Clifford Simak - Dusty Zebra - And Other Stories

There was little that anyone could do. Make them comfortable, keep them bathed and the bedding washed and changed, feed them broth that Bat Ears made in big kettles on the stove, be sure there was fresh, cold water always available for the fever-anguished throats.

At first the graves were deep and wooden crosses were set up, with the name and other information painted on the cross bar. Then the graves were only shallow holes because there were less hands to dig them and less strength within the hands.

To Warren it was a nightmare of eternity—a ceaseless round of caring for his stricken men, of helping with the graves, of writing in the record book the names of those who died. Sleep came in snatches when he could catch it or when he became so exhausted that he tottered in his tracks and could not keep his eyelids open. Food was something that Bat Ears brought and set in front of him and he gulped without knowing what it was, without tasting what it was.

Time was a forgotten thing and he lost track of days. He asked what day it was and no one knew nor seemed to care. The sun came up and the sun went down and the moors stretched to their gray horizons, with the lonely wind blowing out of them.

Vaguely he became aware of fewer and fewer men who worked beside him, of fewer stricken men upon the cots. And one day he sat down in his tent and looked across at another haggard face and knew it was nearly over.

“It’s a cruel thing, sir,” said the haggard face.

“Yes, Mr. Barnes,” said Warren. “How many are there left?”

“Three,” said the chaplain, “and two of them are nearly gone. Young Falkner seems to be better, though.”

“Any on their feet?”

“Bat Ears, sir. Just you and I and Bat Ears.”

“Why don’t we catch it, Barnes? Why are we still here?”

“No one knows,” the chaplain told him. “I have a feeling that we’ll not escape it.”

“I know,” said Warren. “I have that feeling, too.”

Bat Ears lumbered into the tent and set a pail upon the table. He reached into it and scooped out a tin cup, dripping, and handed it to Warren.

“What is it, Bat Ears?” Warren asked.

“Something I cooked up,” said Bat Ears. “Something that you need.”

Warren lifted the cup and gulped it down. It burned its way clear into his stomach, set his throat afire and exploded in his head.

“Potatoes,” said Bat Ears. “Spuds make powerful stuff. The Irish found that out, years and years ago.”

He took the cup from Warren, dipped it again and handed it to Barnes.

The chaplain hesitated.

Bat Ears shouted at him. “Drink it, man. It’ll put some heart in you.”

The minister drank, choked, set the cup back on the table empty.

“They’re back again,” said Bat Ears.

“Who’s back?” asked Warren.

“The natives,” said Bat Ears. “All around us, waiting for the end of us.”

He disdained the cup, lifted the pail in both his hands and put it to his lips. Some of the liquor splashed out of the corners of his mouth and ran darkly down his shirt.

He put the pail back on the table, wiped his mouth with a hairy fist.

“They might at least be decent about it,” he declared. “They might at least keep out of sight until it is all over. Caught one sneaking out of Falkner’s tent. Old gray buck. Tried to catch him, but he outlegged me.”

“Falkner’s tent?”

“Sure. Snooping around before a man is dead. Not even waiting till he’s gone. Didn’t take nothing, though, I guess. Falkner was asleep. Didn’t even wake him.”

“Asleep? You sure?”

“Sure,” said Bat Ears. “Breathing natural. I’m going to unsling my gun and pick off a few of them, just for luck. I’ll teach them…”

“Mr. Brady,” asked Barnes, “you are certain Falkner was sleeping naturally? Not in a coma? Not dead?”

“I know when a man is dead,” yelled Bat Ears.

Jones and Webster died during the night. Warren found Bat Ears in the morning, collapsed beside his stone-cold stove, the empty liquor pail beside him. At first he thought the cook was only drunk and then he saw the signs upon him. He hauled him across the floor and boosted him onto his cot, then went out to find the chaplain.

He found him in the cemetery, wielding a shovel, his hands red with broken blisters.

“It won’t be deep,” said Mr. Barnes, “but it will cover them. It’s the best that I can do.”

“Bat Ears has it,” Warren told him.

The chaplain leaned on his shovel, breathing a little hard from digging.

“Queer,” he said. “Queer, to think of him. Of big, brawling Bat Ears. He was a tower of strength.”

Warren reached for the shovel.

“I’ll finish this,” he said, “if you’ll go down and get them ready. I can’t…I haven’t the heart to handle them.”

The chaplain handed over the shovel. “It’s funny,” he said, “about young Falkner.”

“You said yesterday he was a little better. You imagined it?”

Barnes shook his head. “I was in to see him. He’s awake and lucid and his temperature is down.”

They stared at one another for a long time, each trying to hide the hope that might be upon his face.

“Do you think …”

“No, I don’t,” said Barnes.

But Falkner continued to improve. Three days later he was sitting up. Six days later he stood with the other two beside the grave when they buried Bat Ears.

And there were three of them. Three out of twenty-six.

The chaplain closed his book and put it in his pocket. Warren took up the shovel and shoveled in the dirt. The other two watched him silently as he filled the grave, slowly, deliberately, taking his time, for there was no other task to hurry him—filled it and mounded it and shaped it neat and smooth with gentle shovel pats.

Then the three of them went down the slope together, not arm in arm, but close enough to have been arm in arm—back to the white tents of the camp.

Still they did not talk.

It was as if they understood for the moment the dedicatory value of the silence that lay upon the land and upon the camp and the three that were left out of twenty-six.

Falkner said: “There is nothing strange about me. Nothing different than any other man.”

“There must be,” insisted Warren. “You survived the virus. It hit you and you came out alive. There must be a reason for it.”

“You two,” said Falkner, “never even got it. There must be some reason for that, too.”

“We can’t be sure,” said Chaplain Barnes, speaking softly.

Warren rustled his notes angrily.

“We’ve covered it,” he said. “Covered everything that you can remember—unless you are holding back something that we should know.”

“Why should I hold back anything?” demanded Falkner.

“Childhood history,” said Warren. “The usual things. Measles, a slight attack of whooping cough, colds—afraid of the dark. Ordinary eating habits, normal acceptance of schools and social obligations. Everything as if it might be someone else. But there has to be an answer. Something that you did…”

“Or,” said Barnes, “even something that he thought.”

“Huh?” asked Warren.

“The ones who could tell us are out there on the slope,” said Barnes. “You and I, Warren, are stumbling along a path we are not equipped to travel. A medical man, a psychologist, even an alien psychologist, a statistician—any one of them would have had something to contribute. But they are dead. You and I are trying to do something we have no training for. We might have the answer right beneath our noses and we would not recognize it.”

“I know,” said Warren. “I know. We only do the best we can.”

“I have told you everything I can,” said Falkner, tensely. “Everything I know. I’ve told you things I would not tell under any other circumstances.”