had screeched and spun in the grass and Uri had lurched back with bright drops of blood already rolling down her slashed fingers and pattering onto the grass.
Rivas had put the animal out of its agony with a shovel, and then tried to comfort the appalled and weeping Uri. What had shocked her, he remembered now, was not the blood everywhere, nor even the pain of the several deep scratches she’d gotten, but the abruptness of it; the way grotesque, horrible violence had appeared in their midst with no warning, as if a chunk of icy iron had plummeted out of the cloudless summer sky.
For several miles the boat-wagon rattled along peacefully, while the day grew warmer; at one point a flicker of motion above the verdant ruins ahead caught Rivas’s eye… and his belly went cold a moment later when he saw that it was one of the big-as-your-fist punch-bees looping toward them out of the high branches of a carob tree, the rattling buzz of its six-inch wings audible even a couple of hundred feet away. He’d seen a man hit by one of them once, knocked right off his feet by the impact and dead before he hit the ground because of the three-inch stinger driven right up to the bug’s rear end in his eye.
Rivas was about to jump off the wagon and run when he heard a twang behind him and felt the air beside his right ear thrum like a plucked rope, and a split second later the punch-bee exploded with a wet smack and was suddenly just spray and bits of meat spatting onto the pavement and iridescent shards of wing spinning away like glassy leaves.
Very slowly Rivas turned around on the bench. Nigel, sitting astride the boom, was fitting a second pebble into his wrist-brace slingshot, and then he put the weapon back in his bowler hat and put the hat on his head. He met Rivas’s gaze with eyes as cold and incurious as marbles.
“Good with that thing, Nigel is,” observed Lollypop.
“Yes,” Rivas agreed, re-evaluating his chances of disabling these boys soon and getting a look at the girls in the wagon.
As the wagon went rolling past the carob tree Rivas breathed through his mouth, for the air was sharp with the metallic smell of the killed bee.
Several hundred yards behind, the tumbleweed caught against a metal post from which still hung a few curly strands of a barbed wire barrier that, a century ago, had apparently blocked the whole street. The bush heeled around to a stop. A pinkly translucent head disattached itself from the twiggy ball and blinked around, then snuffed the air. A smile stretched its face like a breath stretches a smoke ring, and a pink arm less substantial than a snakeskin reached down and with some difficulty freed the bush from the barbed wire. The head and arm were retracted again as the tumbleweed began to roll, resuming its interrupted southward course.
Late in the afternoon Lollypop left the at least somewhat maintained succession of bayshore roads and turned east up one of the old highways that mounted inland through the band of jungle and into the dry hills beyond.
“Why the shift?” asked Rivas, watching the water move around from the starboard side to the stern, and then begin to recede.
“There’s a big damned army been moving up the coast last couple of days,” said Lollypop. “Supposed to have come south overland, sacked Santa Ana and Westminster, and now they’re heading toward the bay, along the shore and in boats, burning everything in their way.”
Rivas remembered the fires he’d seen on Long Beach Island last night. They’re at the mouth of the bay now, he thought. “Huh. Who are they supposed to be?”
The old man didn’t answer until he’d guided the horses around a dangerously undercut-looking section of pavement. “Well,” he said, relaxing when they were past it, “we were in Hunningten Town a couple of days ago, and people were saying it was an army from way up north, like San Berdoo.” He shrugged. “I guess it’s possible.”
“Huh.” Rivas leaned back,
Rivas had put the animal out of its agony with a shovel, and then tried to comfort the appalled and weeping Uri. What had shocked her, he remembered now, was not the blood everywhere, nor even the pain of the several deep scratches she’d gotten, but the abruptness of it; the way grotesque, horrible violence had appeared in their midst with no warning, as if a chunk of icy iron had plummeted out of the cloudless summer sky.
For several miles the boat-wagon rattled along peacefully, while the day grew warmer; at one point a flicker of motion above the verdant ruins ahead caught Rivas’s eye… and his belly went cold a moment later when he saw that it was one of the big-as-your-fist punch-bees looping toward them out of the high branches of a carob tree, the rattling buzz of its six-inch wings audible even a couple of hundred feet away. He’d seen a man hit by one of them once, knocked right off his feet by the impact and dead before he hit the ground because of the three-inch stinger driven right up to the bug’s rear end in his eye.
Rivas was about to jump off the wagon and run when he heard a twang behind him and felt the air beside his right ear thrum like a plucked rope, and a split second later the punch-bee exploded with a wet smack and was suddenly just spray and bits of meat spatting onto the pavement and iridescent shards of wing spinning away like glassy leaves.
Very slowly Rivas turned around on the bench. Nigel, sitting astride the boom, was fitting a second pebble into his wrist-brace slingshot, and then he put the weapon back in his bowler hat and put the hat on his head. He met Rivas’s gaze with eyes as cold and incurious as marbles.
“Good with that thing, Nigel is,” observed Lollypop.
“Yes,” Rivas agreed, re-evaluating his chances of disabling these boys soon and getting a look at the girls in the wagon.
As the wagon went rolling past the carob tree Rivas breathed through his mouth, for the air was sharp with the metallic smell of the killed bee.
Several hundred yards behind, the tumbleweed caught against a metal post from which still hung a few curly strands of a barbed wire barrier that, a century ago, had apparently blocked the whole street. The bush heeled around to a stop. A pinkly translucent head disattached itself from the twiggy ball and blinked around, then snuffed the air. A smile stretched its face like a breath stretches a smoke ring, and a pink arm less substantial than a snakeskin reached down and with some difficulty freed the bush from the barbed wire. The head and arm were retracted again as the tumbleweed began to roll, resuming its interrupted southward course.
Late in the afternoon Lollypop left the at least somewhat maintained succession of bayshore roads and turned east up one of the old highways that mounted inland through the band of jungle and into the dry hills beyond.
“Why the shift?” asked Rivas, watching the water move around from the starboard side to the stern, and then begin to recede.
“There’s a big damned army been moving up the coast last couple of days,” said Lollypop. “Supposed to have come south overland, sacked Santa Ana and Westminster, and now they’re heading toward the bay, along the shore and in boats, burning everything in their way.”
Rivas remembered the fires he’d seen on Long Beach Island last night. They’re at the mouth of the bay now, he thought. “Huh. Who are they supposed to be?”
The old man didn’t answer until he’d guided the horses around a dangerously undercut-looking section of pavement. “Well,” he said, relaxing when they were past it, “we were in Hunningten Town a couple of days ago, and people were saying it was an army from way up north, like San Berdoo.” He shrugged. “I guess it’s possible.”
“Huh.” Rivas leaned back,
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