Moontrap - Don Berry Read online

  "Let's go," he said again. sharply. irritated. "You comin' or not?"

  As the column filed past the clear space. each of them glanced at the promontory, where just a moment ago their quarry had stood. The silent hot sun swung over the top of the. Silently they followed the rocky, dusty trail that zigzagged up the face of the smaller of the two peaks. In a couple of hours the top of the small promontory was below them and when they came to clear points they could see that the land around was beginning to flatten out now. They were above the terrain, and as their steps lengthened into yards and the hot hours of afternoon passed, the horizon drew farther and farther away, until at last they could see the Cascade peaks, tiny on the horizon, still white-capped with snow. Hood, Rainier, Adams. Tiny cones, almost indistinguishable, like bleached anthills across a wide plain.

  The going was steeper here, and they did not make as good time. Most of them were not used to climbing, and once or twice they had to stop for a few minutes. The sun swung down, and as they neared the edge of the timber the western sky took on a reddish tinge.

  The trail came to a long meadow that stretched down to the left, barricaded on the opposite side by a straight wall of rock, looking almost man-made in its regularity. Monday stopped again.

  The trail itself swung out around the trees, heading up into the open rubble of rock. Leaving the shelter of the trees, a man would be perfectly exposed to the natural fortress of the rock wall.

  The more he looked at it the less he liked it. No, he decided finally. That don't shine. There was a limit to the extent he could trust his notion that Webb would be at the top; and he had reached the limit. He backtracked, moving back into the secure anonymity of the thick

  forest.

  "What's the matter?" Thurston said.

  "Could be a mousetrap," Monday said. "There's a perfect set-up over there. We best take another way."

  He went back along the trail two hundred yards or so. There was still forest above, and he wanted to stay with the cover as long as he could. He started straight up the side of the hill, hoping to gain a few hundred more feet of height before he had to go into the clear. The others followed reluctantly. After fifteen minutes he saw the clear light of the sky through the trunks of the trees, and knew he had gone about as far with forest cover as was possible. He stopped and waited for the others to come up with him.

  "Spread out a little," he said quietly, "and take it easy, for christ's sake."

  The others ranged themselves to either side. This high there was not too much brush, and the relative clear gave them a chance to move.

  When they were set in a long line across the face of the hill, Monday moved forward.

  They reached the edge of the woods, where there was a sharp dividing line between the cluttered rocky slope and the trees. A hundred yards above them was the crest of the smaller peak, silhouetted now against the redness of the setting sun. Monday studied the slope, looking for some kind of cover for a dozen men.

  Suddenly, at his left, one of the men darted out into the open, slip-running across the slope to the shelter of a boulder. Behind him a little stream of rocks slid down.

  Goddamn idiot, Monday thought. Wants to skirmish a little. Another silhouette appeared at the top of the peak, coming around the boulder. For what seemed an eternity it stood still.

  "Get back!" Monday shouted. On either side of him there was the crashing thunder of exploding powder.

  Chapter Twenty

  1

  Half blinded from staring into the setting sun, the old man saw nothing of the shaded slope for a moment, except the mass of darkness that was the edge of timber, a few hundred feet down. Then, astonishingly. a sudden line of white flowers seemed to bloom at the forest's edge; the shock. the final echoing roar of the guns that rolled off the mountain slope and seemed to hang in the air.

  An invisible hammer smashed into his side, jerking him around and back, off balance. His foot slipped into a tiny crexice in the stones, and he fell to his side with the sound of the blast still in his ears.

  The side of his body was lost in a fog of numbness, and he could feel only an enormous pressure like a great, inexorable ram pounding against his side. As he fell, with his foot wedged in the crack, he felt a dull, sudden sensation in his leg that was not like pain, but like the grating of two stones together somewhere deep inside.

  He was still for a moment, his right cheek rammed into the gravel as he fell. He blinked once, staring at the stones that rested just before his eyes. In his mind was the sharp vision of the white blossoms of smoke erupting suddenly from the dark bank of trees like a row of miraculous flowers. Slowly, he began to feel the sharp points of gravel digging into the side of his face.

  Then it came; then the pain came.

  His leg suddenly exploded into brittle shards that speared up through his groin. He lost his breath and gasped sharply, clenching his eyesshut without volition. He heard the thin, animal bark of pain, and knew it was himself. He tried to raise himself on his arms, but his arms did not move. He was heavy, a great stone seemed to have fallen on the side of his chest with blind and massive force, shoving him into the ground, deeper and deeper. His chest began to throb against the crushing weight, and a steady pulsating roar of blood sounded in his ears.

  The first wave passed, and for a second he could breathe again. He opened his eyes and found he was staring into the blood-colored western sky. Then the pain shattered his leg again, and the red sun swooped suddenly down to fill his field of vision with the smoky hot color of blood and wash away all other sight. The descending ocean of red poured over him and he let himself go, to pass into the profound depths where sound and sight were drowned in the softly throbbing waves of redness.

  He did not know how long he floated there, drifting deep within a pulsating cavern of redness; drowned in the measureless, throbbing heart of some great beast that might have been the world. He twisted and revolved slowly, moved by heaving tides he could not comprehend, conscious only of the relentless contraction and release of the monster heart, pulsing slowly, thick waves of pressure beating against his mind, the thunderous roar that echoed down the wide caverns into a blackness that hovered just beyond.

  Gradually he became aware of a dizzy feeling of rising, and the gravel that pressed at the flesh of his cheek pushed him harshly up through the murky redness. He moved toward a thin veil that was the surface, and passed it with the sensation of puncturing a membrane that separated two worlds. The edges of the wound drew away from him and he emerged into consciousness.

  He discovered himself lying on his right side, head downward on the slope. The edge of the sun was still just visible, so he could not have been unconscious long, a minute, perhaps two. He lifted his face from the ground, and heard the tiny, faint rattle as pieces of gravel dropped away from his cheek. Others he could still feel embedded in the flesh. The enormous pressure remained on his left side, and he knew he would have to relieve that before he could move. Slowly he turned his head to look, blinking.

  He was vaguely surprised to find that nothing rested on top of him after all. Still the sensation of throbbing weight persisted. The side of his hunting shirt was torn at the left, and a wet black stain spread around the edges of the rip. He could feel a thin, oily flood moving down across his belly, a sensation vaguely like insects crawling. From the loose hem of the shirt lying on the ground a little rivulet of blood appeared, moving in a sluggish stream to the edge of the leather and pouring itself into the absorbent ground.

  He put his head back on the ground for a moment. He drew his right arm back and tried to push himself up. The effort made a dull explosion in his side and he gasped again. Slowly he raised his upper body, trying not to jar the explosion into existence. He had lost the power to make his muscles act unconsciously. He had to concentrate on each motion individually. The elbow braced, the shoulder and back set, then tense, then moving. He thought carefully of each step.

  He came up resting on his forearm on the th
ird try. He looked back at his side again, puzzled, unable to believe the weight he felt so clearly did not exist. But there was nothing except the ragged rip in the leather and the spreading stain. He deliberately and slowly moved his left arm, closing his eyes tightly as the sensation of weight turned slowly to a flood of dull pain.

  But there was no choice. He had to get up, no matter what it cost. They would be coming for him. He set his teeth together, and his lips drew back in a silent grimace. He breathed deeply twice, and felt a new, sharper agony somewhere inside him. He rested his left forearm on the ground and slowly let his body turn so that he was belly down, supported on his forearms, his head hanging low. The flood of pain from his side swept up, subsided. He tried to inch his left leg forward, but it did not respond. Regretfully he let the weight of his body settle on his left arm, and moved the right leg. The motion tensed the muscles of his left side, and the dull, throbbing explosion rumbled again. He ignored it, his eyes clenched tightly shut, and brought his right knee up.

  He found no way to avoid producing the pain again, and with this realization it was a little easier. He would just have to live with it. Methodically he hauled himself up until he was sitting on his right hip, his body braced against the stiff right arm.

  He looked down at his left leg to see if he could determine why it did not respond. The lower part was wrong. His foot lay limply on the ground, though his knee was turned upward.

  It was a weirdly disturbing sight, the angles were all wrong, the lower part seemed have lost its relation to the upper.

  He reached down with his fingertips, touching the leather, moving slowly down the length of the leg. He found something more solid than flesh, like a rock beneath the leather. Puzzled, he pushed it a little harder; suddenly threw his head back as the bright flash of pain exploded, blinding him momentarily.

  When the first brilliance of agony had passed, he reached behind his belt for the butcher knife. He inserted the point up near the knee of his trousers and ripped down the length. He slowed the movement of the knife as he reached the hard point, and worked carefully to the side. The leather fell away on either side, revealing a jagged shard of bone that protruded from his calf near the front.

  He looked down at it for a moment, then turned his eyes to his side again. The ball had plowed into the rib cage, but well to the side. Tenderly touching it, he could not tell how many ribs it had smashed in passing. Every time he moved a thin, screaming pain echoed somewhere deep inside. He could not tell exactly where it was, and that seemed strange. It felt as though the whole side of his chest was full of glassy splinters, and he thought it was probably true. The heavy, half-inch lead ball erupted when it hit something hard, and smashed bone like a hammer. Some inner part of him was pierced by the shards of bone each time he moved, but he could not locate the pain accurately enough to know what part.

  He looked up and saw that he was only a few feet from the boulder against which he had rested to watch the sunset. His rifle still stood upright, resting on the butt. lt seemed uncanny that it should not have moved, that it could have remained quietly standing while the whole world exploded and erupted.

  He dragged himself over to it. Slowly he eased himself around so he was sitting with his back against the stone again, his useless left leg stretched out ahead. He pulled the rifle down to his lap, laying it across his knees. lt was hard to breathe, the effort of moving cost too much in pain, and he could not get enough air. He hung his head for a moment, concentrating only on the breathing, until he felt he had regained enough to go ahead. At the edges of his vision were the vestiges of the red ocean, and each time he moved, they closed in slightly, and he had to wait. When he could no longer see the stains of red at the edges of his eyes, he lifted his head again and reached for his powder horn.

  It was difficult to charge the gun with the barrel horizontal across his lap, but he could not stand up. He poured a little powder in, then stood the rifle on its butt beside him and tamped it lightly on the ground to settle the load. He repeated this three times, until he thought it was about right. Normally he loaded without even thinking, but when the charge was divided into three it was more difficult to tell. He pushed the butt away from him, holding the barrel, and drew out the long ram. He forced the patch and ball down securely, replaced the ram in its socket beneath the barrel, and drew the butt back into his lap.

  When at last he had primed the pan, turned the flint to a new edge, and hauled the heavy hammer back, he felt better. There was nothing he could do about his leg, or his side. But the others came now, there was something he could do. He was not helpless, the old man. He was ready for them now.

  ***

  The dangerous thing was that his senses had come untracked. He could not tell where the pain was that was inside him, he could not sense his body accurately. He could not tell how much time passed, except by judging from the darkness. His inner sense of time had gone, and it might be seconds or hours. He simply could not tell. He did not know how long he waited for the others to come, only that they did not come, and the sky went dark in the west.

  The moon rose behind his boulder, invisible to him. He sat silent and waiting in the sooty shadow, while on either side the rocks began to glow with a ghostly luminescence. He listened as carefully as he was able, but his own mind was full of sounds, and he could not always distinguish the sounds of the night from the sounds his own mind made.

  With the coolness of the night a breeze had begun to sweep up from the valley rustling the trees below, fitfully shaking the scrubby brush of the rock slope. The sussuration of the wind was twined and tangled in his perception with the sound of his own blood rushing strong and hissing in his ears.

  The shadow in which he hid grew short with the rising of the moon. Still the others did not come, and at last he knew he was forced to make a decision. He could remain, or he could try to go.

  He looked down at the razorback ridge that connected his small peak with the larger one, less than a quarter of a mile away. On either side of the ridge the ground dropped sharply away the flanks specked with brightness of light rocks in the moonlight. The ridge itself twisted like a bright snake, dropping down from where he sat several hundred feet, then rising again to disappear into the heavy body of the other peak. The massive face of the peak itself was silvery and distinct in the moonlight. The old man could not tell if the moon was supernaturally bright, or if the impression was simply part of the derangement of his senses. He could make out detail on the opposite face that he thought would be impossible in normal moonlight. If the detail was real, the moon was awesomely bright this night. He twisted his head to the side, trying to look up. but the moon was still beyond his vision.

  There was something at the back of his mind about the moon, something it seemed important to remember. He tried to think about it, but was not able to keep his mind in one place. It drifted, floating on the substanceless light like a swirl of smoke gently moving in a shaft of the brilliant moonlight. His vision kept coming back to the image of the line of white flowers appearing suddenly at the darkness of the forest's edge, all spread in a line. It was an stonishing sight, it was perhaps the most amazing thing he had ever seen.

  It was the moontrap, he thought, that was what he should remember. But remembering, he could not understand what it meant. He had tried to build a moontrap, but it had not been right. It was very simple, and there was no importance in remembering it.

  The shadow drew in slowly until it reached the lifeless foot that hung uncertainly at the end of his left leg. Half the moccasin was in light, and as he watched the white glow spread like a bloodstain down to the ankle and began to ascend the calf.

  He was suddenly frightened. He did not want to see that brilliance reach the splintered bone that stuck out beyond his ripped trouser leg. He was convinced that when the ghostly light reached that shard of bone something terrifying would happen. He did not know what, but the conviction was strong in his belly. All around him the stones seemed to g
low from within, burning coldly with an unearthly flame of their own. If that happened to the bone that protruded from his leg, he thought the pain would be unbearable. He would have to protect himself. He would have to go. He looked down at his leg again and the moonlight had crept up a little higher. He did not have much time. Deliberately he let himself tip over to his right side, resting on his elbow. He inched around until be was pointed down toward the ridge. He lowered the hammer of the rifle to half-cock. Grasping the muzzle with his left hand he began to squirm down toward the ridge, dragging the gun loosely behind him as the left leg dragged.

  He tried to keep the tension out of the muscles of his left side, but he could not do it altogether. He drew himself up over his right forearm. Bracing there, he dragged the right leg up under him. Then the forearm forward again, draw the body up to it, pause, then the right leg. Each time he drew himself up he had to tighten the muscles of his belly, and there was the dull thump of pain in his side. There were two distinct pains; first the dullness as the muscles contracted, then the sharp, fiery splinter as something happened inside, as a bone shard darted deep in some part of him that should not be touched.

  The dead weight of his body rested on his right hip each time he dragged it forward. The rocks scraped mercilessly at the leather, and when it had been gouged away began to work at the flesh beneath it. After the first effort, something had given way in his side with a soft sensation. Shortly he began to feel the tickling-insect sensation of flowing blood down his belly again, but there was nothing he could do about it. It became one of many sensations that confused him at first. The wild mélange of pain from the leg, and from the side, the new sensation of tearing in the flesh of his right hip as he dragged himself slowly over the brutal rocks, the scraping of his side and elbows and the flowing of blood across his belly.