Piers Anthony - Rings of Ice

Now three more men charged through the gate. “Fire!” Gus yelled. But he was the only one in a position to do so; Karen had to guard the rear approach. Gus did shoot, and one man cried out.

Then Thatch opened up from the woodpile. He fired three times, and two men went down. But Zena saw two more men rising over the rear of the palisade; evidently they had piled boxes or brush there during the distraction, and now could hurdle it. “Karen!”

Karen fired. One of the attackers cried out and fell back; the other came on over and landed near Thatch. A struggle ensued. Zena knew why Karen held her fire; she didn’t know which man she might hit.

The rain was coming down heavily now. It beat upon the metal roof and made a spray throughout the battle area.

A man lurched through the bus door. There was a livid scar across his cheek. Gloria must have slashed him in passing, Zena thought. No—it was not that recent. “Okay, girls,” he yelled. “Up with your hands and off with your skirts!”

Zena made an underarm toss. Her knife flew at the man’s face—but missed. So she charged him.

He was tough. She was unable to throw him in this confined space, and knew that in a moment his muscle would overcome her. Then something furry landed on his face, and he screamed.

Zena disengaged and found Floy there, her fingers curved and bearing nails like claws. Zena remembered the eyeball the cat had eaten before. “No!” she cried.

But the intruder had had enough. He half scrambled, half rolled down the steps and outside, where he found his feet and staggered off into the rain. Now Foundling’s growling was audible; the dog was fighting too.

Suddenly all was quiet. Zena could not let herself believe that the attack was over, but a minute passed with no sound except the intensifying beat of rain.

“I’ll check,” Floy whispered. She went out, while Gus and Karen continued to watch at the windows. They had been right not to desert their posts; attackers could have come from any direction.

This time Floy screamed. “No!”

Zena scooped up her knife and leaped to the ground.

Bodies were lying there and the water that coursed away from them was pink. Floy huddled over one. It was Gordon, his wig knocked askew, his clothing ripped and stained red. To one side lay the man with his throat cut; to the other was someone with a monstrous hatpin protruding from his ear. Gordon himself had taken a bullet in the stomach.

Thatch appeared with his rifle. He was holding his left arm crookedly, and blood dripped with the water. “Oh, God, did I do that?” he asked. “Did I shoot Gordon?”

Zena knew exactly how he felt.

Gordon opened his eyes. The rain splattered off his upturned face. “You idiot,” he said. “Anyone can see it’s a pistol wound.” Actually his injury was concealed by the clothing, and Zena doubted it would be possible for any of them to tell what type of weapon had done it.

“Get him inside!” Floy shrieked.

“Don’t bother,” Gordon said. “Watch the perimeter.” He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in gasps. “Zena—”

“Yes,” Zena said immediately. She was trying to get the cloth away from his wound, but already was certain it was an ugly one. “We have some morphine—”

“Meat,” he said. “You have to have it. Use my body first, so that it doesn’t spoil.” He writhed, and caught his breath again. “Promise.”

Zena looked at him with horror, and knew that he was dying. “Promise!” she said.

“Floy—your hand,” he whispered. Floy took his hand with both of hers, her face wide-eyed and frozen. “I could have been a man with you…”

“I know, I know!” Floy cried, leaning over him. “Oh please, please—”

Gordon shuddered again, then lay still. His eyes were open despite the rain. Alarmed, Zena felt for his pulse, but already she could see that he had stopped breathing.

Zena stood, and saw Thatch there. “I’d better check outside the gate,” he said. “If they attack again—”

“Foundling will warn us,” Zena said. “You come inside.” She knew they had to leave Floy alone for a while. “How bad are you wounded?”

“Forearm,” he said, letting her guide him. “Hurts, but not serious.”

This turned out to be an accurate assessment. It was a wide grazing wound, bloody but not deep. Zena fixed a tight compress and a sling, and he was able to function well enough.

They kept watch for fifteen minutes, but there was no further violence. Foundling scouted the area and came back, satisfied. They had driven off the attackers, killing four.

Floy hauled herself into the bus. “Shovel,” she said grimly.

“We can’t do it,” Zena said. “We promised.”

“I heard,” Floy said, her voice level and empty. “But we have to bury something. And have a service. And a marker.”

“His head,” Karen said. “With the wig on it.”

“No. He was a man. I want the wig.”

The enormity of what they contemplated began to grow on Zena. “This—we can’t actually—”

“I heard,” Floy repeated. “I heard what he wanted. It has to be.”

It has to be. The words struck at Zena, reminding her deviously of the new life inside her. Now there was a parallel emptiness in her, for Gordon had in many ways been the nicest and most effective member of the group. His sudden death was a double shock, because it was not the death she had girded for.

“I’ll do it,” Karen said.

And Karen was the second nicest. Even when niceness included the guts to do something utterly gruesome—for the common good.

They waited until morning, then set about the disposition of Gordon. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough to get through it all myself,” Karen said. “I’ll use the knife if someone will hold.”

Gus turned away, looking as sick as Zena felt. Floy sat in the driver’s seat, the blonde wig on her head. Zena knew that she, Zena, should volunteer, but the job was too awful.

“I’ll hold,” Thatch said.

“You can’t, with one arm!” Zena protested, though she felt relief.

“I must.”

The two went out. Zena exchanged glances with Gus, knowing how he felt. They had known that there could be deaths in the group, but now that it had come there seemed to be no adequate means to handle it, emotionally. Except to go on, as Karen had said, taking care of the gruesome practical matters as necessary.

Gus took a rifle and stationed himself by his window, which faced away from the scene of activity. Zena went to the back and watched there. She had to trust that Floy would catch anything at the front. There could be another attack.

They waited silently for a long time, listening to the awful beat of Mindel’s rain. It seemed as though the very world were being blasted away by this fall of water, much harsher than the first rain. Zena tried not to picture what Karen and Thatch were doing out there, but inchoate yet horrible pictures formed. Now and then she thought she heard an exclamation.

At last Thatch appeared in the doorway. He had a dripping package under his good arm. “Floy,” he said.

Floy moved. She still wore the wig, which added to Zena’s discomfort. “Now the shovel,” she said dully.

“I’ll do it!” Zena cried, wanting to participate in some way, hoping it would ameliorate the mixed distaste and guilt she felt. She took the shovel and went out around the bus. The rain soaked her in seconds, but it was as though her flesh were the metal of the vehicle, holding the wetness out from her personal core. All the bodies were covered by canvas now, fortunately.

Floy was behind her, clutching the package tightly. “I can feel his nose,” she said.

Zena thought for a moment she was going to faint. She put her hand against the wall of the bus, steadying herself while her head cleared. “Where—”