Wilson Tucker - The Long Loud Silence

Instantly he concocted a plan of action. Half rising, he sped several yards downhill toward the raging battle and dropped again into the concealing grass — waited long seconds before rising and running again, following a zigzag path down the slope. As he worked his way in hasty, cautious spurts toward the stalled trucks he knew he was visible from the road, knew they couldn't help but see him, yet no bullet spat his way. As he drew nearer he ran shorter distances before dropping to earth again, put up his head for quick reconnaissance before making another dash. His method of approach should be obvious to the men in the trucks, should be familiar to them.

Finally he located five men on the ground before him, fairly well hidden from the roadway but in positions that were open to his view. Four of the five were firing at the road; the fifth lay still.

When he was within easy range he fell flat on the ground and opened on them a murderous fire.

Startled, they turned to stare at him, half rising in their sudden fear. He fired again and one man fell. Rifle fire from their now unprotected rear increased sharply and the surviving three jerked around, aware of the trap. Abruptly the three broke cover and ran, attempting to flee along the ditch. Gary rose to his knees and loosed a final blast before sinking to the ground. The machine gun opened up once more as the three ran into its range, and then it was quiet.

Gary could almost feel the solid silence.

Without moving, he shouted, “Hold your fire!”

Someone in the truck answered him. “Come out with your hands up.”

Very slowly he rose to his feet, his hands high, still clutching the shotgun in a doubled fist. He cautiously made his way across the ditch to stand at the edge of the roadway, peering at the two men in the nearer cab.

“Put down the gun.”

Gary hesitated. “Not until you cover me — I don't want to get shot in the back.”

“You're covered. Put it down fast!”

He stooped to lay it on the cement.

“All right now, who are you?”

“Corporal Russell Gary… used to be with the Fifth in Chicago.”

A helmeted head appeared in the window of the cab. The helmet bore a stripe of white paint. Gary absently added, “Sir.”

“Do you carry identification, Corporal?” the officer asked suspiciously.

“Yes, sir.” He dug down under his clothing to bring up the two dogtags hanging on a chain.

The lieutenant peered at them and then up at the man. “Well, I don't mind saying thanks! You certainly helped us out of a hole.” He paused. “Are you alone?”

“Yes, sir.” Gary looked down the road at the sprawled bodies. “Except for the casualties, sir.”

There was a moment of silence as the officer sought for words. Gary stared at him, at the second face looking over his shoulder.

The second face suggested, “Ask him about Chicago, Lieutenant.”

“A-bombed,” Gary said without waiting for the other to repeat the question. “Hundreds of A-bombs. The place is just a pile of ashes now.”

“How did you escape?” was the quick retort.

“I wasn't there, sir. I was on recruiting duty downstate.” He thought to volunteer more. “The whole damned country is washed out, sir. A-bombs and disease everywhere. There can't be more than a couple of thousand people left.”

“That many? Are you certain?”

“Yes, sir. I've covered all the ground between Chicago and Florida in the last couple of years, sir. There was a lot more that first year, but I'd say there's only a few thousand this summer, Lieutenant.”

“Well, I'll be damned. They said—”

“Yes, sir?”

“Good work, Corporal, good work. We can't thank you enough. Now we'll have to repair that tire and move on.”

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“I was sort of hoping you could take me with you.”

“Out of the question,” the lieutenant Snapped “You are contaminated. Was that why you opened fire on the enemy? I commend you, Corporal, but I can do no more.”

Gary stared at him, his bearded face a carefully framed picture of disappointment. “I can't… ? But sir, I…”

“No!”

Gary shuffled his feet, made as if to leave and then turned back once more. “Say, Lieutenant, got anything to eat?”

“None to spare, Corporal; I'm sorry. Our supplies must last out the trip. And now move down the road, please. We have to replace that tire.”

Eagerly he said, “I'll fix it for you, sir. If you can let me have something to eat.” He waited for a moment and then added, “Please, Lieutenant — food is damned scarce.”

The officer examined him, his thin body and ragged clothing. He turned once to exchange glances with the other man in the car and then faced Gary again. He struggled to keep his face emotionless.

“All right, Corporal. We haven't too much ourselves but I dare say you need it worse than we do. Now — the tire.”

“Yes, sir.” He started forward. “Give me the jack.”

“Stop right there! Don't approach the truck, man, you're contaminated. We haven't our suits on. We'll throw the jack out to you.”

“Suits?” Gary repeated stupidly.

“Radiation suits — have to wear them in this damned place. Now about that tire…”

“Yes, sir!” Gary walked around to the front of the truck and squinted at the wrecked rubber. That tire would never roll again. “Keep a sharp lookout, Lieutenant. Don't want somebody to take a shot at me.” He slid the jack under the front axle and began pumping. The wheel slowly rose in the air.

Gary was in high humor but he was careful not to let it show on his face. These , he told himself with bitter amusement, these were some of the surviving heroes from the eastern cellars. The very adroit way he had taken them in revealed their ignorance of the harsh world they were passing through, revealed how little they knew of the dangerous men who now inhabited that world. They still trusted another man. These, then, were from some sheltered place in the East, journeying westward to some point on the Mississippi. Or across the Mississippi. That sudden thought shocked him, stilled his fingers.

Their destination was on the other side of the river! Two trucks, each containing three men if he had judged correctly; two trucks and six men driving for the quarantine line, carrying with them their supplies and radiation Suits to protect them while passing through contaminated territory. With smoldering excitement he slid the wheel off the hub and replaced it with the spare. Unscrewing the valve cap, he reversed it and jammed it down inside the valve as he let the jack drop the car. There was a faint whisper of escaping air.

He stood up. “You want the jack back, Lieutenant?”

The man hesitated, struck by a new worry. He hadn't considered that complication before allowing Gary to work on the tire and now he was unsure whether allowing him to handle it had somehow contaminated the tool. His face mirrored his uncertainty and he cursed himself for his shortsightedness. Finally he ordered, “Put it in the back… easy now.”

“Yes, sir.” Gary went around to the rear and found the door opened for him. He peered into the darkened interior, found himself Staring into the bore of the machine gun. The gunner was seated on a packing case watching him, a cigarette hanging from his lips. The truck was loaded with similar wooden cases. Gary sniffed at the cigarette smoke.

“Toss it in,” the gunner said sharply.

“Okay, bud.” Gary dropped the jack on the nearest box and backed away, his eyes on the cigarette. The gunner reached out and closed the door.

“Well done, Corporal,” the lieutenant called. “I shall mention this in my reports. You have been of valuable assistance to your government today.”