James Gunn - The Immortals

“That’s all right,” Christopher said. “I have more.” He held up three other pieces in his other hand. He gave one to Marna and one to Pearce. The old man bit into his with the stubs that served him as teeth.

Harry picked off the largest pieces of foreign matter, and then could restrain his hunger no longer. He couldn’t remember a more satisfying breakfast.

They kept walking, not moving rapidly but steadily. Pearce never complained. He kept his bent old legs tottering forward, and Harry gave up trying to move him faster. They passed a hydroponic farm with an automated canning factory close beside it. No one moved around either building. Only the belts turned, carrying the tanks toward the factory to be harvested, or away from it refilled with nutrients, replanted with new crops.

“We should get something for lunch,” Harry said. It would be theft, but it would be in a good cause. He could get his pardon directly from the governor.

“Too dangerous,” Christopher said.

“Every possible entrance,” Marna said, “is guarded by spy beams and automatic weapons.”

“Christopher will get us a good supper,” Pearce whispered.

They saw a suburban villa on a distant hill, but no one moved around it. They plodded on along the grass-grown double highway toward Lawrence.

Suddenly, Christopher said, “Down! In the ditch beside the road!”

This time Harry moved quickly, without questions. He helped Pearce down the slope—the old man was very light—and threw himself into the ditch beside Marna. A minute later they heard motors race by not far away. After they passed, Harry risked a glance above the top of the ditch. A group of motorcycles dwindled on the road toward the city. “What was that?” Harry asked, shaken.

“Wolf pack!” Marna said, hatred and disgust mingled in her voice.

“But they looked like company police,” Harry said.

“When they grow up they will be company policemen,” Marna said. “Company police are only wolf packs with badges.”

“I thought the wolf packs were made up of escaped citizens,” Harry said.

Marna looked at him scornfully. “Is that what they tell you?”

“A citizen,” Pearce whispered, “is lucky to stay alive when he’s alone. A group of them wouldn’t last a week.”

They got back up on the turnpike and started walking again. Christopher led Pearce nervously. He kept turning to look behind them and glancing from side to side. Soon Harry was edgy, too.

“Down!” Christopher shouted.

Something whistled a moment before Harry was struck a solid blow in the middle of the back as he was throwing himself to the pavement. It knocked him hard to the ground. Marna screamed.

Harry rolled over, wondering if his back was broken. Christopher and Pearce were on the pavement beside him, but Marna was gone.

A rocket blasted a little ahead and above them. Then another. Pearce looked up. A powered glider zoomed toward the sky. Marna was dangling from it, her body twisting and struggling to get free. From a second glider swung empty talons—padded hooks that had closed around Marna and had almost swooped up Harry.

Harry got to his knees, clutching his wrist. It was beginning to send stabs of pain up his arms, like the prelude to a symphony of anguish. The only thing that kept him from falling to the pavement in writhing torment was the black anger that surged through his veins and fought off weakness. He shook his fist at the turning gliders, climbing on smoking jets.

“Doctor Elliott!” Christopher said urgently.

Harry looked toward the voice with blurred eyes. The boy was in the ditch again. So was the old man.

“They’ll be back! Get down!” Christopher said.

“But they’ve got Marna!” Harry said.

“It won’t help if you get killed.”

One glider swooped like a hawk toward a rabbit. The other, carrying Marna, continued to circle as it climbed. Harry rolled toward the ditch. A line of chattering bullets chipped at the pavement where he had been.

“I thought,” he gasped, “they were trying to abduct us.”

“They hunt heads, too,” Christopher said.

“Anything for a thrill,” Pearce whispered.

“I never did anything like that,” Harry moaned. “I never knew anyone who did.”

“You were busy,” Pearce said.

It was true. Since he had been four years old he had been in school constantly, the last part of that time in medical school. He had been home only for a brief day now and then; he scarcely knew his parents anymore. What would he know of the pastimes of young squires? But this—this wolf-pack business! It was a degradation of life that filled him with horror.

The first glider was now a small cross in the sky; Marna, a speck hanging from it. It straightened and glided toward Lawrence. The second followed.

Suddenly Harry began beating the ground with his aching arm. “Why did I dodge? I should have let myself be captured with her. She’ll die.”

“She’s strong,” Pearce whispered, “stronger than you or Christopher, stronger than almost anyone. But sometimes strength is the cruelest thing. Follow her. Get her away.”

Harry looked at the bracelet from which pain lanced up his arm and through his body. Yes, he could follow her. As long as he could move, he could find her. But feet were so slow against glider wings.

“The motorcycles will be coming back,” Christopher said. “The gliders will have radioed them.”

“But how do we capture a motorcycle?” Harry asked. The pain wouldn’t let him think clearly.

Christopher had already pulled up his T-shirt. Around his thin waist was wrapped turn after turn of nylon cord. “Sometimes we fish,” he said. He stretched the cord across the two-lane pavement in the concealment of grass grown tall in a crack. He motioned Harry to lie flat on the other side. “Let them pass, all but the last one,” he said. “Hope that he’s a straggler, far enough behind so that the others won’t notice when we stand up. Wrap the cord around your waist. Get it up where it will catch him around the chest.”

Harry lay beside the pavement. His left arm felt like a swelling balloon, and the balloon was filled with pain. He looked at it once, curiously, but it was still the same size.

After an eternity came the sound of motors, many of them. As the first ones passed, Harry cautiously lifted his head. Yes, there was a straggler. He was about a hundred feet behind the others; he was speeding now to catch up.

The others passed. When the straggler got within twenty feet, Harry jumped up, bracing himself against the impact. Christopher sprang up at the same instant. The young squire had time only to look surprised before he hit the cord. The cord pulled Harry out into the middle of the pavement, his heels skidding. Christopher had wrapped his end around the trunk of a young tree.

The squire smashed into the pavement. The motorcycle slowed and stopped. Beyond, far down the road, the others had not looked back.

Harry untangled himself from the cord and ran to the squire. He was about as old as Harry, and as big. He had a harelip and a withered leg. He was dead. His skull was crushed. Harry closed his eyes. He had seen men die before, but he had never been the cause of it. It was like breaking his Hippocratic oath.

“Some must die,” Pearce whispered. “It is better for the evil to die young.”

Harry stripped quickly and got into the squire’s clothes and goggles. He strapped the pistol onto his hip and turned to Christopher and Pearce. “What about you?”

“We won’t try to escape,” Pearce said.

“I don’t mean that. Will you be all right?”

Pearce put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Christopher will take care of me. And he will find you after you have rescued Marna.”