Eternity Road

20

Five days after Ann Arbor, they arrived at another city, vast and empty, and stood on the west bank of a major river. Shay’s track turned north into the ruins. They followed it along the waterfront, past gray quays and ancient pilings and collapsed warehouses and moldering wharves and stranded ships. The ships were all on the bottom, decks and spars usually above water. Some were behemoths, corroded vessels of such incredible dimensions that they explained the giant anchor on River Road. By midafternoon they were passing the remnants of a collapsed bridge. A second bridge, farther north, had once connected the west bank with an island. It was also down.

Flojian watched seabirds drift across the surface. “Current’s not bad,” he said.

As if Karik had reacted to the sight of the second damaged bridge, the trail turned away from the river, back into the city. They made camp on the shore that night and, fortified by a trout breakfast, worked their way in the morning past mountains of concrete and iron rubble. As had happened in Chicago, some of the larger buildings had collapsed. To the northwest, a bowl-shaped structure stood serenely intact amid an ocean of debris. The forest was coming back, and patches of black walnut and cottonwood now grew on the bones of these ancient monsters.

They came out on the shore of a long, narrow lake that had formed among the artificial hills. Trees crowded down to the bank. The water was quiet, and they stopped to enjoy the sylvan atmosphere, isolated among so much wreckage.

Ducks drifted on the placid surface, and turtles paddled through the depths. A gray stone slab rose out of the water at the eastern end. Carved letters announced DETROIT-WINDSOR TUNNEL. It was odd, because no tunnel was in evidence.

The trail led back out to the river, where it stopped. Two pairs of Shay’s markers turned vertical. “They crossed here,” said Quait.

The other side looked far away. Flojian gazed around at the trees. Some had been cut. “I think I prefer this to dangling in the air anyhow.”

“I’ve never built a raft,” said Chaka. “Do we know how to do this?”

Flojian feigned shock. “Do we know how to do this? Do you know how to make a bracelet? This is the way I earn my living.” He smiled in a lopsided, owlish way. “Well, it was the way I started.”

By nightfall they’d taken down eight trees. That wasn’t bad for half a day’s work by a businessman, a militiaman, and a former priest. (Chaka, who was deemed the least physical of the four, was sent fishing for dinner. She returned with more trout.)

Her relationship with Quait had changed in several subtle ways since the marriage proposal. Curiously, the distance between them seemed to have increased. If their attitude toward each other had not become more formal, it had at least become more circumspect. There was less furtive handholding, and almost no stolen kisses. This might have resulted from a combination of Quait’s awareness of the chemical relations among the four companions and a reluctance to disturb them, as a formal pairing off would have done; and from Chaka’s reflexive tendency to assert her independence.

Chaka also discovered that the sexual tension had eased. Quait had engaged her interest during the first days of the quest. That interest had evolved gradually, or maybe not so gradually, into friendship and then passion. Consequently, she knew she had begun to put on a show for him, softening her voice when she spoke to him, lingering a little too long against a setting sun, letting her eyes speak for her. It would not have been correct to say she no longer felt a need to do any of that, but the pressure was gone, and she was now enjoying him more.

She’d been curious why he had proposed to her in front of the others. “Were you so certain?” she asked.

“Public commitment,” he said. “These are peculiar circumstances, and I didn’t want you to think I was trying to take advantage of them. I wanted you to know I was serious.”

Quait had the first watch. She lay half asleep, listening to the crackling logs and the murmur of the river. He was walking around back by the horses.

He was fairly tall, although he’d always seemed short, standing beside Jon Shannon. Even Avila was an inch taller, but Avila was a six-footer. He had wide shoulders and he moved with easy grace. He was handsome, although not in the classic mode of the long, lean jaw and the straight nose and whatnot. Quait had features that would have drawn no second look from most women except that they were illuminated by the force of his personality. His good humor, the pleasure he took in being with her, his intelligence, all combined to animate his smile in the most extraordinary way. She had known better-looking men. But none more attractive.

They needed two days to complete the raft. Flojian directed the operation, carved and installed a rudder, and set up rigging. He converted blankets into sails and showed Avila how to make paddles. They were delayed an additional day when, as they were about to start across, the wind turned around and blew out of the east.

On the morning of April 19, the river was calm and they prepared again to set off. Baggage and saddles were loaded onto the raft. The horses, of course, would swim. Long individual lines were looped around their necks in loose bowlines, so that if one was swept away or went down, it would not drag the others with it.

“I still don’t know,” Avila said, looking across at the opposite shore. “It’s a long way.”

“Horses are good swimmers,” said Quait. “They can keep going for an hour or so. That should be plenty of time.”

Their lead horse was an animal named Bali, a large roan stallion. They coaxed him into the water. He was less than anxious, but once in he seemed okay. The others followed (there were now thirteen altogether), and they launched the raft, which someone had christened Reluctant.

The wind filled the sails and the raft slipped out into the current. Almost immediately they saw they were clearing shore too quickly and would drag the horses. Quait and Avila jammed paddles into the water to try to break forward momentum while Flojian trimmed the sails. The Reluctant gave way and the animals began to draw closer.

The horses were low in the water. Only their heads and the upper parts of their necks cleared the surface, but they seemed okay. Quait had spread them out on either side of and behind the raft, far enough apart so they didn’t get in one another’s way. Flojian assumed navigation duties while the others tended to the lines and the animals.

As they drew out into the river, Chaka acquired a better sense of the breadth of the waterway, and consequently of the level of engineering skill required to throw a bridge across it. The bridges, like so much else, had given way to the centuries. The towers still stood, trailing cables. But the spans had fallen into the water, where they lay half submerged.

The scale of Roadmaker civilization was much greater than anyone in Illyria dreamed. The accepted wisdom was that the wilderness contained numerous sites like Memphis and the city in the swamp and Little Rock, near Farroad, and Vicks-burg at Masandik and the nameless ruins at Argon and Makar But knowing it was not the same as walking through it: The wreckage just went on and on, buried in hillsides, sinking into forest floors, scattered along riverbanks, occasionally exploding into impossible dimensions as here in this second giam city.

Nobody back home really understands. They think in terms of a handful of relatively small cities. But look at this. There’s a whole world out here that died. Where does it end? How big is the corpse?

The scale of the disaster left them awed. What kind of plague could have taken down this civilization? On Monday, April 10,2079, the trains came in empty.

“Mista’s having trouble.” Avila indicated a black mare. It was beginning to struggle to keep its head up.

They were approaching midstream.

A mild current was pushing them downriver. Avila was kneeling at the stern and Quait joined her. He looked at the animal’s frightened eyes and shook his head. “Take some sail off, Flojian,” he said, hunkering down beside her. “You okay?”

She nodded.

The raft slowed. “The problem,” said Flojian, “is that we’re going to drift farther downstream. We might have some trouble picking up the trail.”

“Why don’t we worry about that after we’re across?” said Chaka. They were now directly south of the island. It was heavily wooded. She could make out a coastal road and a stone house. Roadmaker style, still standing watch.

“We’re going to lose her,” said Avila.

Chaka had deliberately avoided looking back at the struggling animal. Now she saw that it was having trouble keeping us head up.

“Take more sail off,” Avila said. “We need to slow down.”

Flojian shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. We can’t go slow enough for her. Turn her loose.”

Avila’s eyes went wide. “She’ll drown.”

“She’ll drown no matter what we do. Turn her loose, and maybe she’ll be the only one that does.”

Avila looked at Quait and tears stood out in her eyes.

“It’s only a horse,” said Flojian. “We couldn’t really expect to get them all across.”

“Turning it loose makes no difference,” Chaka told her. “If it can make shore on its own, it will. If it can’t, there’s nothing you can do.”

Mista’s line had tightened. They were beginning to drag her. Avila let it slip out of her hand, watched it trail into the water.

Quait meantime had turned his attention upstream. “Ship,” he said. It had been hidden by the island and the downed bridge. Now it was coming fast.

Flojian swore. “It’s got guns,” he said. It was low in the water, with a prow that looked like a wolf’s head and six cannons jutting through ports. It had two masts and a lot of sail and it looked flat-bottomed. A pennant with a white rifle emblazoned on a field of green fluttered in her rigging.

Quait could see sailors on deck. They were a ragged bunch, but they moved with disciplined precision. Some were manning one of the forward weapons. Flojian was trying to rig a blanket to get more speed. “Release the horses,” he said. “We’ll try to make shore.”

Quait watched it come. “No chance,” he said. But they let the horses go. Chaka slid her rifle out of the baggage. Quait caught her arm and shook his head. Put it down.

The Reluctant was picking up speed. The ship’s gun fired and water erupted in front of them. A man in a blue coat and hat put a megaphone to his mouth and told them to heave to. He was about eighty yards away and closing fast. “I think we better do it,” said Flojian.

But Chaka was looking at the master and his crew and her expression told Quait she’d already decided she didn’t want to fall into their hands. “We won’t have much of a chance with those sons of bitches,” she said. “I’d rather fight.”

“With what?” grumbled Flojian. “Holy One, preserve us.”

Avila’s dark eyes pinned him. “Don’t look for help,” she snapped. “We’re alone, and we better realize it.”

“It was just an expression,” he stammered. Quait was surprised at the outburst.

But Chaka was right. He could see that nobody was going to walk away unmarked from this crew.

“Who are they?” asked Chaka.

“Pirates. Or maybe there’re naval powers along here somewhere. Who knows?”

The men on the ship were laughing and making obscene gestures. Quait sighed. “Your call, ladies. We can make a stand. Or we can turn ourselves over to them.”

“Won’t be much of a stand,” said Avila.

“I don’t care,” said Chaka. “They’re not going to take me.”

The ship was turning slightly to port, moving alongside. The master lifted his megaphone again. “Guns down,” he ordered.

Chaka’s hand was still on the rifle stock.

“Don’t,” said Avila, removing her holster and laying it on the deck. “Flojian, let them get closer.”

Quait frowned at her. She patted her pocket, the one where she kept the wedge. “It’s a chance,” she said.

Chaka nodded. “Try it. It’s all we have.”

Flojian struck the sails. The marauder’s prow slipped past and ran down two of the horses.

Avila eased the wedge into her palm, held out both hands as if she were welcoming the ship, and frowned. “Nothing,” she whispered.

“It has no range,” said Quait. “We’ve got to be up close.”

“How close do we need?” growled Chaka. “I can smell them now.”

A rope ladder came over the side. The master was giving instructions in a peremptory half-screech. His eyes were dark and cruel and he was appraising the two women with relish.

“Why don’t you folks get your hands up?” he said laconically. “And prepare to come aboard.”

The crew roared.

Avila raised her hands.

Quait, who had edged close to his rifle, said, “Do it.”

“No,” she said. “Too many guns up there. Wait for a better chance.”

Avila was right: It would have to take everyone out, bow to stern, at one shot. Because the people on the raft would be easy targets afterward for anyone left standing.

The pirates used gun barrels to wave them toward the ladder. One leaped over the rail and landed beside them, rocking the Reluctant. He was one of the dirtiest creatures Quait had ever seen, grinning, with missing teeth and stringy black hair and whiskers that looked like strands of wire. He poked Chaka in the ribs and sent her sprawling. “Juicy, this one,” he grinned.

A portion of the ship’s rail swung open to accommodate them. Quait started up the ladder. Hands reached down, gripped his shoulders and hauled him roughly on deck. He was knocked down, kicked, and searched for concealed weapons. While this was happening, he heard cheers and obscene roars.

They dragged him back to his feet and threw him into line with his companions. Flojian had also been roughed up; and Chaka’s face was red with fury and humiliation. Avila surprised him: She managed to retain a calm demeanor and stood coolly among her captors.

The ship’s master confronted them. He was a short, ugly thug, five and a half feet of belly, jowls, and beard. He had a limp and a missing ear and a scar across his throat where somebody’d opened him up. A pistol was jammed into his belt. “Welcome to the Peacemaker,” he said. “Ship of the line of the Ki of Hauberg.” He tipped his hat at the name. “I’m Captain Trevor. And who might you be?”

“We’re travelers,” said Quait. “From the Mississippi League.”

“Mississippi?” He frowned, shook his head, and looked around. His crewmen, gathered in a circle, signaled their ignorance. “Never heard of it,” he said. “Not that it matters.” He came forward, put his fist under Avila’s chin, lifted it, and appraised her. He grunted approval, then inserted his hand into Chaka’s hair and forced her head back. “They’ve both got good teeth,” he said.

“Not for long,” came a shout.

Quait stiffened, but a muzzle pressed into his back and a soft voice in the rear warned him not to move. “Won’t do no good,” the voice said. “You’ll just be dead.”

He turned to look at the speaker. He was small, furtive, grinning. “This is a treat for us,” he said.

“What’ll happen to them?” asked Quait.

“Before or after?” He cackled. His eyes slid back to the women. “If they’re good, they’ll go on the block at Port Tiara. They should bring a decent price. So’ll you. If you behave.”

“Let’s see what they’ve got, Captain,” somebody said.

Others took up the cry. Trevor looked momentarily uncertain, but the crewmen must have been familiar with the routine because they were already laughing and forming a space. “What can I do?” the master asked no one in particular. He leered at Chaka. “You. Give us a show.”

Chaka made a move at him, but he was surprisingly quick for a man of such ungainly appearance. He seized her wrist, twisted it violenlly, and forced her to the deck. “We got a good one here, boys,” he said. “I like women who can’t be pushed.” He nodded to someone in back. Quait’s hands were seized, pulled behind him and lied, and he was lifted to the rail. “Have it your way, bitch,” said Trevor.

He dragged her to her feet by her hair and turned her to face Quait.

“No,” she screamed. “What do you want?”

Laughter all around. “I’m sure you can guess. Right, boys?”

Avila stepped forward and looked down at Trevor. “Captain,” she said, “she’s frightened. She’s young. Why not let me warm everybody up?”

When Trevor hesitated, Avila put a finger on his chest and whispered something to him. The crew laughed and the captain nodded.

To Quait’s relief, they lowered him from the rail; but they did not untie his hands.

Several crewmen had been working on the raft, handing up their baggage. One piece fell inio the water. When they were finished, they climbed back on deck and cut the Reluctant loose

The master stood with his back to the prow. Quait counted fourteen others: ten forming the circle, the two guards who watched him and Flojian at the rear of the group, one at the ship’s wheel, and one beside the main mast (which was affixed atop the master’s sea cabin and thereby provided a fine view of the proceedings). All had guns.

Avila laughed and joked her way around the perimeter, teasing with her eyes, her body, her smile.

Flojian had gone pale. Quait, recovering from the jolt of fear that had come when he’d expected to be pitched overboard, was shocked at her performance. Where had she learned that?

Cheers broke out.

She stopped before a three-hundred-pounder in a black vest and pantaloons, and stretched languorously.

More yells of approval.

Flojian struggled to get free, and was clubbed to his knees. The man with the club was small, ill-smelling, and rat-faced. He raised his weapon and was about to bring it down across Flojian’s face when Quait pushed into it and succeeded in taking the blow on his shoulder. They were both dragged back to their feet.

Flojian looked dazed.

Now Avila’s fingers moved down the front of her jacket releasing clasps while her audience urged her on. She removed the garment with an exaggerated motion, held it out toward one of the pirates, and then snatched it back when he grabbed for it. Casually, she threw it to Flojian.

He caught it, dropped it, and bent to pick it up. He got a kick for his trouble and stumbled forward. This time they held Quait tightly and wouldn’t let him help.

Avila strode into the middle of the circle, and pulled her blouse clear of her belt.

The look on Flojian’s face was a mixture of rage and despair. But Quait thought he knew what had just happened. He tried to catch Flojian’s eye, but was unable to do so. He couldn’t make himself heard over the noise and so he look the only action he could. He reached out and kicked him.

The rat-faced man laughed but Flojian looked back at his tormenter, assuming he had delivered the blow. Now Quait got his attention. He formed the word “pocket” with his lips.

“What?”

Avila was releasing more snaps. The wind got under her blouse, sucked at it, pulled it away from her; and finally she drew it off and lobbed it toward one of the pirates. She stood now in boots, black trousers, and a white halter.

She moved back close to Trevor, wet her lips, and spread her arms invitingly. Trevor watched her, hypnotized, saw her hands go behind the halter, saw the halter come free. “Yeah,” roared Trevor, “that’s good.”

Flojian finally understood. He reached into the pocket of Avila’s jacket and came out with something concealed in his palm.

Trevor limped forward, ripped away the halter, and took the woman in his arms, crushing her and burying his face against her neck.

Chaka was on Quait’s left. Five men stood on the right side of the circle, between Flojian and Trevor. Quait never really saw what happened, but these five abruptly sagged and collapsed. Bedlam followed. A shot rang out. Chaka broke free and scrambled clear, giving Flojian a free field of fire. The master’s face had gone slack and Avila was trying to disengage from him.

Flojian was pointing the wedge to the left now, and three more went down. Quait knocked over the rat-faced man, but was shoved hard by his own guard. Another shot was fired. The pirates were looking around, weapons in hand, trying to find a target. Chaka succeeded in pushing one overboard, but was then decked by the helmsman.

The master was on his knees, folding up, blood running down his shirt. Avila whirled away from him with his pistol, and killed the one atop the sea cabin. But then, to Quait’s horror, the remaining pirates concentrated their fire on

She shuddered in a hail of bullets and went down as Flojian leaped forward, screaming no no no, and swept the deck clear of combatants.

She was dead before they got to her, blood welling from a dozen wounds.