Vic and Blood Page 2

  “Name the Presidents of the United States after Franklin D. Roosevelt,” I said.

  Vic kicked at the water. He didn't answer.

  “After Roosevelt,” I insisted.

  “Don't want to,” he said, fishing around in his left-to-right bandolier for a cigarette butt.

  “What's the matter, brain in repose at this time?”

  “Get off me.” There was a miserable tone in his voice.

  “Come on, take a crack at it. I'll get you started: Truman, Eisenhower...”

  He filched up a butt from one of the bandolier pockets, along with his flint and steel, and sparked himself a light. “Truman, Eisenhower...” I said again, a little tougher.

  He turned on me sharply and looked down where I was sitting in the dark. “God damn you, Blood! Truman, Eisenhower, Kennedy, Johnson, Nixon, Carter, Brown, Kennedy, Kennedy, Kennedy, I told you I didn't want to do it!”

  He was yelling.

  “You forgot Ford,” I said. Quietly.

  “Oh, piss off!” And he got up and walked away.

  I didn't know what was lumbering him. We hadn't had a bad day; it had been a pretty good one, in fact. A couple of cans of salt beef and some canned cherries from that Mayfair Market, we had a pretty secure flop for the night, a janitor's apartment tucked back at the rear of an alley under a blasted apartment building, with only one channel of attack in case someone came after us. Not a bad day.

  I got up and followed him.

  “Hey,” I said, finding him easily in the dark. “What's on your mind, kiddo?”

  He pulled on the cigarette butt till it was so short I wondered if it was singeing the little hairs in his nose. I plopped my tail down and waited. After a second he snapped the butt off his thumb and forefinger, it went spiraling off into the ink and made a pssss in the harbor. When he spoke, I knew he was thinking about other places, other times. “Hell, I don't know, Blood. Just feeling very crummy. One of those rovers this afternoon, the one kept saying please please please when I shot him. No women for almost a month. All this history and crap you keep whipping on me till my head hurts. Every day's just like every other day, just hustling for food.”

  My pet boy was suffering from battle fatigue.

  “Come on down here so we can talk face to face.” He crouched down, started scratching the fur behind my right ear automatically. I had him trained to a fine edge.

  “Look, Vic: this is only temporary. One day very soon, as I keep telling you, something's going to start happening in this country. Someone's going to settle down and start a farm, start planting things right in the ground, put up a stout guard wall around the homestead to keep out creeps like Fellini, and then after a while someone else will join him, and then there'll be two, and then a third, and after a while it'll be a real settlement. They may have started doing it already ... the war's been over for forty years already. Unless I've dropped a stitch somewhere. But I think I'm sure it's forty years, give or take a couple. So maybe they've already started.”

  Vic snorted a half-chuckle, as if it was all bullshit.

  “Come on now, kiddo,” I said, keeping at it, “you've heard enough rumors from solos who've passed through, and that minstrel last year...”

  “It's all ramadoola.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “Rumors. Bullshit. About over the hill—right?”

  “Perhaps. That's as good a name for Valhalla as any.”

  “Where's that?”

  “No place. It's just a word out of mythology.”

  “And what's that?!” he snarled, getting angry at my using a word he didn't know. “Is that some more useless bullshit you're gonna try and teach me?”

  “No. You have no need for mythology, old friend.” It made me sad. “You'll make your own.”

  We sat quietly for a few minutes, waiting for the skiff. “But there's got to be an ‘over the hill,’ kiddo. Take my word for it.”

  “Trust me ... right?”

  “That's right. Trust me.”

  He looked off across the harbor, where the light on the skiff had detached itself from the dark bulk of the barge, and he murmured. “Yeah, well, we ain't never gonna see it, dog.” I didn't correct his grammar. He was just feeling down, feeling low; he'd get over it. A decent firefight, some sex, he'd be okay again. I didn't even object when he called me dog. But I'd get him later: call him “boy.”

  Then I'd tell him about Tarzan.

  And after that I'd teach him about mythology.

  The skiff slid in at the jetty and there were three skinny rovers leveling pump guns at us. We walked back and they braced us. “Spread,” said the one in the prow. Vic didn't lie down and spread. He stood there with the .22 in the crook of his arm, the flap of the .45's holster unbuttoned. He just stared back at them. The one in the middle had a lantern. It didn't give much light, but they could see he wasn't about to let them frisk him. “Spread,” the skinny pump gun in the prow said again.

  “You're here, so that means Skipper and Walter sent you over, and that means they know me, and they know I'm okay, so stop playing Clint Eastwood and move your ass so we can get in.”

  They faced each other that way for a couple of long moments and I thought, oh shit, they always have to do their machismo number. And I calculated how far and how high I'd have to jump to get at the throat of the skinny in the middle with the lantern. But the pump gun in the plow nodded, and backed off, so we got in the skiff.

  And they took us over the water to the barge.

  Everybody forgot Ford.

  I'm still telling about this evening I remember.

  We got over to the barge, and it was the first time I ever saw the tiniest sign that humans could be friendly to one another. Vic actually shook hands with Skipper and Walter.

  Skipper was a short kid, perhaps seventeen, with straight brown hair that he greased back flat to his head. He had a nice pair of blue eyes that watched everything. His hands were small but they were fast. I could see where he would have decided to play it safe, running a roverpak, rather than going solo. He had the kind of hands I've come to recognize on humans who like to make things.

  Walter was funny. He was pudgy and didn't say anything that made sense. He whistled a lot and sometimes sang bits and snatches of old songs. Every once in a while he'd come over and hug or kiss Skipper. They were friends, and it rubbed off on the rest of The 82nd Airborne. And Vic.

  They took the four bottles of wine Vic offered and all the brass Vic had policed up, and the deal was made. Then Skipper suggested Vic hang out and get ripped with some of them, and Vic said he'd put up the other two bottles, and they proceeded to get themselves so crosseyed, so quickly, that it only reaffirmed my opinion of people. I was sorry to see Vic in that state however. He is a very sloppy drunk.

  Which was when he made his mistake with me, which was when I had to put him in his place, which was where I began with this anecdote.

  One of Skipper and Walter's workmen came out of the factory area at the rear of the barge and gave Vic a boot full of loads, and Vic dumped them into his sack, and kissed Walter, and said to me, “Hey, Blood, have a drink.”

  I just looked at him. He had said it aloud, not with his mind, silent, the way we talk most of the time. He'd said it aloud so all the rest of them could hear it. I just looked at him. There are times when Vic is in really tacky taste.

  “Whassa matter?” Skipper said. “He don't wanna drink with us? Too good to drink with us? Dogs ain't s'possed to drink with us? Somethin’ wrong he don't wanna drink with us?”

  He wasn't a surly lush, he was just rambling. But Vic knew better. I don't drink. I don't use dope. I have sworn a vow of sexual abstinence. One of us has to be pure, so we can hope to stay alive. Also, I am a noble creature.

  I thought at Vic, “That was a stupid move.”

  He thought back, “Oh, take it easy, fer crissakes. Have a bite of this stuff. Good for you.”

  Between solos and their dogs, as between selected members of r
overpaks and their dogs, the mind-to-mind is a closed channel. No one can eavesdrop. It's partially genetic, partially empathic, partially chemically-induced. At least it was that way during the War, when my ancestors were first altered for skirmisher duty. I suppose the solos and rovers who can ‘path are the children of those troopers who were trained and innoculated to work with the skirmishers. All I know for certain is that there have only been one or two other humans with whom I've had mind-to-mind communication.

  So no one else was listening to our bickering.

  “I'm going for a walk,” I ‘pathed. “When I get back. I'd like to see you on your feet, if that's possible. I'd like to see us get off this barge and back to our flop for the night. I'd like to see you assuming a little of the responsibility for this partnership.”

  “You just hate to see me happy.”

  “I just hate to see you stinko.”

  “I'm not stinko.”

  “Well, you're sure as hell not pro-survival at the moment, Albert, dear chum.”

  Walter said, “Havin’ a fight with your mutt?”

  Vic looked at him. “He ain't a mutt.”

  “Isn't a mutt,” I ‘pathed.

  “Isn't a mutt,” Vic said.

  “I wouldn't take no shit from no eggsucker,” one of Skipper's men said. It was the pump gun from the skiff.

  I got up and walked out of the room.

  I don't have to take that kind of crap.

  And if my alleged master can't protect my honor, well, perhaps a talented sniffer ought to find a new relationship. That's what I was thinking as I wandered into the factory section of the barge.

  I was just killing time. I wandered around, looking at the Lyman reloading press and the primer seater and the powder scale and the Saeco sizing die they used for making new slugs. There were a couple of rovers working in there. One of them was bent over a G-H Tool & Die Corp. bullet swaging die set and another one was using a canneluring tool that knurls a groove around the slug for crimping. They looked up as I came in and sat down. I like watching people work at their craft. One of the things I miss most these days is seeing a good carpenter or boot-maker practicing his art.

  “G'wan, get the hell out of here, you eggsucker!” one of them snarled. He threw a fistfull of shavings at me; and missed. But I got up and ambled away. Metal shavings in the paw pad can be a nuisance.

  That was the second time in ten minutes I'd been called an eggsucker. My mood was definitely not benevolent. The next dipshit who insulted me was, I swore, destined to go to his grave with my fangs in his throat.

  I wandered around for a while, then back into the exquisite, sumptuous, palatial saloon of the elegant garbage scow. For rovers who lived like pigs, they sure had a high-assed opinion of themselves. Give slobs a lathe and some turning equipment and they think they're the chosen people.

  Vic was still lying on his back.

  Walter was asking, “What's it like out there?”

  Vic looked up at him blearily. “Whaddaya mean: what's it like out there? Out where?”

  “Being solo.”

  “Oh.” He hiccuped. “Okay, I suppose.”

  “Bullshit,” I said, mind-to-mind. Vic shrugged.

  “Things're getting tighter. Most of the fast easy food you can dig up is gone. Found a Mayfair Market today ... where I got the wine ... had to fight to get it. Fellini's organizing fast. He's got that big slave wagon of his. About two dozen good shots hanging around all the time. Won't be long.”

  “What won't be long?” Skipper asked.

  “Till he takes over the city.”

  They seemed startled. I realized they had very little sense of history, of the passage or progression of events. What was now, was now; and anything beyond that required imagination, of which their pointy little heads had never known a taste.

  Vic was different. I'd taught Vic.

  “Stands to reason,” Vic said, playing the big man, the teacher, slurring his words over the wine. Idiot savant. “He can't let any solos run loose because they might find the ammo and food he needs to keep feeding his people. And it's those troops of his that keep solos from putting a slug in his fat head. He loses them, if he can't feed ‘em, and he's not in charge any more ... he's just another fat old man.”

  “Yeah, but what's that got to do with us?” Skipper asked. “We're not solos. We're organized. We've got our own thing here, our own turf. Everybody needs us to reload their brass.”

  Vic laughed. “Dream on, Skipper. Fellini doesn't need you. At least he doesn't think he does, which is the same thing.”

  Walter said, “Yeah, but the other roverpaks need us.”

  “For how long, man? As soon as Fellini cleans out or scares off the solos in the area, then he'll start taking over the roverpaks, one by one. He has to. Only way he can control the situation.”

  Skipper looked interested. “How do you know all this? Somebody lay it all on you...?”

  “Hell, no,” Vic said. “Blood told me a lot of it, and I just figured out the rest. As George Santayana said in The Life of Reason, ‘Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.’ I've studied history. I know that's what'll happen.”

  They were staring at him as if he was crazy. I'd warned Vic never to flaunt his education. It made people nervous.

  The pump gun skinny said, “Where the hell'd you get all that shit?”

  Vic suddenly realized, through his drunken haze, that he'd made himself look different, set himself apart. “Uh...”

  They were all staring at us now. Skipper looked very twitchy. Vic licked his lips nervously.

  “Uh ... I got it all from Blood,” he said, the miserable sonofabitch fink. Direct lineal descendant of Senator Joseph McCarthy.

  The pump gun skinny bared yellow teeth, snickered, and said, “I wouldn't take all that stupid shit from no eggsucker.”

  That was number three.

  That was it!

  Take that, you asshole! And I went for the mammy-jammer.

  Oh, I was lovely. A furry blur of light, a death-dealing instrument of destruction, a lone noble beast defending his honor against the Philistines, a juggernaut of power and pain, up and arching out in a smooth leap that took me over Skipper's head, right past the loudmouth and into the wall of the barge. I fell down and lay there twitching. How fleeting is grandeur.

  Pump gun skinny raised his weapon and threw down on me. Through blurred eyes I saw the creep curling around the trigger to blow me away. And then his head exploded and spattered all over me.

  I heard Vic say, “Freeze, piss-ants!”

  Then he was shuffling among them, pointing that big .45 at Skipper's skull, and he kneeled down smoothly, and he was kind of manhandling me up into his free arm, and I crawled around over his shoulder and got into the rucksack ... upside-down. Then I guess I fainted.

  Next thing I knew, we were on the dock and I was being jangled around like crazy, because Vic was running for our lives in the dark. I assumed all this, because I was wedged down with the tin cans and the rest of the crap in Vic's rucksack. But he'd gotten us out of there ... alive ... I was at least sure of that much.

  After a while, he slowed down, and I could hear him panting like crazy. And cursing at me.

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  * * *

  “Stupid, goddamn, short-tempered, imbecile, moron dog! Damned near got us killed. Spoilt my night! Lost us the only armorer in the territory, goddam stupid lousy ignorant fucking eggsucker!”

  That was number four, but I was upside-down. And half conscious. But I felt bad.

  Finally, he stopped, shucked out of the knapsack, turned it over and dumped me out. We were in an alley.

  It was dark. But I could feel the heat coming off him. Oh, boy, was he pissed off at me.

  I staggered around for a minute, trying to get my left front leg to work in unison with my right rear, and finally I circled around him and sat down on some rubble. He was sitting there with his head in his hands, lookin
g miserable.

  “I was getting tired of this town, anyway.” I said, hoping to cheer him up a little. It was obvious: we'd have to get out now. Nowhere to get fresh ammo, marked lousy by The 82nd Airborne, which would make us persona non grata with the other roverpaks who might otherwise tolerate a reliable solo and his dog.

  Vic peered up at me from between his hands. It was dark but I could read him even in the dark. He didn't say anything. He just stared at me. I didn't feel too terrific.

  “I hear there's some activity out around Duluth,” I said.

  That was a lie. I'd heard the taconite creatures that came up out of Lake Superior would eat your ass off.

  He didn't say anything. And he had his mind blocked off; but the seepage was awful. Like blood oozing out under a door jamb.

  “We could try for ‘over the hill’ in the direction of Vermont,” I said. I didn't even know if Vermont was there anymore.

  Then we sat and stared at each other for a while.

  Finally, I just decided it was better to blow off steam than to squat on my tail feeling guilty.

  “Look, kiddo, it wasn't all my fault! If you hadn't gotten bagged, or if you hadn't let them insult me without saying anything, I wouldn't have run amuck! It's your responsibility, too.”

  “That's it,” he said, quietly, and he got up. His being quiet scared the hell out of me.

  Then he just walked out of the alley, right out into the middle of the street, and kept going. No cover, no checking out the turf, nothing. He just walked away from me.

  I sat there for a second, and then padded to the mouth of the alley and watched him go. Just like that. We'd been together close on two years, and here was this ingrate fourteen-year-old clown thinking he could just up and walk away like that. Without even a bye-your-leave or a thank you for all I'd done for him. The silly sonofabitch!

  Well, let him go, I thought. Let the moron get himself chewed up by Fellini or some back-shooting solo. Let him try sniffing out females, see how good he was at it. Might not matter so much at age fourteen, but wait till he hit fifteen, sixteen ... ha! Seventeen! At seventeen, like every other weird human boy, he'd start running around on all fours looking for sex. And some female solo with as much muscle as him would stick a bayonet in his chest just when he was about to get on her. Serve him right, too, the asshole.