Chapter 6: A Gathering at Night
The bullet-gray car rolled through the dark, headlights on and reflecting from the adobe house walls. Drifter did not take the twisting back alleys now, choosing the widest, openest streets to follow. A few times they had to back-track because of chasms in the street, or buildings crumbling across it. The driver almost seemed to know where he was going, though he had never been to this part of Apex before. Loran was forced by her own words to hold her tongue.
She did comment after a moment, “whatever gang rules this place will certainly come to know our movements now.”
“Certainly,” Drifter intoned, before adding in an abstracted tone, “without doubt or question; unquestionably.”
His dictionary quotations were a habit.
“Those men were not part of the gang, were they?” Loran asked after a moment, as this was not a direct questioning of him or his motives.
“No. The Adobe gang is their enemy, I gather.”
After this terse reply a sliding, cold silence fell on the car. The heater worked with a light hushing sound to keep the chill of the air away, but it could not hold out the iciness of their thoughts.
It was not long before they pulled into a central plaza. A strange, oxidized, bronze statue stood in the center of it, surrounded by tiles of dull brick in a large, open square. Haughty buildings with their roofs cracked and faces falling at their feet stood around the square, shutting out most of the sky with their balconies and walls. Arched windows and open doorways looked out, hardly visible against the blackness of the buildings in silhouette. It felt as if a face or terrible eyes might peer out of the apertures at any moment.
Above, the sky was half-starry and half covered in gathering clouds. An abnormal oppression was starting to build in the air.
Drifter parked the car on the edge of the square, turning off the lights so that everything inverted into shadows. The walls of the buildings gleamed with a faint starlight, the statue was a dark shape like a grim reaper bending over his scythe. The tiles on the ground caught the most of the little light, throwing it back in a hazy glow.
As if drawn after him by an invisible force, Loran stepped out of the vehicle when he did. Without a word, Drifter pulled a few items from the back of the car and tucked them under one arm, walking towards the statue in the center of the plaza. He came to a halt in front of the sculpture, apparently studying it in the darkness. Loran glanced around with a shiver, feeling as if she were being inspected as well. Her eyes met a pair of gleaming red orbs only a few yards away and she gave a jump.
“Drifter.” Her voice was tight and low. “There is a Chardog.”
His hooded head turned towards the red orbs as a low growl rumbled out of the shady shape supporting them.
“I know.”
Moving towards it, he held out a hand and continued to speak in an even tone.
“They sense fear and hate, you know. They’re still dogs, under their twisted forms. Most people see one and are afraid. The dog feels it and it triggers his attack response.”
Standing right beside the Chardog now, Drifter reached out and rubbed it under its huge, hanging jaw. The growling had stopped. Now, as the man stroked it gently, a low whimper came from the beast. Like a domestic dog, it tilted back its head and rubbed it against the man’s side, flipping at his elbow with its snout for more attention.
Drifter removed a dead Vollan from where he had tucked it under the opposite arm. The Chardog took it from him with a snap and a grumble of satisfaction.
Drifter edged away and walked up to the statue again.
“That old man’s fuel would not have been enough to get us to the Academy sector anyway. I need more than that to complete my mission. Perhaps even more than what would take me to Dick Chelsea. I don’t have the time or inclination any longer to hunt for it like a rat.”
Feeling that what was coming was somehow unnerving, almost evil, Loran protested weakly, “you did not search long. We could...”
Her words trickled away to nothing as Drifter flicked her a glance over his shoulder. The Chardog was still crunching and cracking at the Vollan carcass in a slobbery joy that could be heard but not seen. Other than that, the only noise was a a cold wind flowing through the night, sharp and hissing against the walls. It twined around Loran’s feet and crept up her robe. She shivered. Drifter’s enigmatic actions made her harden herself against whatever was to come.
Taking out three more dead Vollans, Drifter arranged them beside the base of the statue in front of him. Once they were to his liking, he stepped back and spread his hands wide, intoning words with the fire running through them stronger than the gravel.
“Beasts of the dark, winged and wild. On four legs and on two. Come from the regions of utter night, I have need and pray for you.”
Turning from the statue he looked like some sort of grim reaper himself, or a prophet of doom. His hood made his face an utter darkness except for a faint gleam of eyes, while the cape down his back blurred his shape to blend with the bronze figure behind him.
“Beasts of the dark, winged and wild. Gaping jaw and beak. Come from the region of shadow’s spark, I need your bright eyes to seek.”
When his words had echoed out across the plaza and gone silent, he let his arms drop and moved a step towards Loran, seeming to shrink back into the wandering, scorch-driven Drifter he was.
With a shrug he said, “nothing to it.”
As he finished speaking the darkness filled with the flap of soft wings, the prowl of padded feet and an even softer swish, as of smaller, fuzzier feet stalking. Shapes began to gather in from the gloom. Some landed on the statue, others crept in along the ground. With a swoop, something landed on Drifter’s shoulder. Loran looked closer to see a thin, black bird with a raven’s blunt beak and twinkling eyes. But the feathers along its belly, legs and the centers of its wings were missing, so that pale flesh showed there almost in the shape of human arms and legs. All down its back were crinkled, white stripes, like those of certain woodpeckers.
“Charwings,” Loran said slowly, glancing around at the luminous red eyes and hulking shapes gathering on the ground. “And Chardogs.”
“That’s not all.” Drifter clicked his fingers and a smaller, more lithe shape detached itself from the darkness. It was pale, bone white, a blurred mass in the dark. It walked without a sound and its eyes were blue-green circles that glowed like the eyes of the Chardogs.
Loran did not even have a name for the feline that came to sit at Drifter’s feet. It would have been simply a cat except for that its face was longer, more pointed like a rodent’s. Its ears had grown long and thin, standing up in peaked lines, while its paws were wide and fuzzy-soft. There was no sign of toes in that glimmering fluff, only talons which slid in and out with horrible glints.
“There are so few of these,” Drifter told her, bending to touch it once on the back of its head, “that I have had to name them myself. Moonhunters.”
The feline tilted its head as if understanding the name, before taking fright at Loran’s involuntary movement and whisking away into the deeper shadows.
The heavy breathing of Chardogs was all around them now, and a pack stalked up to sit on their wide haunches a few yards away. The Charwings on the statue rustled around impatiently. Drifter stepped over beneath them and picked up one roasted Vollan. Holding it up on the flat of his hand to the Charwing on his shoulder, he whispered something near its beaked head. It took the fat body and flapped away. The Moonhunter also came back for its share, while the last one was tossed to the largest of the Chardogs.
“Crystal fuel, my friends,” Drifter told them, “bring it here.”
And as the creatures streamed away into the night with soft cawing noises, bubbling breath and the pad of many feet, a different sort of congregation drew nearer from where they had been watching around the edges of the plaza. Men. Carrying shuttered lanterns which they opened up, along with weapons of every description and type, they gathered around Loran and Drifter in a wide semi-circle. They were barbarically dressed, their arms and legs painted in patterns of bright red and blue. Many of them seemed to have a darker-skinned blood in them and those wore bones in their curly hair or bangles in their ears. They did not seem to notice the cold, though few had on the clothes for anything other than a day at the beach.
If there was a leader among them, they did not show it. They gathered and stared with glittering, hostile eyes. But not one stepped up closer than his fellow or made a move to communicate. Loran drew herself straight and looked back coldly, hands folding together in her sleeves. Drifter stood at ease, putting more weight on his uninjured leg. His bright eyes moved over the crowd without a spark of emotion.
Like a field of grain they all swayed forward and bowed low. No sound was made except for a low moan or hum, either of fear or awe.
The whole gang straightened itself and retreated into the gloom until they had become only flickering, jouncing sparks of light. These faded away between the buildings until Drifter and Loran stood alone in the plaza with the statue positioned over them.
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“I believe we’ve just met the Adobe gang,” Drifter commented in a rough tone.
The woman turned her pale face towards him, still stiff and regal as a queen. “They seem to have feared you.”
With a tired sigh, Drifter slid down to sit at the base of the statue, back propped against it. His eyes shut and he leaned his head on one hand. “They are only afraid of the creatures. And that because the creatures have been affected by the scorch in different ways, more deeply, than most humans.”
The silence became inflexible. Clouds slowly rolled up to cover more of the sky. Their edges billowed out like angel’s wings, brushing the stars away. The darkness grew deeper until neither of the people in the plaza could see the other.
Drifter broke the stillness without apparent remorse, “bring me something to eat, woman. We haven’t had dinner yet.”
Without a sound Loran groped to the car and went inside. The door slammed. She did not come back out.
The sky thickened, the wind became moist. A drop of rain hit the tiles of the court, sending up a puff of dust. After the disaster particles from the burning and destruction had filled the atmosphere the sun had turned red. Both from a mixture of that and perhaps some harm that had reached out and touched it during the fall of Greenspark. Imbalances had come over the planet, shaking it to its core. The seasons had been altered in their patterns. There was no longer a wet season and a dry one, cold and warm, winter, summer, fall or spring. It rained rarely, but at odd times, without long warning. It was always colder, dimmer and dryer out in the open. Under the deep shade of buildings, ponds stayed for weeks. Moisture festered without leaving.
Another drop of water fell from the sky, splattering on Drifter’s hood with a light sound. It was followed by the fluttering of wings, which came out of the dark to settle all around him. The Charwings had returned first. Their leader hopped to the man’s shoulder and let a few precious grains of crystal fuel fall from its beak to glow in his cupped hand.
“Thank you, my friend.”
Each of the Charwings jumped forward to lay a few grains at his feet. Soon there was a tiny heap of the glowing stuff in front of him. The rain held back, seeming to wait for the other beasts to return.
Soon they came, carrying odd little containers or the raw crystals in their mouths. Leather sacks the size of a golf-ball, cylinders which gleamed with blue streaks and boxes of every color were set before him. The creatures almost seemed to bow as he thanked them, touching a head or flank with his fingers.
As the beasts of the night faded away the rain began to come down. Drifter pulled off his cloak and threw it over the precious pile in front of him, wrapping them up from the damp. Large, hard drops hit his head and soaked through his hair. In only a moment he was wet through.
He did not dare call on the beasts of the night too often for aid. They might grow weary of serving him or even not respond to his call once he got further away from his home range. He reserved summoning them for the times of greatest need.
The fuel they had given him, he took over to the car and, opening the door awkwardly, stowed in the back among the bundles of provisions. Loran did not look at him as he stowed himself in the front seat and wiped the wetness from his face and head, before dragging his cape from the back and wrapping it around himself.
Rain thundered on the roof, running down the windshield in long strings and streaks. It pattered to the ground around the vehicle, turning dust to sticky mud. Red lightening flickered in the sky, the thunder growling dully many seconds later.
“I think,” Drifter remarked, leaning back against the seat, “I’ll sleep in here tonight. As long as that doesn’t frighten you?”
His eyes cut through the dark. Loran’s shape could be seen, dimly, to be sitting very upright on her side of the seat.
“No.” Her voice held nothing, not even contempt. It was a hard, slick surface like glass. “I know you would not hurt me.”
“Good. Because the underside of the car would be much less comfortable for either of us.”
Without more ado he stretched his legs out under the steering wheel, pulled his damp clothes tighter around him and appeared to fall directly asleep. Loran sat stiffly for a few minutes, before muttering under her breath, “humph!”
But after this last protest she wrapped up in her robe and leaned against the cold window with her hood, weariness overtaking her.
---
In the morning the rain had stopped, leaving the sky a ragged mass of clouds slowly being torn apart by upper winds. The air was raw and cool, bringing out the scents of pavement, dust and moldering buildings. Drifter awoke in the gray of predawn, one hand resting on the wheel and the other arm flung over his eyes. Quietly, he rummaged out bits of bread and dried meat from the back.
Loran was still asleep, forehead resting against the opposite window. He could see the outline of her back through the purple fabric of her robe, rising and falling steadily in slumber. Without waking her, he ate his breakfast, flicking the crumbs from his lap into a heap on the palm of one hand before dumping them down his throat. When he moved his left leg he felt that the scar had stiffened in the night. The rain soaking in through his pants had made it soften the evening before. Rolling up the pants leg, he gazed at the wound dispassionately. There was no wine in the car. It would have to fend for itself this morning.
He had just started to unravel the garment again when there was a slight movement and he realized that Loran had awoken without a sound. Her eyes were also on the old wound.
“I have some medicine--”
“Thanks,” he cut her off, jerking the pant leg back into place. “I’ve tried various medicines before. Nothing helps.”
“Mine might be more effective than any you’ve tried.”
“I don’t think so.” Drifter opened the door and stepped out. A handful at a time, he brought the bags, boxes and grains of crystal fuel out of the car around to the front, where he poured them into the tank under the hood. The creatures had brought him pounds of the stuff, one bit at a time. Now he had enough to fill the tank and still keep two full cylinders to stick in his belt beside the key in the empty one.
“We can make it to the Academy sector now,” he said as he came back to sit in the driver’s place.
Loran had been eating her own breakfast. The crumbs from her robe she shook out of the door. “Good.”
They started driving again, snaking around the statue and out of the plaza into more of the canyons between adobe buildings. There was no sign of the Adobe gang in the cool morning air. It seemed as if they had been washed away by the rain like so much dust.
The walls were a little cleaner, the colors brighter shades of orange, red and yellow. Pools of grimy water formed in every depression in the road, turning into rainbows as the car splashed through them. The reddish sun gradually beat a hole in the clouds and poured its depressed rays across the city.
After a time they left the adobe sector behind, leaving under another arched sign which had lost all of its lettering. There were no gruesome corpses here to warn the unwary away, only a Charwing sitting on top of the arch watching them. When the car had gone by, the bird rose on striped wings and soared away, letting out a victorious cawing sound.
Soon they were in another sector of smashed, ruined buildings made of heavy stone slabs and white pillars. Garbage blew across the streets. Slabs and shards of rock often blocked their way. It became slow and arduous to pick a path through the buildings, so often did they have to backtrack or take round-about streets to go further east. Once their way was blocked by burnt-out fire engines and other emergency vehicles, all piled up by human hands some time after the fire. But no one was in sight and the wall of vehicles did not seem to shield anything in particular from the rest of the city.
Days past by as they traveled through blasted sections of Apex. Without the need for fuel or food they stopped rarely, only to stretch their legs or scout a way ahead. They met few people in this last leg of the trip. Once they ran into another group of the children monks, begging for food on the ruined steps of the foundation of some large building. Other times they saw a glimpse of someone disappearing around a corner or flitting between wreckage. Otherwise, all was still and dead.
They spoke rarely. Twice more Drifter had Loran quiz him on the dictionary, stopping when he could not answer one question or answered it incorrectly. Loran would occasionally comment on the surroundings or ask a question. Except for this, they made few conversations in the many hours of driving together.
If the highways had been open and the streets kept usable it would have taken them much less time to do the distance between the Falel sector and Terminal Point. As it was, progress was often slow and obstructed. They did not reach their destination for many days.
The first signs of the Academy sector were odd, high towers and pointed roofs like those of a cathedral rearing up on the horizon. The jagged bits of smashed glass domes also glinted in the noon light, rising like icicles towards the sky. A stone plinth beside the road, a few miles on, bore the figure of a man in a robe and flat hat, pointing towards the sector with the words stamped beneath him ‘Academy Sector.’
By now they were out on Terminal Point, though the coast was too far away and too hidden by buildings to see. The only indication of the change was a soft taint to the air, a distant saltiness and moisture. As they both knew from the maps they had seen when they were younger, the Academy section filled almost all of Terminal point. Except for Anchorage, on the furthest tip and a strip of seaside homes, fishing docks and other coastal installments which ringed it. Off the coast lay the Sea of Storms, a deep, cold and leaden ocean which ponderous freighters used to move across on their journeys to far lands.
The jagged, towering walls of the cathedral-like buildings loomed closer. The road became paved in closely-set gray bricks, worn smooth on top. They were laid in a herringbone pattern, running lengthwise down the street. In the shadow of the first huge building, with its roof smashed in and circular window broken, Drifter pulled to a stop.
The car idled down and both passengers looked out of their separate windows at the looming structure with its classic arches and jagged walls.
“Well, we made it. This is where we part ways.” Drifter nodded at the building.
Loran slowly turned her head to look at him. There was little expression in her eyes except for a calm acceptance. “Thank you.”
Drifter glanced away, shrugged and turned back, “I was fortunate you were there the night I tried to take crystal fuel from the old man. All scores are even.”
Opening the door, the woman stepped outside. She did not reply to his words, though she gave a slight inclination of her head.
“Don’t forget your supplies.” Drifter gestured at the bundles and packages behind them. “We’ll have to unload the stuff so you can cache it somewhere nearby.”
“Half of it is yours,” Loran reminded him. But Drifter shook his head, stepping out of his own door and leaning in to start pulling out bundles.
“I don’t need that much provisions. I can always find something to eat.”
The woman gave him a small smile with her head cocked on one side. “And I can’t?”
“You’re not experienced.” With another shrug, Drifter continued to pull out what was left of the packages, piling them beside the car. At her insistence, he kept one small package of bread, dried meat and fruit for himself. He also had the lengths of fabric left from the empty bundles.
Once it was all out he gave a nod to Loran and got back in the car. She raised a hand in farewell as he drove away.
The tall, slim figure disappeared gradually from his mirrors, fading away into the buildings of the Academy sector. Drifter felt a small twinge of guilt, leaving her undefended against the broken world. But he shook it away in disgust. Loran had traveled Apex by herself for at least a year before he picked her up. She was not helpless. And even if she had been it was none of his business. He had a mission of his own to carry out.