Уильям Макгиверн - Odds Against Tomorrow

She could figure out something to tell the gas-station attendant. She’d say Earl had forgot to turn off a stove at home. Or something. She always thought fast.

The sky opened with lightning, and the road leaped ahead of him, shining blackly under the vast, glaring explosion. Darkness swept down again, but he had seen the rain pouring into the woods, and the trees swaying in the grip of the big angry winds. He laughed and jammed the accelerator against the floor boards. They’d never catch them on a night like this; it would take a genius just to stay on the road in this weather.

On a straight stretch he frantically wiped the windshield with the palm of his hand, then grabbed the spinning wheel before the car slid into the culvert. He settled down to his job anxiously; it was almost impossible to see landmarks or intersections. If he couldn’t find his way back to the farmhouse, Sambo would really be up the creek.

The poor guy was probably scared to death by now. No frigging wonder... But I’ll get him out of there, he thought. He was glad the odds against them were long; he wanted to show Sambo just how good he was. No guy should ever pass up a chance to show his best stuff. Why hide it, for God’s sake.

In the Army it was easy; you soldiered or you didn’t, simple as that. A guy got hit and you hauled him to the medics. Regiment wanted a prisoner, you went out and got one. The Krauts tried to push you off a hill, you dug in and pushed them back. That was simple. It didn’t take brains.

Earl felt pleased with his reasoning; it was shrewd and sharp. The trick was to keep on doing things you could be proud of; then you didn’t have to torch for some cloudy time in the past when you had showed off your best stuff. Just keep putting it out, and you’d always have good, solid things to remember.

Okay, okay, he thought, leaning forward to watch the road. Don’t worry about it now — just get there, for Christ’s sake. He saw a barn flash behind him, and knew he was all right; now there’d be a stretch of woods and a little white house at the corner of an intersection.

The bouncing, swaying ride had started a heavy pain throbbing in his shoulder. Sweat broke out on his face and he was suddenly hot and cold all over; the fever burned in him like a furnace, but the touch of his clothing and the cold wind on his face sent shudders through his body. It was weird; he was on fire but his teeth were chattering. But fever was okay, he knew; a medic had explained it to him. You needed it to fight off sickness. It was like Popeye’s can of spinach, or the U.S. Cavalry showing up in a Western movie. A little extra help in a tight spot.

Why in hell were they in trouble? he wondered. It was becoming difficult to keep his thoughts straight. Where’s the little white house? Had he gone by it? Oh God, he thought anxiously, and leaned forward to peer out the windshield. Who the hell were they fighting? The war was over, wasn’t it? The black sleeve of his overcoat caught his eye. No uniform — no pack or rifle. Damned right it was over. Over and done with. He didn’t need this fever anymore. No can of spinach for him. Just get Sambo and they could go somewhere and rest. It was all clear again.

The white house flashed past him, and a little later he swung the car into the dirt road that led to the farmhouse, fighting the snapping wheel with his one hand. Shifting to second he gunned through the heavy mud, swerving around the treacherous lakes of water that shone under his headlights. Not much longer, he thought, exultantly. It wouldn’t take a minute to haul Sambo into the car. Then it was all over. No more trouble.

The clarity of his thoughts filled him with a giddy confidence; he had figured it out perfectly. For once in his life he knew the score.

Earl almost overshot the entrance to the farmhouse; only his instinctive physical alertness saved him. He spun the wheel with reflex speed and efficiency, and the car slewed about and plowed into the narrow muddy lane. Everything was all right, everything was safe; the night was noisy with a clamorous reassurance.

The wind and rain shook him when he climbed from the car. He steadied himself with a hand on the fender, trying to pull the lapels of his overcoat around his exposed shoulder and chest; he had to wear the coat as a cape over his strapped-up arm, and the wind caught the loose sleeve and shook it grotesquely in his face. He stared around at the darkness, seeing nothing but the bulk of the old house and the tossing branches of the big trees.

“Sambo!” he shouted hoarsely, as he staggered through the mud to the sagging porch. “Sambo, let’s go.” He limped up the steps, his feet slipping on the wet boards. “Come on Sambo,” he yelled. “Shake a leg. We got to move out.”

Lightning broke all around him, flooding the porch with brightness, gleaming with a blue-white radiance on the wet stone walls of the house. “Sambo,” he cried again, sagging against the shining door. “I’ve come back for you.”

Someone answered him; a voice shouted behind him in the wind and rain. What the hell? he thought angrily. What’s he doing outside? Dumb bastard should stay inside where it’s warm...

There was something queer about the lightning, he realized, thinking about it with an effort. Puzzled and vaguely alarmed, he stared at the brilliance that bathed the front of the house and outlined his dark figure against the gleaming door. It didn’t go away; that was damned funny, he thought, frowning at the strong light on the back of his hand.

With an effort he straightened up and turned around; the light struck his eyes with bewildering force, and he raised a hand defensively to his face. Long, yellow lances leaped at him from the darkness, silhouetting his body starkly against the backdrop of the house. What in hell? he thought, his mind working slowly and laboriously.

“Cut it out,” he yelled, swinging an arm belligerently at the probing beams. “Cut it out.”

“Get your hands in the air,” a voice shouted from the shadows. “Fast! There’s twenty guns pointing at you.”

“I’m going to get Sambo, that’s all,” Earl cried into the darkness. “I’m getting him, hear?”

“Get those hands up! You won’t get another chance.”

“I got to get him. Don’t you know that?” Earl said furiously. He jerked the gun from his pocket and snapped a shot at the light on his left. It disappeared with a crash of glass and he yelled, “We don’t want trouble, hear?”

Something knocked him sprawling to the wet porch. He hadn’t seen the muzzle burst or heard the rifle shot; all he knew was the sudden pain in his leg and the sting of angry tears in his eyes. “Damn you,” he said weakly, and fired from a sitting position at the second beam of light.

Darkness dropped around him and he worked himself to his feet, hearing the rain pounding on the roof above his head and a distant roll of thunder far off in the woods. Why did they shoot him? he thought, sick with pain. He was doing right, wasn’t he? Oh Jesus, why did they have to shoot him?

Another light leaped out from the darkness. He couldn’t explain anything to the shadows in the night. The words rose like a swarming flood in his mind. It was over, there was no need to fight. He had to get Sambo, that’s all. He waved the gun futilely in the air, and a cruel heavy pain tore suddenly at his stomach; it was as if a spike had been driven into him with a sledge hammer. He staggered against the door, whimpering with pain. The gun in his hand thought for itself; the light disappeared in a splintering crash as he sprayed his last bullets into the shadows.

Then there was darkness again, and voices and the sound of booted feet on the wet ground. He found the doorknob and with a desperate, final strength pushed his way into the house. Now he was safe, he thought; the fury of the storm and the fury of the men were outside. He and Sambo could rest up a while, and then get started...