Slowly, Cofflin mimed a wound on his leg, and binding it up, then pointed to his companion. After a moment, the Indian made an odd circular motion of his head that seemed to correspond to a nod. His bloody hand began to return the flint knife to its sheath. Cofflin shook his head, then made a waving motion with his hands. He took the scraper from his own belt, tossed it aside, and pointed to the Indian as he recovered it.
Reluctantly, the Indian did the same with his own weapon. “All right, doctor,” Cofflin said. “Move slowly, and be careful. I’ve got you covered. Put some of the antiseptic powder on it, then bandage it up.”
He held the shotgun ready. Rosenthal licked her lips and moved in, motions slow and careful. The narrow black eyes of the wounded man went wide for an instant as the astringent powder struck the wound, but he moved the leg to let the woman finish bandaging it. She sat back, sneezed, and looked helplessly at her blood-covered hands.
“All right, back off again,” Cofflin said. Maybe the gesture of goodwill would help. “Lieutenant, what about the other one?”
“He’s bad,” the Coast Guardsman said. “Sorry. Thighbone’s broken, compound fracture. I’ve stopped the bleeding and put him out, but without a good doctor and antibiotics, he’s a dead man.”
Cofflin watched the other wounded Indian drag himself backward toward the woods.
If we leave him, he’ll die. On the other hand, if we take him away, they’ll think God knows what. On the third hand, we can patch him up, maybe teach him a little English, and he can interpret. Give him some presents, knives, pots and pans, costume jewelry. Squanto R Us.
“All right, then,” he said. “Let’s get out of this screwup.”
The limp weight of the unconscious man brought back other, unpleasant memories for Cofflin. He thrust them aside; manhandling the dead weight into the airplane was hard enough as it was. As an afterthought, he taped the man’s wrists and ankles together. Having him wake up and freak in midair was not something he wanted to experience. Then they returned for the pilot; with an arm over each man’s shoulder he made a slow hopping way back to the airplane.
“Goddam,” he sighed, settling into the pilot’s seat. “You know, I was feeling pretty lousy coming here. As if nothing was real, you know. But this, this feels
damned
real. Shot in the leg by an Indian. Goddam.”
Cofflin nodded. So did Walker, and Rosenthal sneezed agreement. He picked up the radiophone.
“Might as well have an ambulance waiting,” he said, looking down at the wounded man lying unconscious at his feet. The bandage around his thigh was glistening red. “And then there’s that Town Meeting.”
“Captain, it’s the XO. I think you should come at once, ma’am.”
Marian Alston cursed silently and tore herself away from the radiophone. “Take down anything they say,” she said to the operator.
The cadet who’d brought the news looked scared green. Lieutenant Commander Roysins, her executive officer, had excused himself half an hour ago, when Walker reported the news from . . . where Boston ought to have been but wasn’t. No way to keep it secret, not on shipboard; the rumor was running through the hull like a fire, and she’d have to do something—say something to the crew—soon.
“Ma’am.”
The wind on the quarterdeck was fairly stiff, and the
Eagle
pitched at her anchors, bows into the whitecaps.
“Captain on deck!”
“As you were.”
She returned the officer of the deck’s salute and went down the companionway behind the radio shack. The officers’ cabins were tiny cubicles on the deck directly below. The largest was the flag cabin at the rear, usually empty except for important visitors. Hers was just ahead of it to the left, little more than a glorified closet, something she’d often thought confirmed her conviction that God was an ironist. The rest of Officers’ Country stretched ahead and to the wardroom on the other side.
The XO’s cabin door was shut. “He won’t answer, ma’am. I tried.”
“Stand easy,” she said, and pounded on the metal with her own fist. “Mr. Roysins, open this door! That’s an order!”
Silence. Fear dried her mouth. She slammed at the door again. “Roysins!”
Still nothing. She licked her lips. “Beauchamp,” she said to the cadet. “My regards to the officer on watch in the engine room, and someone with a toolkit to this cabin, on the double.”
“Ma’am!” The cadet bolted, glad of an order.
Alston waited, expressionless, until he returned. With him was a bald man in stained blues with a toolbox and a squared-away baseball cap with EAGLE across its front in gold letters.
“Ma’am?” he said.
“Let’s have this open, Chief,” she said. Baker, a CPO and a reliable man.
He nodded phlegmatically and went to work. Thirty seconds later the door swung open. There wasn’t any of the smell she’d feared, the sort that happened when a man hung or shot himself. Roysins was lying on his back in the bunk, staring open-eyed at the low ceiling of the cabin. One arm trailed down, moving with the motion of the ship, and an empty glass rolled beside an equally empty plastic pill container. The other arm clutched something to his chest. Alston ducked in and put her fingers to the man’s neck, just to be sure. The skin was already cooling. She gently pulled the framed picture of Roysins’s wife and children free, then crossed the man’s arms on his chest and closed the eyes, holding them shut for a moment to make sure they’d stay that way. A coverlet went over his face.
God damn you, Roysins,
she thought sadly.
I
needed
you, dammit.
She was going to need all the officers, to keep things going. This was no time to bug out. Roysins wouldn’t have suicided if a car crash or a tornado had lost him his family, she felt fairly sure. It was the feeling of absolute separation.
But that’s an illusion. Nobody’s died, they just got .
.. unavailable. Still, she was beginning to realize why the old buccaneers had used marooning as a punishment, instead of just knocking someone on the head and pitching him overboard.
“My compliments to the operations officer, and I’ll see her in my cabin,” she said. “Chief, get a sailmaker and some cloth in here.”
She looked at her watch. 1000 hours. Christ.
CHAPTER TWO
March, 1250 B.C.
March, Year I After the Event
I
an Arnstein wandered down the street, pushing the bicycle he’d just bought with his last two-hundred-dollar traveler’s check; he always felt ridiculous riding one of the things—another of the drawbacks of being several inches over six feet.
And
I
never even liked
basketball.
It was a cruelly pretty day, blue sky and wisps of cloud, warm enough that he was comfortable in a long-sleeved shirt and no jacket. There were daffodils set out in pots, and the whole town had the scrubbed, fresh-painted air that it always did . . . and nothing was the same. He wheeled the bicycle into the guesthouse where he was staying and up the stairs into his room, and stood looking at the fireplace.
“Still functional, I suppose,” he said to himself, stroking his bushy reddish-brown beard; it had stayed luxuriant while the hair vanished from the top of his head. Except for that he might have been a face off an Assyrian basrelief, heavy hooked nose and strong features, apart from the mild scholar’s eyes.
When winter came, a working fireplace . . .
The bags and boxes from the grocery store nearly hid it—nearly hid the whole wall, come to that. Spare clothing, canned food, dried peas, everything he could think of. There hadn’t been many people in the stores, and he’d still been able to write traveler’s checks, which proved that nobody had thought through the implications of the rumors. He looked at his watch. Nearly noon. Unbelievable rumors, but they accounted for what had happened better than anything else.
Time for the Town Meeting.
That
was going to be crowded. It was also probably going to determine whether or not he met a long, nasty death in the coming months. Possibly whether he was killed for the meat on his bones. He shivered. That was the problem with the sort of reading he did for recreation. History undermined certain comfortable assumptions about how human beings acted. . . .
He sat at the desk, slumped with his head in his hands. At this point in the type of novel that was his favorite reading the hero would be brimming with ideas, getting people moving, organizing things, providing some leadership.
“The problem is,” he said to himself, “I couldn’t lead three sailors into a whorehouse. Somebody else will have to do it.”
“The moderator’s not . . . available,” the town clerk said.
“What do you mean,
not available?”
Jared Cofflin answered, frantic. “Look, Joseph, we’ve
got
to get this Town Meeting under way.”
The old man nodded somberly. “But Alan Scinters isn’t going to moderate it,” he said.
The sound from the crowd out in the auditorium of the high school was growing louder, more insistent. To Cofflin’s ears it was beginning to sound uncomfortably like the mob on Main Street last night.
There was supposed to be room for seven hundred and fifty, plus another hundred and fifty in the little annex where nonvoters sat. From the noise, there were more than a thousand heads crammed in, and more milling around in the corridors outside. The auditorium was named after a former principal of the old Nantucket High School; it was big, a broad blunt wedge with concrete steps that were upholstered in blue where people sat and left bare in the strips they were supposed to use for stairs. The whole idea had been sold to the Town Meeting as a civic center and place for amateur theatricals as well as a school facility.
The principal had been a fearsome old biddy, by all accounts, and she’d ruled with an iron hand for the best part of two generations. He tried to imagine how she’d have handled this.
“Why
isn’t
Scinters going to do it?”
“Because he and the chairman of the board of selectmen have been in Boston since Friday last!” Joseph Starbuck snapped. “Of the other four selectmen, Vida . . . Dr. Coleman has her under sedation.” The town clerk’s mouth shut like a steel trap. “Along with about a hundred others right now. Four suicides, he says, and a dozen attempted. Jane’s babbling, and that leaves Tom and Clarice.”
Cofflin blinked: those two weren’t the brightest of the lot. “Well, somebody’s got to do it. Listen to them out there! They need someone who sounds like he knows what he’s doing. You’re the town clerk.”
“I’m not up to it. Too old, getting set in m’ways. Afraid you’ll have to do it, Cofflin.”
“Me?
I’m the police chief, not an elected official!”
“You’re also the only one who seems to be doing anything much. You know what’s going on. Get out there, man, or we’ll have a riot on our hands.”
For a moment Jared Cofflin felt his mind stutter.
I wanted someone to take over!
The reality of what he’d found on the mainland still sat in his mind like a lump of stodgy food, refusing to split up and move through the rest of his brain. If he couldn’t come to terms with this . . . event, how on earth was he going to help everyone else do it?
They all want someone to take over, and they want it now.
Jared Cofflin took a deep breath and walked out onto the stage. The acoustics were superb, enough to bring across the rasp of fear and building rage in the crowd’s undertone. These people were in fear of their lives, and if the man who spoke didn’t give them something to calm their terror they might well rip him into quite literal pieces. And then go on to destroy the town and any chance of saving their lives in a surge of blind ferocity.
He walked out to the podium and stood in front of the meeting, shoulders slightly hunched as if he was facing into a winter storm. “All right,” he began. “You know we’re still not in contact with anyone on the mainland. Some of you have probably heard why. Now I’ll tell you all. The whote—” he suppressed the word that came to mind—“damned island is back in, well, in the past.”
The noise burst over him like surf. He quieted it—somehow, eventually—and went on: “Over at the observatory, Ms. Rosenthal—” he nodded to where she sat not far from him—“used the computer and telescope there to figure it out.”
“What if they’re wrong? Computers—” someone shouted.
“You may not have noticed,” Cofflin said, stung into heavy sarcasm, “but we’re still cut off from the mainland. Because there isn’t any mainland, at least, no buildings or roads. Just wilderness. I went and took a look personally. Nothing but trees and Indians with spears.
“Quiet! We’re not going to get anything done by shouting!”
Cofflin bellowed, angry at last and somehow no longer in the least afraid. “George, Matt, Susan, get those people there out of here!”
Most of those who’d broken down let themselves be led away quietly. One had to be put in a hammerlock and handcuffed. “Put him in the cells—he can cool off overnight,” Cofflin said. Unfortunately, that was one of the town selectmen.
There goes half of what’s left of our elected government.
The babble subsided. “All right, now you know. Andy Toffler and me and Ms. Rosenthal, here, and Lieutenant Walker from the
Eagle,
flew over to the mainland this morning. There’s no Hyannis, and there’s no Boston, no roads and no buildings. The Indians threw spears at us. We took some pictures—Andy, could you get that projector working?”
The wounded pilot wheeled his chair about on the dais, slipping the pictures they’d taken under an overhead projector that threw them enlarged onto a pull-down screen.
The pictures flicked on, sharp close-ups of the Indian camp. Then a blurred one as Doreen dove for cover, and then another series done with steady clarity.
She may have been on the verge of a breakdown, but she kept doing her share of the work,
he thought with respect. Good pictures too: an Indian winding up, running forward, the streak of the spear, then the weapon standing in the ground. At last two of each of the wounded Indians, close-ups of their faces and gear.