It was deadly stuff; he had seen the results of its work several times before when he was still with Michael.
He drove on, trying not to breathe the air, even though he knew it didn't matter by now. He drove on, and as he did so his thoughts drifted to an earlier time.
HE LIES IN his bed, so hot he can barely stand his own body. Sweat coats his skin and dampens his sheets. Pain ratchets through his muscles in steady waves, causing him to jerk and twist like a puppet. He grits his teeth, praying for the agony to stop. He no longer cares if he lives or dies; he will accept either fate willingly if only to put an end to the pain.
His eyes are squeezed shut, but when they blink open momentarily he is still in darkness. He hears voices drift through the partially opened doorway from the adjoining room.
".. . should be dead anyway . . . fever too high . . . can't understand what's keeping him ..."
". . . tougher than you . . . seven days now, when anyone else would . . . just keep him warm and ..."
One of them is Michael Poole, the other Michael's companion, Fresh. But which is which? He cannot tell. The fever clouds his thinking, and he can't match the voices to the names. It is ridiculous. He knows Michael the way he knows himself, has been with him now for almost eight years. He knows Fresh almost as well as Michael. But the voices blend and the words shift so that they seem one and the same.
". . . recovery from this doesn't happen . . . as you know better than most . . . better to let things take their course instead of flailing about with all these ..."
The voice drones on, lost in the buzzing in his ears, in the hiss of his own breath through his clenched teeth, the in the sweep of his jumbled thoughts.
He has the plague. He doesn't know which strain and doesn't care. He has had it for days. He can't remember how he contracted it or what has happened since. He drifts in and out of consciousness, out of dreams and into reality and back again, always fighting for breath because his throat is so swollen that his windpipe has all but closed up. The pain keeps him breathing because it keeps him awake and fighting for his life. If he sleeps, he thinks, he will lose consciousness and die. He has never been so afraid.
". . . have to move camp soon , . . dose, and no stopping them once they know ..."
". . . can't just leave him to die, damn it. . . know what they would do, animals ..."
". . . what do you expect us to do if things don't. . . sacrifices have to be made . . . one against the many ..."
He hears only these snippets, but he gets the gist of the conversation nevertheless. They are arguing over what to do with him, still so sick, perhaps contagious to the others, a danger to them all. They need to move camp because they are threatened anew by the demons that track them, searching constantly for a way to trap them once and for all. One of them is arguing for leaving him behind, the way they have been forced to leave others-for the good of the whole.
One of them is arguing for waiting to see if his constitution is strong enough to pull him through. The argument is low-key and rational, not heated and intense. He finds it odd that the matter of his living or dying is being talked about so calmly. He wants to tell them how he feels about it. He wants to scream.
Suddenly there is silence. He squints through a tiny gap in his eyelids and sees that the light in the doorway is blocked. They are standing there, looking at him. He tries to speak, but the words become lodged in his throat and emerge as groans. The pain sheets through him, and he shudders violently.
"See?" says one.
"See what? He fights it."
"A losing fight. It consumes him."
"But hasn't yet overpowered him."
They move away, leaving him alone again, feeling abandoned and betrayed.
Which of the two wants to save him and which wants to leave him behind? They are his closest friends, but one of them argues for his death. His eyes sting with tears, and he is crying. This is what dying is like, he thinks. You do it alone.
You are debased by it. You are exposed to your own weaknesses and to the harsh reality of what it means.
He draws a deep, pain-filled breath that is mostly a sob and waits for his life to end.
BUT HE DIDN'T die that night. The fever broke, and by morning he could be moved. He was weak still, but he was healing. Michael and Fresh came to him and told him how encouraged they were by his recovery. They reassured him that everything would be all right. He still didn't know which of them had argued for leaving him behind-had given him up for dead. He told himself at the time that it must have been Fresh, that Michael would never abandon him. But he couldn't be sure. Especially now, knowing what he did about what would happen with Michael later.
It was odd, the way he felt about Michael. His parents would never have left him, not even if it had cost them their lives. Yet he remembered them only vaguely, more indistinctly with the passing of every day. He recalled his brother and sister even less well; their faces had become faint images, blurred around the edges and leached of color. Yet he remembered Michael as if he were still there-the strong features, the wide, sloped shoulders, the sound of his deep voice as clear as yesterday's meeting with Two Bears. Even now, Logan knowing what he did, Michael retained his larger-than-life image. He knew it had something to do with the amount of time he had spent with Michael, the impression Michael had made on him while he grew, and the impact of Michael's strong personality. Yet he had never loved Michael as he had his blood family.
He had never been as sure of Michael as he was of them. It didn't seem right that it should be this way, but there was no help for it.
The buildings of the city slipped away on either side of him. There were more bodies in the streets, and the smell of death was everywhere. There was no movement in the shadows of the buildings, no sign of life. According to his sensors even the feeders had departed, a sure sign that nothing remained. He scanned doorways and windows, alleyways and side streets as he made his way through, but the city was deserted.
He came out the other side at midday, the weather turned gloomy and the skies dark with heavy roiling clouds. Maybe it would rain today, although he doubted it. The skies frequently looked as if they might open up, but they seldom did.
He drove through the outskirts of the city, past endless dwellings, Past schools and churches. There was no one anywhere. When plague struck, you didn't take chances; you got out. Not that there was much of anywhere to go, but fleeing sickness and chemical attacks and armed strikes was pretty much instinctual. You ran because it was your last defense against things too overpowering to try to stand and face.
It wasn't always so. In the beginning, men had stood their ground, even in the face of certain destruction. It had been in their nature to stand and fight, to refuse to be intimidated, to give their lives for what they believed. Even when governments began to disintegrate or simply vanished altogether, the people stood fast. Their faith would protect them, they believed. Their courage was a shield against the worst of it. But they were wrong, and in the end most of them died. The ones who survived were the ones who understood that while faith and courage were necessary, they weren't enough. Good judgment and sound reasoning had to be exercised as well. When the world was collapsing around your ears, you had to know when to stand fast and when to turn and run. There was a time and a place for both.
Even for him. Even for a Knight of the Word.
He pulled off the road at the edge of the city into what had once been a small park and was now a barren stretch of ground with a few broken picnic tables and some rusted playground equipment. Parked with the hood of the Lightning facing west, he sat in the vehicle and ate his lunch. Eating no longer held much pleasure for him. The food was prepackaged and uninteresting. He ate to keep strong and to stay alive. It was the same with sleep, which was rough and troubled. He slept because he had to and wouldn't have otherwise because he hated the dreams that surfaced like phantoms, dreams of his past, reminders of the madness he had endured. But it did not matter what he wanted; the dreams were an unpleasant fact of his life.
As was so much, he thought. As was almost everything.
He was still eating when the men appeared from behind him. He had forgotten to set the perimeter alarms on the S-l50 and was lost in his thoughts when they materialized suddenly on either side of the vehicle, their weapons pointed at him. They had crept up on him like predators, careful to mask their approach and to take their time. It didn't hurt their efforts that he had been so self-absorbed, he'd failed to pay attention to his surroundings. They were a sorry-looking lot, soiled and ragged and smelling of sweat. They carried a mix of rifles and handguns, older weapons from before the rise of the once-men. They smiled as they surrounded him, satisfaction a bright gleam in their mad eyes.
They had caught him unprepared and they knew it.
Stupid, he chastised himself. Stupid and careless.
"Get out," the one standing next to him ordered, touching him on the shoulder with a long-barreled automatic.
He already had his right hand on his staff as he opened the door with his left and levered himself out of the Lightning, pretending that he needed the staff for support. He limped away from the vehicle, glancing from one man to the other, counting heads. There were four of them-hard-featured and wild-eyed, looters and thieves. They would shoot him without a second thought if he gave them even the slightest excuse. They would shoot their own mothers.
"We're confiscating your vehicle for official purposes," said the speaker, keeping the automatic leveled on him.
"Iowa militia?" he asked, backing away.
"Whatever," one of the others muttered, running his hands over the smooth surface of the AV.
The first man smiled and nodded. "Official business," he repeated. "We'll return your vehicle when we're finished."
He seemed to enjoy the charade, the man in charge, the leader, turning now to the others and motioning them to climb in. Logan stood watching as they did so, waiting. His hand tightened on the staff, and the slow build of the magic began to take hold deep inside, working its way through his body and limbs. He could feel its heat, could sense the impending adrenaline rush. He was suddenly eager for it, anticipating the satisfaction it would give him, his one small pleasure in an otherwise disappointing existence.
He took another step back. "What happened to the people here?"
They got sick," one answered.
'Real sick," said another.
"So sick they died," said the first, grinning.
"The lucky ones, anyway/' said the second.
The men were settling themselves in place, looking around with obvious admiration at their newfound acquisition. Kids in a candy store, they had gotten their hands on something better than they had ever imagined possible. But the driver was having trouble figuring out what to do with the controls, which were clearly unfamiliar to him.
He looked over, pointing the automatic at Logan. "Show me what to do," he ordered.
Logan came forward, leaning on the staff. "The lucky ones got sick, you say? What about the unlucky ones?"
"What do you care?" the driver snapped.
"Taken to the slave camps," another answered.
The driver gave him a look, but the other man just shrugged. Logan stopped several feet away and pointed to the AV's dash. "Punch that button to the right of those green levers. That turns her on."
The driver glanced down at the dash, located the button Logan had indicated, and pushed. Nothing happened. He pushed again. Still nothing. Angry now, he tried several more times without success. He looked up finally, glaring at Logan.
"Here, let me show you," Logan said, coming forward.
He reached into the cab, locked his fingers on the man's gun hand before he knew what was happening, tightened his grip until the gun dropped away, then yanked the man bodily from the vehicle and flung him a dozen feet into the air.
It cost almost no effort at all. The magic of his staff gave him the strength for this and much more. The other three stared in disbelief, but before they could react he swept the staff in front of them, the magic jetting forth in a blue sheet of fire that picked them up and flung them clear. In seconds, all four lay dazed on the ground. He walked over to them, took their weapons from their nerveless fingers, and smashed them against a light pole that had long since lost any other possible use.
"Shame on you," he said quietly. He yanked the leader into a sitting position and squatted before him. "Where is this slave camp?"
The man stared at him with a stunned expression, then shook his head.
"Don't know."
"Yes, you do. You probably helped those that were hunting them." He tightened his hand about the other's throat and squeezed. "Tell me where it is."
The man gasped frantically, fighting for breath. "West . . . somewhere.
Never . . . been . . . there!"
Logan nodded in response. "You should go sometime. It would do you a world of good." He flung the man down so hard that his head slammed against the hard earth. "If you're lying, I'll be back to show you the error of your ways. Do you understand me?"
The man nodded, eyes wide, swallowing hard. "I can't make my arms move.
What did you do to me?"
Logan straightened. "I let you live. That's more than you deserve. If I were you, I'd find a way to make the best of my good fortune, you and these other animals." He stood up, looking down at the man. "If I ever come across you again, I'll not be so generous."
For just a moment, he considered the possibility of not being so generous right then and there. These men were the worst of their kind, the dregs of the humanity that the once-men preyed upon. They were little better than the oncemen themselves, lacking only organization and a little deeper madness to qualify. That was what the world had come to, what civilization in its terrible collapse had birthed.
The man must have seen something of what he was thinking in his eyes.
"Don't hurt me," he said. "I'm just trying to stay alive like everyone else."
Logan stared down at him. Trying to stay alive for what? But it didn't bear thinking on. He turned away, climbed back in the AV, and started up the engine. With a final glance at the men on the ground, he drove from the park back onto the roadway and then west toward the midland flats.
Chapter SEVEN.
LATE THAT AFTERNOON, with the other Ghosts safely returned to their underground home, Hawk departed for his meeting with Tessa. He told Owl to feed the others, and that he would eat when he returned. She gave him the look she always gave him when he was going out so close to nightfall, the one that both despaired of his insistence on tempting fate and warned him to be careful. She did not try to dissuade him; she never did. Even at only twenty-three, she understood his needs better than he did, and she knew that telling him not to go would make no difference. Not in this case. Not with Tessa.
The gray mistiness of earlier had darkened further with the night's approach, and the ruins of the city were layered thick with shadows as Hawk emerged from the underground with one of the solar-charged prods in hand and Cheney in tow. He always took Cheney on these visits, not so reckless as to go alone. It was dangerous for anyone to be out after dark, although he was better equipped than most to take the risk. Blessed with night vision that enabled him to see as clearly in the dark as in the light, he was also possessed of unusually acute hearing. But the darkness could be treacherous, and there were things hiding in it that could see and hear much better than he could. The Ghosts were forbidden to go t at night for that very reason, even in groups.
Hawk went because it was the only time Tessa could risk meeting him.
But he was especially mindful tonight of whatever it was that had killed those Croaks down by the waterfront and the Lizard at midtown. Something big and dangerous was loose in the city, and it was hunting. If it could kill a fullgrown Lizard and a pack of Croaks, it probably could dispatch a street kid without much trouble. Even a street kid with a dog like Cheney.
The light was failing, but it was not yet so dark that Hawk couldn't see down First Avenue through the jumble of abandoned cars and collapsed buildings.
He made his way quickly through the debris, keeping to the center of the roadway, letting Cheney take the lead and set the pace. The city was silent and empty feeling, but he knew there were things living in it everywhere. Some he had encountered, like the community of Spiders living in the warehouse complex that sat just above the compound and the small family of Lizards that occupied what had once been a residential apartment building. There were Croaks down this way, too, but not many because of the compound. The Croaks were bold, but they were wary of open places. Croaks preferred the darker, more isolated locations for their hunting. Even in packs, they avoided the compounds.
But Hawk was alone and outside, so he knew he was fair game. The Croaks would be watching.
His lean, ragged shadow lengthened as he walked and the air grew cooler.
It was midyear sometime, though he didn't know exactly when. Owl might, but she made little mention of it because it didn't matter. Clocks and calendars were for those who lived in the compounds and wanted to maintain some sense of a past they refused to recognize as dead and gone. Those living on the streets, like the Ghosts, found comfort only in the moment, not in memories. Most of them didn't even talk about their parents anymore, those who could remember their parents at all. Their old families were like stories once told and then mostly forgotten. Their old families Were no longer real.
Some of them could still recall a little of their past lives. Hawk wasn't one of them. He remembered almost nothing, and what he did recall was so fragmented and disconnected from his current reality that he could not give a context to it. His father was a faceless shadow, but every now and then he could catch glimpses of his mother-an image of her face on a smudged wall, a beckoning of her hand in the movement of shadows, her laugh in the cry of a gull. He could never put the pieces together, though; could never make her whole. Even the particulars of his past life were vague. He remembered swimming on the Oregon coast. He remembered the beach. Not much else. It was almost as if he had not had a life until he came to this city.
He gave a mental shrug. Life before coming here didn't matter anyway. The Ghosts had reinvented their lives in more ways than not. Customs and rituals were all new. Owl set the rules for eating, sleeping, and bathing. Hawk assigned chores. Routine kept them focused on staying alive. They did not celebrate holidays. No one except for Owl could even name more than one or two. They celebrated them in the compounds, he knew. Sometimes Tessa talked glowingly of those celebrations, but to him they sounded perfunctory and forced. There even seemed to be disagreement on the kinds of holidays worth remembering. It was just more clinging to the past. The Ghosts did celebrate birthdays, even though most of them no longer knew when their birthdays actually were. Owl had assigned birthdays to those who had forgotten them, and she marked them off on a makeshift calendar she had drawn on the wall. She didn't know what day it was or even what year. She just made it up, and it became a game they could all play.
Off to one side, deep in the shadows of a mostly whole building, something moved. Cheney went into a crouch, faced the black opening of the doorway, and growled softly. Hawk stopped where he was, holding the prod ready. After a few tense moments, Cheney turned away and started off again. Hawk swung in behind him, and they continued on.
Sometimes he thought that it would all be so much simpler if they lived in the compound with Tessa and the others. Not that it would ever be allowed after they had lived on the streets for so long, hut just for the sake of argument.
There was safety in numbers. There was less to be responsible for and less to worry about on a daily basis. Food and shelter and medical supplies were easier to come by. Some of the people in the compounds still had special skills that street kids would never have. But there was something so abhorrent about compound life that it overshadowed everything that made it appear desirable. Too many restrictions and rules. Too little freedom. Too much conformity of the few for the benefit of the many. Too much fear of everything outside the walls. It was the old world in miniature, and if Hawk was certain of one thing in this life it was that the old world was dead and gone and should remain that way.
Eventually, a new world would be born from the ashes of the old, and living in a walled fortress was not the way to make that happen.
Darkness was almost complete when he emerged from the ash-and sootblackened ruins of the city's south end and could see clearly the dark bulk of the compound outlined against the gray skyline. Walls several stories high surrounded what had once been an arena and playing field, stretching away on four sides to occupy several city blocks. A raised metal roof rested atop a network of steel girders and wheels that had once allowed it to move back and forth on a track to open the playing field to the sky, but now was rusted permanently open. Barbed wire rimmed the tops of the walls and the perimeter of the compound in thick rolls. Watch towers dotted the corners and heavy barricades blocked those entrances that hadn't been sealed completely. A wide swath of open space separated the compound from the rest of the city; everything close had been torn down to prevent enemies from approaching without being seen.
A sign with bits and pieces of its letters broken off and its smooth surface blackened and scarred proclaimed that this was SAFECO FIELD.
Rumor had it that there had once been an adjacent arena that occupied the open space between the city and the compound. But terrorists had bombed it when it was one of the last active playing fields in the country and still fighting to maintain its traditions. More than two thousand had died in the attack, and much of the building had collapsed. Shortly after, the first of the plagues struck, wiping out fifty thousand in less than a week, and that was pretty much the beginning of the end of the old ways.
Hawk made a circuitous approach to the compound, keeping to the concealment of the rubble and shadows. His destination was some hundred yards east of where he worked his way forward in a crouch, Cheney close beside him.
Nothing lived in this part of the city because the men on the walls kept watch day and night; if anything was seen, they were quick to send out a sanitation squad to destroy it. Twilight was the hardest time for the watchers to spot movement in the debris, even on the more open ground, which was the main reason Hawk had chosen this time of day for his meetings with Tessa. He met with her on the same day each week with no deviation. If either failed to show, the meeting was automatically rescheduled for the following night. The time and place were always the same-nightfall in the ruins of an old shelter that had once connected to an underground light rail system.
Hawk scanned his surroundings as he proceeded, searching through a mix of old bones, desiccated animals, and the occasional human corpse. He didn't look closely at any of it; there wasn't any reason to. Dead things were everywhere, and there wasn't anything anyone could do about them. He found the remains of street children almost every week, loners or outcasts or just plain unfortunates who had fallen victim to the things that hunted them. He no longer found the remains of adults; except for the Weatherman, those few still living outside the compounds had long since fled into the countryside, where your chances were marginally better if you possessed a few survival skills.