But as far as Singer was concerned, it was as if no one had issued a single word of warning; he simply picked up where he’d left off:
“As for you—” glowering at Layla as he got to his feet, he took a step toward her. “Yes, you—you little whore! I’ll—”
“You’ll do nothing whatsoever, Ned!” Big Jon Lamon now thundered, no longer playing the artless innocent but the leader he had always been. “And you’ll say no more—” He got between Singer and his would-be victims. “—Not another word, or I guarantee you’ll regret it!”
And at last Singer’s senses—something of them—seemed to return to him. “But I’ve been…I’ve been courting this girl!” he said. Which now caused Layla herself to speak up:
“Don’t you mean ‘this little whore,’ Mr. Singer? And ‘courting’ me?’ Is that what you were doing? Chasing the young men off and stripping me naked with your eyes whenever you caught sight of me? Leering at me, and asking me back to your quarters on at least a dozen occasions; despite that I refused you every time? Well, let me tell you this, Mr. Singer —that the mere sight of you is enough to make me sick! Why, I would have any man of the clan before you! But Garth Slattery here is the one I’ve chosen, if he’ll have me—”
“—Which I will, gladly!” said Garth, with his arm around her waist. “I’ll keep and protect you, too. And listen, ‘Ned’—” he glared at Singer: “—don’t you ever again so much as look at Layla! Don’t try to speak to her, or speak badly of her. You’re a bullying, piggish liar, ‘Ned.’ But not around me or mine, not any more.”
The scav boss clenched his fists and puffed himself up, but before he could do anything or make any further comment Big Jon nodded curtly and said. “Then that’s settled. And you two: I’ll marry you within the hour, if that’s what you wish, in that gutted church across the way…which should leave little else in dispute.” Then, stripping the magazine from Singer’s weapon, he tossed it over to the crimson-faced bully who only just managed to catch and hold on to it. But in another moment, red-eyed and scowling, he turned the gun’s gaping snout on Garth and Layla!
It seemed a mere gesture, an empty threat however ugly, for Big Jon Lamon had the magazine. Or maybe not so empty; the look in Singer’s eyes was a threat in its own right. And for several long seconds he held that pose—
—Until with a sneer and a grunted, “Huh!” he made to turn away; only to have the clan leader step into his path. And:
“I never would have thought I’d see the day, Ned,” Big Jon spoke quietly now. “But it seems something needs saying, and a warning is very much in order. You’re an intimidating man—a bully, as Garth Slattery here has named you—but in the clan there’s things allowed and things we can’t allow. I smell hard liquor on your breath, Ned Singer, and I’ve seen death in your eyes, heard murder in your words. None of which sits well with me, for it’s a mix that bodes ill for all of us.”
“Huh!” said the other again, moving to step round the clan leader, who once more blocked his path. And:
“Hear me out!” Big Jon’s eyes had narrowed now, his brows creasing in a deep frown. “I know Garth Slattery’s a member of your team; but there are other teams, other duties, and things can be moved around—”
“—Not on my account!” Garth spoke up. “We know now where we stand, but that must be the end of it. Ned Singer’s good at what he does and there’s things I’m learning from him. We don’t have to like each other, but protecting the convoy is all that really matters and in that respect I’ll do whatever I’m called upon to do, and no ill feelings. This other thing…it should have been a private matter, but in any case it’s over now.”
At which the leader slowly nodded. “Sounds good to me. Very well, so let it be.” But he turned back to Singer nevertheless, saying: “Let me remind you, Ned: the clan has had enough—more than enough—of death, both natural and as a result of fly-by-night depredation. Why, we’ve even had a murder, though that was many years ago, when even I was a young man. As to how we dealt with that: well, if memory serves the killer was taken out into the badlands and left there to fend for himself…”
His pause was deliberate; it allowed the other to ask: “Oh, and what has that to do with me?”
But Big Jon shook his head. “Why, nothing at all!” he said. “No, I should hope not! It was only a reminder…that between here and our destination—if we ever get there—there’s bound to be badlands aplenty.” And then, stepping aside, he said, “Now you can go.”
But as Singer made to slink away, again the leader stopped him. Big Jon’s voice was suddenly lighter now as he reverted to his artless, innocent mode once more, and said: “Oh, and by the way, that was a decent bit of scavenging, Ned, and I know everyone in the clan will think well of you. We’ll never have enough of medicinal supplies, which are always welcome.”
“What’s that?” Frowning, Singer glanced back. “Medi—” But there he broke off and his jaw dropped, for he knew well enough Big Jon’s meaning…
VI
Outside the ancient car park the sky had clouded over. “Are you two quite sure you’re right for each other?” Big Jon Lamon inquired of Garth and Layla as they reached the exit ramp. “If not, now would be a good time to speak up. Emotions were more than a bit heated back there, and when people are under pressure mistakes are easily made—not so easily corrected.”
The pair looked at each other, Garth with his heart in his mouth; but Layla only smiled and nodded. “We’re sure.” And with an audible sigh Garth said:
“Oh, yes. We’re sure. I think we have been for quite a long time, but…things got in the way.”
“Things like Ned Singer?”
“Yes, sir. Singer, and—well, just events.”
Big Jon nodded. “Yes, it’s been a very rough time, and probably a lot more to come. Which you’ll face together, right?”
“Yes, sir.” But Garth couldn’t hide a frown, and the leader had noticed.
“Is there something, anything?”
“No, not really,” Garth answered as they set out across the rubble toward the battered church. “Just the way Ned Singer was acting. His mood is always unpleasant, but this time—”
“Ned was thwarted,” said Zach. “He was bested, made to look foolish and didn’t much like it. But we brought him down a peg, so maybe he’ll be more reasonable from now on.”
“I expect he will,” said the leader. “Anyway, he was drunk. That’s why he was worse than usual—worse for drink, that is, and worse for wear.” He grinned a wolfish grin. “Ned’ll wake up later with a badly bruised ego, likewise a bruised forehead, and a sore head in general—which serves him right. And as for his scavenged booze—”
“He had five bottles!” said head tech Andrew Fielding. “Big Jon and me, we were out by the well in what used to be a garden in front of that old church, when we saw one of Ned’s team—”
“Dan Coulter, it was,” said Big Jon, nodding.
“—And he was reeling about in his radiation suit as if he was smitten!” Fielding went on. “For a minute we were concerned for him, until we saw he had a bottle in his hand.”
Again the leader’s nod, and his wolf’s grin. “Aye, so after we had words with Dan, we not only, er, ‘rescued’ his stash but Peder Halbstein’s and Ned Singer’s, too! Twelve bottles in all. Would have been thirteen if that one back there hadn’t smashed. Unlucky for some, so it’s said—namely those three damn fools! That booze might well be hot, tainted with something other than alcohol and much, much harder!” But:
“No, I think that’s unlikely,” said the head tech, sounding excited, suddenly energized, as if he had just remembered something important. Which indeed he had.
“Oh?” Big Jon frowned at him.
“Well, that’s what I was about to tell you at the old well! I was carrying out a radiation test on the water when we bumped into each other and saw Dan Coulter staggering about like that. Following which you were in such a hurry to, er, ‘rescue’ their
liquor—which should have been handed over in the first place, for the good of the clan—that I became distracted; since when we’ve been busy. Anyway, that’s a very deep well, and its water seems fairly clean and…and even potable!”
That pulled the others up short, and together Zach Slattery and Big Jon said: “Clean?” And they stared at Fielding as if he had two heads.
Then, grabbing the head tech and drawing him close, Big Jon said: “Clean—and potable? Surely your instruments are on the fritz, Andrew?”
“Not a bit of it,” said Fielding, blinking rapidly and trying to free himself from the leader’s grasp. “My instruments are just fine, and so is the water…almost.”
“Almost?” said Big Jon, his eyes narrowing. “How, almost?”
“Well,” the other shrugged, “the background radiation is a tad high, but that’s about all…except it’s not all, not by a long shot! See, this entire area, at least in the half-dozen or so spots that I’ve tested, shows only a fraction of the residual radiation that I’d expect. Which makes this the cleanest place we’ve visited since leaving the Southern Refuge!” The leader’s mouth had fallen open; the others’ mouths, too.
“You’re saying we can actually drink that well water?” said Zach.
“And that we can maybe refill the bowser?” said Big Jon. “I mean, God only knows we need to! Last time I checked, the gauge was two thirds of the way down to the dregs!”
“Can we wash?” Layla sighed. “And cook, and perhaps launder some clothing, too?”
The head tech laughed excitedly and did a little jig as Big Jon released him. “What’s that?” he asked Layla. “You only want to wash? Why girl, there’s thirty-five feet or more of water in that well, so you can bathe in it if that’s your desire!”
The leader laughed, roared out loud, almost joined the head tech in his dance…then stopped abruptly and said, “But how? Explain, Andrew, for I just don’t understand.”
And as they set off again toward the church, but with so much more energy in their steps now, Fielding said: “Well, it’s possible that I do understand. Just look around and tell me: do you see any signs of terrific heat, calcined glass or metal and drifts of dust? No, nothing of the sort. A few burned-out buildings perhaps, but nothing special. Evidence of bombs, of blast, definitely: shell-shocked masonry, and a good many craters scattered here and there. But no real evidence of a nuclear attack. This place was bombed, that’s obvious, but I don’t think it was nuked. And—oh, I don’t know—perhaps it was simply fortunate to lie outside any major fallout zone; or then again, maybe down all the decades nature and the weather have worked in combination to clean the place up. That can sometimes happen quite quickly. In the world as was the very first nuclear weapon destroyed a city—whose survivors almost at once rebuilt it!”
“I’ve read something about that,” said Garth, “in a book in the library in the Southern Refuge. But there was only one bomb that first time—or maybe two?”
“Garth’s right,” said the leader. “And this time there were dozens, maybe hundreds! Enough to bring about a so-called ‘nuclear winter,’ anyway, and who knows what else?”
“A half-dead planet, that’s what else!” said Zach, spitting into the dirt. “Not to mention the rise of the fly-by-nights!”
As they approached the broken church’s walled garden, where the shattered steeple lay in crumpled sections, Andrew Fielding paused. Frowning, he narrowed his eyes to squint up at the slowly drifting cloud cover, and muttering quietly to himself said:
“And then…then there’s the sunlight…and that’s also hard to figure.” He gave his head a small, bewildered shake. But the leader had overheard his quiet, introspective remarks.
“Eh?” Big Jon caught Fielding’s arm. “What’s that about the sunlight? Something else to puzzle over, Andrew? And perhaps to worry about, too?”
The nervous little man blinked, shook himself and came back to earth. “Hmm? Something to puzzle over?” He repeated Big Jon. “Well, yes: to me it’s a puzzle, certainly. But worry about it? No, not at all! On the contrary!”
“Well then?” The leader’s impatience was surfacing.
And as the five made their way across the overgrown, rubble strewn area toward the open-sided well, whose slumping pantiled roof was missing most of its tiles, the head tech explained his new enigma. “Even when the sun’s out—blazing in a clear blue sky, as it was earlier—it barely affects the radiation level. Which might mean that…that…” But as they reached the well he paused, and once again shook his head undecidedly.
“Oh, do go on!” Big Jon exploded. “Get it told, can’t you?”
Fielding nodded, shrugged apologetically and said, “Yes, of course; and I’m sorry if once again my explanation should prove inadequate. But as you know we’ve been trekking north for some two months now, frequently covering as little as four or maybe five miles a night, often as not in the wrong direction when dreadful conditions—acidic lakes, ravines, defiles and other obstacles; such as suspect or impassable rubble-heaped villages—have caused us to make endless diversions.”
“That’s right,” Big Jon nodded grimly. “And this last week we’ve been running low not only on water but also fuel. I haven’t wanted to start searching for tainted stuff in all the dubious towns we’ve skirted, but I may have to. Without it we’ll be in serious trouble, stuck for good wherever we end up.”
Fielding nodded. “But if we can find more here, it may well be as clean as everything else seems to be! And on that subject just look here.” He took a tin mug from a satchel hanging under his arm, filled it with water from a rusty bucket on the well’s crumbling stone wall and said, “This is where I was testing the water.” Without more ado he drank the mug dry, smacked his lips loudly, then patted his satchel with its precious contents, the various tools of his trade. “So then, now you’ve seen for yourselves how much I trust my instruments!”
“You’re absolutely sure it’s okay?” The leader reached for Fielding’s mug.
“Absolutely, and oh so very sweet!”
A handful of clan folk had been watching from the shady interior of the shattered church. Now, cautiously at first, they came out into the open. But as Big Jon and those with him took turns to drink, the people began to call to others behind them and quickened their pace, coming almost at a run.
Moving away from the well toward the church with his group, Big Jon called out: “Everyone can drink! The water is good! You can fill your personal containers, too. Then I’ll need a driver for the bowser, and volunteers for a work party. Oh, and if you washerwomen can hear me: those cauldrons of yours have been dry for much too long, so it’s time you got some fires going! Also, I shall need a scav team—preferably sober! People, now’s our chance to seek out and top up on fuel; and as a bonus, I’m told there’s no need to fear the sunlight! How’s that for good news? So let’s waste no more time but get busy, eh?”
And as the place began to show increasing activity, finally the leader turned his attention to the head tech. “Ah yes, Andrew. And with regard to that last, I believe you were about to tell me something?”
The exasperated other sputtered like a boiling kettle, more animated than any of Big Jon’s group could ever remember seeing him. “I was trying to tell you something, yes! And I would—if only you’d stand still for a moment and listen!”
“Well, go on then!” said Big Jon, and stepped into the cool gloom of the church. The others followed after him, then paused inside to listen to Fielding’s explanation:
“I think—” he began hesitantly, “—think it might have to do with the ozone layer. Some seven or so miles high but extending much higher than that, there’s a layer of gasses so constituted as to reduce dangerous ultraviolet radiation. Upon a time, before the war, the layer was much thicker…that’s according to tech forebears in the Southern Refuge, who left something of a record as to how in the aftermath things in the outside world deteriorated. It was all part and parcel of the nuclear wi
nter, which not only damaged the inner atmosphere—the air itself—but also the outer atmosphere, especially the ozone layer which for countless decades had already been suffering the contamination of Man’s far-flung and seriously toxic labours.
“Ah, but since then—with just a handful of men reduced to burrowing in the ground, and no surface industries to mention—the Earth’s atmosphere may have begun righting itself. For note what would seem to be happening: the deeper we venture into the northern latitudes, the less we suffer from solar radiation!”
Now Zach spoke up. “I believe you’re right,” he said. “Why, it would explain how the fly-by-nights took so long to die once our lads flushed ’em out! I was watching you see, and while the sunlight certainly burned ’em I thought it took almost twice as long to do so!” And turning to the leader. “Wouldn’t you agree, Jon? For in our time down South, we surely chased enough of the damned things into the sunlight!”
“Aye,” Big Jon nodded. “And by God, didn’t they go up quick as a flash? They most certainly did!” Breathing deep, he seemed to swell up large. And throwing his arms wide he cried: “I feel reprieved, restored, renewed! What with the water, and now this news about the ozone—the fact that we can go out unprotected in the sunlight, and perhaps even travel during daylight hours, though that will take some getting used to—why, maybe things are finally turning in our favour! Indeed I feel sure they are. A good thing, too, because there’s so very much to do…!”
But as he turned away and made to stride out again into the daylight, Garth quickly caught his arm and said: “Sir, Big Jon! Please don’t go off and forget about us!”
“Eh?” said the other, then grinned as he clasped both Garth and Layla to his barrel chest. And: “No, of course I won’t!” he said, releasing them. “And what better time to get married, eh? When for a moment—if only for a moment—the future begins to look so much more promising?” And once again he turned away, as if making to leave the place.