The Postman

  He crouched down on the beam as footsteps approached the storeroom door. It opened slowly and Charles Bezoar stared at the empty room, at the limp, hanging rope. Panic filled the ex-lawyer’s eyes as he drew his automatic and stepped out.

  Gordon would have preferred to wait until the man came directly underneath, but Bezoar was no idiot. An expression of dark suspicion came over his face, and he started to look up.…

  Gordon leaped. The .45 swung up and fired at the same instant as they collided.

  In the hormonal rush of combat Gordon had no idea where the bullet went, or whose bone had cracked so loud on impact. He grappled for the gun as they rolled together across the floor.

  “… kill you!” the Holnist growled, the .45 tipping toward Gordon’s face. Gordon had to duck to one side as it roared again, stinging his neck with burning powder. “Hold still!” Bezoar growled, as if he were in the habit of being obeyed. “Just let me …”

  Straining against his enemy with all his might, Gordon suddenly let go of the gun with one hand and struck out. As the automatic came down toward him his right fist smashed upward into the root of Bezoar’s jaw. The bald Holnist’s body convulsed as his head struck the floor hard. The .45 fired twice into the wall.

  Then Bezoar was still.

  This time the worst pain was in Gordon’s hand. He stood up slowly, gingerly, semiconsciously accounting for what had to be a cracked rib, in addition to his many other bodily insults.

  “Never talk while you fight,” he told the unconscious man. “It’s a bad habit.”

  Marcie and Heather spilled out of the storage room and drew Bezoar’s knives. When he saw what they were after, he almost told them to stop, to tie the man up, instead.

  He didn’t, though. Instead he let them do what they would and turned to step through the back door into the storage room.

  It was even darker inside, but as his eyes adapted, he made out a slender figure lying on a dirty blanket over in the corner. A hand reached up toward him and a thin voice called out.

  “Gordon, I knew you’d come for me.… Is that silly? … It sounds … sounds like fairy tale talk, but … but somehow I just knew it.”

  He sank to his knees beside the dying woman. There had been crude attempts to clean and bandage her wounds, but her matted hair and blood-streaked clothes covered more damage than he dared even look at.

  “Oh Dena.” He turned his head and closed his eyes. Her hand took his.

  “We stung them, darling,” she said in a reed-thin voice. “Me and the other Scouts.… In some places we really caught some of the bastards with their pants down! It—” Dena had to stop as a fit of coughing made her nearly double up, bringing forth a trickle of ocher fluid. The corners of her mouth were stained.

  “Don’t talk,” Gordon told her. “We’ll find a way to get you out of here.”

  Dena clutched Gordon’s tattered shirt.

  “They found out about our plan, somehow … in more’n half the places they were warned before we could strike.…

  “Maybe one of the girls fell in love with her rapist, like the legends say h-happened to H-Hypermnestra.…” Dena shook her head unbelievingly. “Tracy and I were worried about that possibility, ’cause Aunt Susan said it used to happen sometimes, in the old days.…”

  Gordon had no idea what Dena was talking about. She was babbling. Inside he struggled to come up with some idea, any way to carry a desperately wounded and delirious woman away through miles and miles of enemy lines before Macklin and the other Holnists returned.

  In agony, he knew it just couldn’t be done.

  “I guess we botched it, Gordon … but we did try! We tried.…” Dena shook her head, tears welling as Gordon took her into his arms.

  “Yes, I know, darling. I know you tried.”

  His own eyes blurred. Beneath the filth and ruin, he knew her scent. And realized—much too late—what it meant to him. He held her tighter than he knew he ought to, not wanting to let her go.

  “It’ll be all right. I love you. I’m here and I’ll take care of you.”

  Dena sighed. “You are here. You are …” She held onto his arm. “You …”

  Her body suddenly arched and she shivered. “Oh, Gordon!” she cried. “I see … Can you …?”

  Her eyes met his for a moment. In them was a light he recognized.

  Then it was over.

  “Yes, I saw it,” he told her gently, still holding her body in his arms. “Not as clearly as you, perhaps. But I saw it, too.”

  18

  In the corner of the outer room, Heather and Marcie were busy with their backs turned as they worked on something Gordon did not want to look at.

  Later, he would mourn. Right now though, there were things he had to do, like getting these women out of here. The chances were slim, but if he could see them to the Callahans, they would be safe.

  That would be hard enough, but from there he had other obligations. He would get back to Corvallis, somehow, if it was humanly possible, and he would try to live up to Dena’s ridiculous, beautiful image of what a hero was supposed to do—die defending Cyclops, perhaps, or lead a last charge of “postmen” against the invincible enemy.

  He wondered if Bezoar’s shoes would fit him, or if, with badly swollen ankles, he might not be better off barefoot. “Stop wasting time,” he snapped at the women. “We have to get out of here.”

  But as Gordon bent to pick up Bezoar’s automatic from the floor, a low, gravelly voice spoke. “Very good advice, my young friend. And you know, I’d like to call a man like you friend.

  “Of course, that doesn’t mean I won’t split you open if you try to pick up that weapon.”

  Gordon left the gun lying where it was and stood up heavily. General Macklin occupied the open doorway, holding a dagger in throwing position.

  “Kick it away,” he said calmly.

  Gordon obeyed. The automatic went spinning into a dusty corner.

  “That’s better.” Macklin resheathed his knife. He jerked his head at the women. “Get away,” he told them. “Run. Try to live, if you want to and are able.”

  Wide-eyed, Marcie and Heather edged past Macklin. They fled out into the night. Gordon had no doubt they would run in the rain until they dropped.

  “I don’t suppose the same applies to me?” he asked wearily.

  Macklin smiled and shook his head. “I want you to come with me. I need your assistance out here.”

  A hooded lantern illuminated part of the clearing across the road, aided from time to time by distant lightning and an occasional moonlit glint at the edge of the rain-clouds. The pelting drisk had Gordon soaked within minutes of limping outside after Macklin. His still-bleeding ankles left spreading pink fog in the puddles where he stepped.

  “Your black man is better than I’d thought,” Macklin said, pulling Gordon to one side of the circular, lamp-lit area. “Either that or he had help, and the latter’s pretty unlikely. My boys patrolling the river would have seen more tracks than his, if he’d been accompanied.

  “Either way though, Shawn and Bill deserve what they got for being careless.”

  For the first time Gordon had an inkling of what was happening. “You mean—”

  “Don’t gloat yet,” Macklin snapped. “My troops are less than a mile from here, and there’s a Very pistol in my saddlebags. But you don’t see me hollering for help, do you?”

  He smiled again. “Now I’m going to show you what this war is all about. Both you and your scout are the sort of strong men who should have been Holnists. You’re not because of the propaganda of weakness you grew up in. I’m going to take this opportunity to show you just how weak it makes you.”

  With a vicelike grip on Gordon’s arm, Macklin shouted into the night.

  “Black man! This is General Volsci Macklin. I have your commander here … your United States Postal Inspector!” he sneered.

  “Care to earn his freedom? My men will be here by dawn, so you have very little time. Come on
in! We’ll fight for him! Your choice of weapons!”

  “Don’t do it, Philip! He’s an aug—”

  Gordon’s warning collapsed into a groan as Macklin yanked his arm, nearly tearing his shoulder out of its socket. The force threw him crashing to his knees. His throbbing ribs sent shock waves rolling through his body.

  “Tsk tsk. Come now. If your man hadn’t already known about Shawn, it means he got my bodyguard with a lucky shot. If so, he certainly doesn’t deserve any special consideration now, does he?”

  It took a powerful effort of will, but Gordon lifted his head, hissing through gritted teeth. Overcoming wave after wave of nausea, he somehow managed to wobble up to his feet. Although the world wavered all around him, he refused to be seen on his knees next to Macklin.

  Macklin awarded him a low grunt, as if to say he only expected this from a real man. The augment’s body was aquiver like a cat’s—twitching in anticipation. They waited together, just outside the circle of lamplight. Minutes passed with the rain coming and going in intermittent, blustery sheets.

  “Last chance, black man!” In a blur, Macklin’s knife was at Gordon’s throat. A grip like an anaconda’s twisted his left arm up behind his back. “Your Inspector dies in thirty seconds, unless you show! Starting now!”

  The half minute passed slower than any Gordon had ever known. Oddly enough, he felt detached, almost resigned.

  At last Macklin shook his head, sounding disappointed. “Well, too bad, Krantz.” The knife moved under his left ear. “I guess he’s smarter than I—”

  Gordon gasped. He had heard nothing, but suddenly he realized that there was another pair of moccasins down there at the edge of the light, not fifteen feet away.

  “I am afraid your men killed that brave soldier you were shouting for.” The soft voice of the newcomer spoke even as Macklin spun around, putting Gordon between them.

  “Philip Bokuto was a good man,” the mysterious voice went on. “I have come in his stead, to answer your challenge as he would have.”

  A beaded headband glittered in the lamplight as a broad-shouldered man stepped forward into the circle. His gray hair was tied back into a ponytail. The craggy features of his face expressed a sad serenity.

  Gordon could almost feel Macklin’s joy, transmitted through that powerful grip. “Well, well. From the descriptions I’ve heard, this could only be the Squire of Sugarloaf Lodge, come down alone out of his mountain and valley at last! I’m gratified more than you might know, sir. You’re welcome, indeed.”

  “Powhatan,” Gordon gritted, unable to even imagine how or why the man was here. “Get the hell away, you fool! You haven’t a chance! He’s an augment!”

  Phil Bokuto had been one of the best fighters Gordon had ever known. If he had barely managed to ambush the lesser of these devils, and had died in the process, what chance did this old man have?

  Powhatan listened to Gordon’s revelation and frowned.

  “So? You mean from those experiments in the early nineties? I had thought they were all normalized or killed off by the time the Slavic-Turkic War broke out. Fascinating. This does explain a lot about the last two decades.”

  “You’d heard of us then,” Macklin grinned.

  Powhatan nodded somberly. “I had heard, before the war. I also know why that particular experiment was discontinued—mostly because the worst kinds of men had been recruited as subjects.”

  “So said the weak,” Macklin agreed. “For they made the error of accepting volunteers from among the strong.”

  Powhatan shook his head. For all the world it seemed as if he were engaged in a polite argument over semantics. Only his heavy breathing seemed to give away any sign of emotion.

  “They accepted warriors …” he emphasized, “… that divinely mad type that’s so valuable when needed, and such a problem when it’s not. The lesson was learned hard, back in the nineties. They had a lot of trouble with augments who came home still loving war.”

  “Trouble is the word,” Macklin laughed. “Let me introduce you to Trouble, Powhatan.” He threw Gordon aside as if on an afterthought, and sheathed his knife before stepping toward his longtime foe.

  Splashing into a ditch for the second time, Gordon could only lie in the muck and groan. His entire left side felt torn and burning—as if it were loaded with glowing coals. Consciousness flickered, and remained only because he absolutely refused to let go of it. When, at last, he was able to look up again through a pain-squinted tunnel, he saw the other two men circling each other just inside the lamp’s small oasis of light.

  Of course Macklin was just toying with his adversary. Powhatan was impressive, for a man his age, but the monstrous things that bulged from Macklin’s neck, arms, and thighs made a normal man’s muscles look pathetic by comparison. Gordon remembered Macklin’s fireplace poker, tearing apart like shredding taffy.

  George Powhatan inhaled in hard, shuddering gasps, and his face was flushed. In spite of the hopelessness of the situation, though, a deep part of Gordon was surprised to see such blatant signs of fear on the Squire’s face.

  All legends must be based on lies, Gordon realized. We exaggerate, and even come to believe the tales, after a while.

  Only in Powhatan’s voice did there seem to be a remnant of calm. In fact, he almost sounded detached. “There’s something I think you should consider, General,” he said between rapid breaths.

  “Later,” Macklin growled. “Later we can discuss stock-raising and brewing, Squire. Right now I’m going to teach you a more practical art.”

  Quick as a cat, Macklin lashed out. Powhatan leaped aside, barely in time. But Gordon felt a thrill as the taller man then whirled back with a kick that Macklin dodged only by inches.

  Gordon began to hope. Perhaps Powhatan was a natural, whose speed—even in middle age—might almost equal Macklin’s. If so—and with that longer reach of his—he just might be able to keep out of his enemy’s terrible grasp.…

  The augment lunged again, getting a tearing grip on his opponent’s shirt. This time Powhatan escaped even more narrowly, shrugging out of the embroidered garment and dodging a flurry of blows any one of which might have killed a steer. He did nearly land a savage chop to Macklin’s kidneys as the smaller man rushed by. But then, in a blur, the Holnist swiveled and caught Powhatan’s passing wrist!

  Daring fate, Powhatan stepped inside and managed to break free with a reverse.

  But Macklin seemed to have expected the maneuver. The General rolled past his opponent, and when Powhatan whirled to follow, he grabbed quickly and seized the taller man’s other arm. Macklin grinned as Powhatan tried to slip out again, this time to no avail.

  At arm’s length, the Camas Valley man pulled back and panted. In spite of the chill rain he seemed overheated.

  That’s it, Gordon thought, disappointed. In spite of his past differences with Powhatan, Gordon tried to think of anything he could do to help. He looked around for something to throw at the monster augment, perhaps distracting Macklin long enough for the other man to get away.

  But there was only mud, and a few soggy twigs. Gordon himself hardly had the strength even to crawl away from where he had been tossed. He could only lie there and watch the end, awaiting his own turn.

  “Now,” Macklin told his new captive. “Now say what you have to say. But you better make it amusing. As I smile, you live.”

  Powhatan grimaced as he tugged, testing Macklin’s iron-jawed grip. Even after a full minute he had not stopped breathing deeply. Now the expression on his face seemed distant, as if completely resigned. His voice was oddly rhythmic when he answered at last.

  “I didn’t want this. I told them I couldn’t … too old … luck run out.…” He inhaled deeply, and sighed. “I begged them not to make me. And now, to end it here …?” The gray eyes flickered. “But it never ends … except death.”

  He’s broken, Gordon thought. The man’s cracked. He did not want to witness this humiliation. And I left Dena to seek this fam
ous hero.…

  “You’re not amusing me, Squire,” Macklin said, coldly. “Don’t bore me, not if you value your remaining moments.”

  But Powhatan seemed distracted, as if he were actually thinking about something else, concentrating on remembering something, perhaps, and maintaining conversation out of courtesy alone.

  “I only … thought you ought to know that things changed a bit … after you left the program.”

  Macklin shook his head, his eyebrows knotting. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Powhatan blinked. A shiver ran up and down his body, making Macklin smile.

  “I mean that … that they weren’t about to give up on anything so promising as augmentation … not just because there were flaws the first time.”

  Macklin growled. “They were too scared to continue. Too scared of us!”

  Powhatan’s eyelids fluttered. He was still inhaling hard, in great, silent breaths.

  Gordon stared. Something was happening to the man. Perspiration glistened in oily speckles all across his shoulders and chest before being washed away in the scattered, heavy rain. His muscles twitched as if in the throes of cramps.

  Gordon wondered. Was the man falling apart before his eyes?

  Powhatan’s voice sounded remote, almost bemused. “… newer implants weren’t as large or as powerful … meant more to supplement training in certain eastern arts … in biofeedback.…”

  Macklin’s head rocked back and he laughed out loud. “Neohippy augments? Oh! Good, Powhatan. Good bluff! That is rich!”

  Powhatan didn’t seem to be listening, though. He was concentrating, his lips moving as if reciting something long ago memorized.

  Gordon stared, blinked away raindrops, and stared harder. Faint lines seemed to be radiating out along Powhatan’s arms and shoulders, crisscrossing his neck and chest. The man’s shivering had heightened to a steady rhythm that now seemed less chaotic than … purposeful.