this case, don’t be so ungrateful to him! For it’s far better to know what’s in the wind than to get blown arse over tit by it when it turns into a storm! So, despite the somewhat dubious nature of your report, still I must thank you for bringing it to my attention. Now go and get some sleep.”

At which Zach said, “Garth, stay if you will. I’d very much like a few words with you. And turning to Myers, who was looking a bit puzzled, still taken aback by the leader’s response: “It’s personal, Don: father and son stuff, you know?”

“Yes, of course,” said the other, accepting Zach’s explanation with a shrug and going on his way.

Big Jon Lamon also made as if to go about his business, but Zach stopped him, saying, “Jon, you might want to be in on this too. For I think there’s something else on Garth’s mind.”

“More properly
in
it!” said Garth, and began to explain his concerns. “The fact is, I’m more than ever sure that Ned Singer is out there, and that he’s after me—me and Layla both, that is—not to mention the entire clan! Myself to kill if he can, the clan to devour, and Layla to…but you know my meaning.”

Big Jon frowned and said, “I’ve been giving some thought to what you’ve told us previously. And while it was very important and we’ve acted upon it, of course, still I can’t help thinking that you’re putting on airs to some extent or rather that you make too much of your fears. For let’s face it, Garth, you were concerned that the fly-by-nights
weren’t
attacking us! So don’t you think you may be exaggerating the problem somewhat, putting yourself at the centre of things, and making much ado about—”

“Now
hold
!” Zach snapped. And. then, quickly: “I’m sorry, my old friend, but we should hear him out. I know my son almost as well as I know myself, and if he has something to say—”

“Which I do!” said Garth. “Oh, I can’t prove what I’m feeling, what I
think
is happening or going to happen soon, except maybe to say that it isn’t the first time that it has happened; for if it
was
the first time we might not be having this conversation or argument in the first place!”

“What?” Big Jon was scowling now, his mood rapidly deteriorating. “An argument, you say? But I don’t argue, Garth, I command! And what’s more, I think that on top of your other problems you’re beginning to speak in riddles! For I just don’t see why—”

“
Sir!
” Garth cut him short; an interruption which—at any other time, and coming from anyone other than Zach Slattery or his son, would be considered an inexcusable rudeness—stopped the leader dead in his tracks. And: “Sir,” Garth repeated himself, but more quietly, “there may be a good reason why you’re not ‘seeing why.’ That’s because it seems likely that your own overwhelming concerns, coupled with this sinister thing that’s going on here, are blanketing your thoughts and diverting them from what has always been and still is the greater danger!”

And as Big Jon stood there with his mouth agape and his colour deepening, Garth quickly continued. “
The
greatest possible danger,
yes, which is of course the fly-by-nights! The fly-by-nights: who are in my mind, and
your
minds, and perhaps the entire clan’s minds, even now! Or if not now then certainly at night and every night!”

For what seemed like long seconds Big Jon stared at Garth, then at Zach, then back to Garth. Until finally he closed his mouth and growled: “So the fly-by-nights are in our minds, eh? Which is presumably this ‘sinister thing’ that’s going on here, is it?”

“Please listen!” said Garth. “It’s understandable that you think I could be exaggerating, worrying unnecessarily about myself and my young wife. I thought so too—which my father will verify—until I talked to him only yesterday, when he told me something I hadn’t known before, something that I’ve been thinking about ever since. Perhaps you’ll more clearly understand me if I mention a name: Jack Foster!”

Big Jon was frowning now, but his colour was back to normal as he narrowed his eyes, slowly nodded and said, “Yes, go on.”

“But don’t you see?” said Garth. “What happened with Foster is exactly the same as what’s happening now. The same frightening story…except now the villain is Ned Singer!”

And again as he paused the leader said, “Go on then, Garth, get it all out.”

“Jack Foster was a loner,” Garth went on. “No one liked him too much, not even you and my father and the other scavs. Maybe he didn’t even like himself, put himself on a par with the fly-by-nights! He was malformed and an outsider, no less than those monsters in the broken cities; at least
he
may have thought so, deep in his mind. Perhaps after a time he came to hate the clan more than he disliked the fly-by-nights! I mean, didn’t he used to tell you they weren’t so bad, once you got to know them? You thought Jack was joking, but what if it was simply
them
getting into his mind?”

Big Jon’s frown was even deeper. “You said you thought they were into
all
our minds, which must have included mine?”

“Yes,” Garth answered, “except some of us have fewer problems than you and so are more aware of it. Myself for instance, and two of those new fellows who were working their first duty last night. But if Gavin Carter and that other lad who was out with Donald Myers hadn’t spoken of what they’d seen, what they felt…would anyone else have noticed, I wonder?”

Big Jon pursed his lips, stroked his chin and said, “I can see what you’re getting at. But Garth, there are holes in your theory. For example: while it may be possible that Jack Foster developed some kind of affinity with the fly-by-nights—that he saw them as misunderstood creatures much like himself—Ned Singer held to no such fantasies. Why, Ned had more kills than anyone I’ve known in the last five years! Also, it’s very hard to believe that Ned had any kind of especially receptive mind. What, I’ve known Singer for years, and the one thing he wasn’t was a great thinker; in fact he was a dullard! Oh, I’m sure he knew his job, but he was even better at being a bully, a thief, and a drunkard on illicit scavenger booze!”