Authors: Wayne Wightman
“We've had good hunting,” Winch said to Martin as their horses ambled along the dusty asphalt. “And we have a good balance of sexes and ages now. Nineteen of us, nine males, ten females, seven of which could or will be able to have children. We might make it past our generation.”
“If August doesn't kill us first with talking.”
They could hear him rattling on behind them. At the moment, he was regaling Roy with a complex tale of alleged sludge-dumping by renegade environmentalists.
Martin couldn't wait to get back to Catrin and Land. And the others. But to Catrin especially. She was like a strange magnet to his soul. The further away from her he was, the stronger her attraction.
Chapter 65
Diaz blazed down I-95, maxing the Harley till its noise was a blurry hum. His psychic curtain had started to lower — grim days snaked toward him out of the future. He could already hear them hiss, ready to venomize him with helplessness and confused slow-witted moronism. There was no time to stop and smell the roses, bask on the Floridian beaches, or write any poetry — he just had to move, roll, run, to a hospitable place where he could vegetate and revile a world that allowed him to inhabit it.
He passed Cape Canaveral at an even 100 miles an hour. Though the gnats and mosquitoes smeared across his goggles, he saw the silver nose of a rocket on one of the launchpads, set up and abandoned. To be strapped in, he thought, oh, to be strapped in and set free of the earth, lifted on wings of fire, to ride that baby up, make one incredible orbit of the earth, and drive her down, nose first, everything glowing cherry-red, straight into the Mariana Trench!
Self-destructive thoughts. The curtain was dropping faster than he thought. He cranked up to 110. The highway was an asphalt blur six inches under his boots.
He made a wrong turn somewhere around Fort Lauderdale and ended up at the beach. He hadn't slept more than twenty minutes in four days — his mind was a vortex of random thoughts, and his mouth felt like it had died somewhere in Georgia.
“Hey man,” someone said. “Chill out. Have a Bud.”
Diaz heard the wet hiss of a pop-top. He looked up. It was strangely quiet, no bike noises, no wind howling in his ears, and he had sand in his mouth. Someone put a warm can in his hand. He took a pull of the beer, rinsed, and spit. The second drink he swallowed and felt some sand go down his throat. So what. He'd had worse things in his mouth.
“Where am I?” he croaked.
“Atlantic Ocean, man. That's what that water is.” The guy was twenty, twenty-five, maybe forty. To Diaz, everything looked strange, twisted, with evil around the edges. But this guy on the beach was definitely different. He did not look troubled. That was clear. He was leaning back in one of those ground-level beach chairs. He wore a green sun visor and a baggy bathing suit with palm trees and bananas printed on it. “Drink up. I got plenty. I found the warehouse.”
“Where's my bike?”
“Over in that ravine.”
“I musta missed the freeway.” Diaz finished the Bud, crawled over and popped a second one. He was feeling better. “Name's Diaz.”
“I gave up my name. Since everybody died, I'm just a guy on the beach.”
Diaz attempted comprehension of any lurking significance in that remark. “You... you trying to be one with nature or something?”
“Already did that,” said the guy on the beach. “Now I just hang around. Be real.”
Diaz pondered that. Be real. Be real? He felt like he was a nightmare crawling all over himself. That was all too real all right all over okay, oh boy. He socked himself in the chest. Maybe the pain would distract him from overdrive thinking.
“Where you headed?” asked the guy on the beach.
“Uh. South.”
“All the way south? Key West?”
“All the way.”
“You all right?”
Diaz's eyes had fixed on the low, rolling surf. “Bipolar. Cycle's on a downswing. I got maybe a day left. Then I'm screwed. Few weeks. Like death.”
“Bummer.”
Diaz crawled most of the way on his hands and knees, down the incline back to his bike and dug though his medical kit. He had three whites left, then he was going to hit the end of the trail — hard — like a bug on a windshield. Rectal thoughts. He held the whites in his fist and staggered back toward the guy on the beach, threw the pills in his mouth, along with some sand, and washed it all down with another Bud. “Wish I was you, man,” he mumbled. “You ever get lonely?”
“Lonely? Nah. Ever since I unwrapped my mind, talking to you is just like talking to me. Never know what I'm going to say next. I could be anybody.”
Diaz tried to think about that. There had to be significance, but it eluded him.
“You have to go now,” said the guy on the beach.
“Yeah. I have to go now.” There wasn't much time left. He struggled to his feet and waded through the sand back to his bike. Somehow, the guy on the beach was already there ahead of him and helped him right the motorcycle and push it back up to the asphalt parking lot.
“I'd wish you good luck,” the guy said, “but it would be an empty gesture.”
Diaz had been expecting him to grin and say
Good luck!
and he was glad he wouldn't have to hear it.
Diaz swung his leg over the cycle and felt the whites start to kick in. “Which way is south?”
“To get to Key West, go out to the end of the parking lot and turn left. When the road runs out, you're there.”
“When the road runs out. Got it.”
Diaz kicked the bike to life, gunned it once, and nodded at the guy on the beach. “Later!” he yelled, waved, and rode like the wind.
He followed the white line from key to key, over the ocean on long bridges, till he got to the end of the road. Having done that, he realized he no longer had a plan. On the asphalt under his feet was an arrow. His rat brain kicked in and Diaz knew that to reach his destination, he should follow the arrows, every arrow he came to, on the streets or on signs, no matter what color or size, turning down this street, back this way, even following tiny arrows till one of them pointed to an old but well-kept two-story house, surrounded by an iron-picket fence and a yard full of banana trees, huge overhanging mimosas, and creeping vines. And cats. Cats everywhere, some of them with big puffy, multi-toed feet.
When Diaz fell going up the stairs, a dozen of the cats sat around him and waited patiently for him to get up. Black cats, pregnant cats, speckled kittens, orange, moon-faced toms, all quietly sitting around him on the narrow stairs, licking their paws, icons of patience.
Chapter 66
Martin heard Isha's happy barking as she ran up the road to meet them and then he saw Catrin step into view. The way she carried herself, her arms limp at her side a long moment before she waved, he knew there would be bad news. Something was wrong. He nudged the horse with his heels and galloped up to meet her for a minute alone.
As soon as he jumped off and got within arm's reach of her, ready to hold her to him, he stopped. “What is it?” —and he dreaded her answer. “Are the children all right?”
Her eyes were dark-circled and tired.
“No one's been hurt. But there are new people here. A group of them from up in the hills, and guess who's among them — Paul and Leona. Their leader calls himself Joshua. He's over at Winch's house. Martin, people have stopped talking to each other. I'm afraid we're going to have trouble.”
“Are they armed?”
“Not that we've seen.”
“We'll take care of it.” If this was another Curtiz, he was thinking, he would make short work of the problem. “Come and meet who we found up north.”
Catrin made a good show, smiling and shaking their hands, and when Martin introduced her to Ross, he said to the boy, “This is my wife,” and the boy hesitantly shook her hand and then hugged her around the waist.
“We have another son,” Martin said. “He was alone until he found us.”
“I'm so glad to meet you,” she said, holding his face. She ran her fingers through the boy's hair and held his head against her, but Martin could still see the worry in her eyes.
“Take everyone to the big house up the street. They can stay there tonight and settle in tomorrow.” Martin took Winch aside and told him what Catrin had told him about Joshua. Winch pulled out his revolver enough to click off the safety and then reholstered it. “Winch and I are going to meet our other guests.”
She nodded. “They've been real hard on Jan-Louise. They found out what she used to do.”
“Let's go,” Winch said. Then, just before they got to his house, he said, “I want to apologize, Martin.”
“What for?”
"For in case I shoot this Joshua son of a bitch.”
Inside Winch's house they could hear the man's voice, a smooth, earnest voice, speaking in a tone which might be used to teach a child how to tell time.
“It's very easy,” he was saying when they stepped into the doorway behind him. He was a young man, twenty-five or thirty, clean-shaved, with short neatly barbered hair combed straight back. His shirt and slacks were as clean as the rest of him.
Jan-Louise, on the other hand, looked worn and ragged and sat at the end of the sofa, her legs curled under her, her stricken face half-hidden behind her hands. “You simply surrender,” Joshua continued. “Consider how bad you feel now, right now, at this moment. Feel it. Isn't it awful?
Feel it
.”
“She was feeling fine when we left,” Winch said. “It seems to me you're the one who's made her feel this way.”
Joshua half-turned where he was sitting and was only momentarily surprised. He stood up and offered his hand to Winch, who stared stone-faced into his eyes. “I am Joshua of The Way of the Children of God. I'm so glad to meet you. Are you Winchell?”
“What have you done to my wife?”
“This woman was suffering terribly from the guilt of her past, from being the wife of two men, and from being separated from god.” Joshua spoke pleasantly, smoothly, and without the slightest fear. “I've been helping her work toward finding her way back.”
“She....” Winch's words were choked off with rage. “She was never lost!”
“I understand your concern,” Joshua said. “And I share it. It might not have shown when you last saw her, but she was filled to overflowing with self-detestation for her past sins of living as a whore.”
Winch had his revolver out before Martin could react. “Wait,” Martin said.
“I have no fear,” Joshua said smoothly, opening his arms and hands. “My life is not my own. I am only the smallest instrument of—”
“You should leave now,” Martin repeated, his hand still on Winch's arm. He could feel Winch's muscles tighten and begin to lift the revolver.
“Jan-Louise,” Joshua said, turning to her, “would you like for me to return tomorrow?”
She shook her head and mumbled, “I don't know, I don't know anything anymore....”
Winch's arm was coming up, even with the pressure Martin was putting on it. “I already apologized to you,” Winch said between his teeth.
“You've been asked to leave,” Martin said, “and you haven't. You're not taking this very seriously, are you?”
“I'll come by tomorrow,” Joshua said, still not moving toward the door. “This woman's soul is more important than mere politeness,” Joshua said with a warm smile, standing in place. “Her soul is more important than mine. Mine has been saved, and hers still rests with Satan.”
“All right,” Martin said, taking his hand off Winch's arm. “Winch, if he isn't gone in thirty seconds, shoot him.”
“If I die,” Joshua said, “this woman's soul will be lost, so I will now depart.” But still he showed no fear, no anger or sense of being threatened. “Perhaps later, we can talk more calmly.”
“Not if you stand there another fifteen seconds,” Martin said.
Joshua was now at the front door, opening it. He looked back and said, “Till tomorrow, Jan-Louise. Your soul is near saving.”
When the door closed behind him, Winch lowered the revolver. His hand shook visibly. “You should've let me kill him,” Winch said under his breath as he went to Jan-Louise and cradled her in his arms. “It would keep things a lot simpler.”
....
When Catrin returned from settling the new people, she went to Winch's house to meet Martin. He asked her where Xeng and the children were.
“One of Joshua's people had a broken ankle and Xeng and Solomon went to take care of it. But Missa's here with Jan-Lousie. Isn't she? Jan-Louise?” Fear swept her face. “Isn't she here?”
“Jan-Louise,” Winch said gently, still sitting with her, “did you see where Missa went?”
“Oh my god...” Jan-Louise said, weeping, “I can't even take care of the children now....” She buried her face in his arms.
Martin and Catrin quickly went through the house and found her nowhere. Martin went around back, Isha at their heels, calling Missa, but there was no answer, no crackling of twigs, no small voice from the surrounding forest.
“Isha,” Martin said, not knowing if she would understand, “where is Missa? Missa.” He looked around helplessly. “Missa? Where is Missa?”