Goldie remounted his steed, took the reins from Cal, who was straddling Sooner. Goldie’s horse had originally been called Jayhawk, but he’d taken to calling it Later. He’d wanted Colleen to rechristen her horse Further, but she had so far resisted the idea, merely commenting on an increase in Goldie’s annoyance factor.
Not that it was inappropriate, actually. According to Goldie, this was the name Ken Kesey had painted on the psychedelic bus the Merry Pranksters had driven across America back in 1965. Cal dimly recalled reading the Tom Wolfe book on the subject, years ago. The irony was explicit. Kesey and friends had seen themselves as divine madmen embedded in a staid, magicless reality. And we’re the opposite, Cal thought. Reality has gone mad; we cling to sanity. Such sanity as we make for ourselves.
Colleen pressed her heels to her gelding’s flanks and the four of them moved ahead at a brisk trot. She turned to Cal. “How ’bout you, Cal? Anything off your map trick?”
Cal reached back and pulled a Triple-A map booklet from his saddlebag to open it across the pommel of his saddle. He had unearthed it in the looted ruins of a convenience store outside Osage. On their passage from Boone’s Gap to Enid’s Preserve and beyond, he had gained a fitful ability to read a map in a new and frequently useful way, to sense the changed terrain ahead, discern some of its tweaked geography.
But that skill had utterly deserted him since their showdown with Primal. And now, looking at the creased paper with its tangle of red and blue lines like arteries and veins of a body, he knew he had no special clue as to what lay before them. Only that Tina, if miraculously still alive, was somewhere due west of them, and that they had to keep moving.
Perhaps as they drew nearer the Source, it was leeching away such powers, drawing to itself the life forces of this new world, as it had seized Tina and the others like her. Or maybe Cal was generally tone deaf to such abilities, and his tin ear had simply returned.
Cal closed the map book, returned it to his saddlebag. “All I can say is Sioux Falls is about a hundred and fifty miles down the highway. If it’s still there.”
“And not somewhere in Luxembourg,” Goldie added.
No telling.
They paused to let the horses drink from a roadside pond, dismounting to give them respite. It had rained yesterday and they’d collected the water in buckets, pans, whatever containers came to hand, transferring it later to bottles and canteens. The water was fresh-with any luck, not too contaminated with stale automotive oils or last year’s pesticides. Had this land once been cultivated? Hard to tell. The prairie grasses had come back this summer, conjured out of the ground like ghost buffalo.
Colleen grimaced, angling her neck left then right to get the kinks out.
“Here, let me,” Doc said, and moved to massage her neck with long, skillful fingers. There was a clatter from within her shirt, and Doc withdrew a long chain around her neck. It jangled with the dog tags Cal knew came from her late father, the Russian Orthodox cross Doc had given her in Chicago-and a triangular piece that resembled black leather, but which gleamed, even in the pale light of winter coming, with iridescent fire.
“Get your hands off my trinkets.” Colleen playfully swatted Doc’s hand away.
“Yes, but one of them is such an interesting trinket….”
It was the amulet the old black blind man in Chicago had given her, the ancient sax player the refugee musicians in Buddy Guy’s club had called Papa Sky. The talisman had burned the flesh of the demented half-flare Clayton Devine when he’d seized Colleen, had driven him back in the desperate, charged moment when they’d learned the servant was actually the master, that Devine was secretly Primal.
The powerful, vital charm had been given them from parts unknown, for reasons unknown.
You have friends in high places, Papa Sky had told Cal, and the memory brought no comfort, only the disquieting sense that such a friend might well see them as pawns in his grand design, not players in their own.
Doc was studying the leather triangle closely now. “Organic, almost certainly-”
“Speak English,” Colleen said. “Or Russian, and then translate.”
“I would say it came off an animal…but as to which in this brave new world, I would need another specimen for comparison.”
Another mystery, Cal thought, and one I’d bet hard currency we won’t solve today.
Colleen placed the chain carefully back inside her shirt. They remounted and moved on.
The wind kicked up out of the west, ran its cold hand across Cal’s cheek. “This wind picks up, we may have to hunker down out here. Better keep an eye out for places to go to ground.” But not for long, never for long, no matter what the flatlands threw at them.
He remembered the hard Minnesota winters of his childhood, where the snow flew parallel to the ground-a spray of fluffy white shrapnel you’d swear could peel off layers of skin. That’s when you knew God was no Caribbean tour director but a stern taskmaster, and not one particularly inclined to like you. You found out who you really were in those endless gray months, not in the sunshine days. Good practice for what ultimately came down, Cal thought, and for what might lie ahead.
Doc clucked in mock disapproval. “America is for sissies. You haven’t tried a Moscow winter.”
“No,” Colleen said as the horses continued on, “and I haven’t driven a tank in Afghanistan, either. But I wouldn’t lay bets on beating me at arm wrestling, if I were you.”
“Which is why I take pains not to cross you, Boi Baba,” Doc said.
Cal caught the slight smile Colleen shot him, the affection beneath. He would have to remember to ask Doc what that phrase meant when they were alone. Probably “pain in the ass” or “woman of sarcasm.”
A distant cry sounded in the air, and he saw Colleen glance up sharply. He followed her gaze-nothing but a lone red-tailed hawk, its brown and white wings spread wide to catch the currents and float circling, scanning the ground for a lunch that thankfully was not them.
On several nights spaced over the last two weeks, Colleen had mentioned to Cal she thought she had heard a muffled beating like vast wings through the thick, obscuring cloud layer above them as they’d made camp. But it had been fleeting, and neither Cal nor Doc nor Goldie could corroborate the sound over the hammering prairie night wind that snatched away their body heat and drove them huddling into their tents till morning.
But whatever unseen god of hawks and demons shadowed them-if it was indeed more than imagination pricked by the brooding suggestiveness of this wide ocean grassland-it did not deign to make its appearance known.
“So what now?” Colleen asked Cal. “Homestead and wait for the crops to come up?”
“We continue west, see if we can find some people.” Nowadays, short of tuning into K-Source, that was the only way to get current information. And also rumor, distortions and outright lies.
“Um, I don’t think that’s gonna be a problem….” Goldie had pulled up, was scanning the fading light to the east.
Cal followed his gaze and spied the ragtag group of men and women emerging from the tall grass, about thirty in all, a hundred yards off, striding quickly toward them. Even at this distance and in this light, he could see they all held broken branches, stones, twisted lengths of pipe. A beefy man in front-a huge guy, like a refrigerator with a head-raised a pair of field glasses and scrutinized Cal and his companions.
He lowered them excitedly, shouted, “One in the middle, that’s him!”
With a cry, the group broke into a run, came rushing toward them, waving their weapons.