Behind the Ruins (Stories of the Fall) Read Online Free Page B

trail
that long before losing it for good somewhere just past the south end of the
lake. He’d asked those it was safe to talk to, and as he went south he began to
hear a few whispers. Nothing about any “defense force”, except as persistent
rumors from the east, but a few people had noticed strangers.
    In
the summer there were always a few people moving north or south down the
valley. Traders made the rounds, hunters followed the game, and once in a while
settlers looking for a place to live came, carrying their lives in carts. The
strangers didn’t seem to be any of those things. The few times they’d been seen
they were moving in small groups, avoiding contact. There had been a few
disappearances among the migrants during the same period. A hunter or two had
not returned when they were expected; a pony cart had been found, empty, on the
old highway. No one knew who it belonged to. Grey tracked it down at a small
orchard not far north of where the border once was, but an examination told him
nothing.
    Nights were getting
colder still, and in the slanting morning sun the mountaintop trees were faded
ghosts under a layer of frost. He’d turned north again, climbing the circling
hills around the brick ruins of a small town, when he saw movement.
    Grey
settled behind a fallen tree, and checked to make sure the sun was at a safe
angle before peeking through his rifle’s scope. He twisted the magnification to
maximum and sought the flicker of motion that had caught his eye.
    The
town had been built on a long straight main street, probably the old highway,
and was crossed by a handful of side streets. Trees and hedges had run rampant
over the years and many of the streets were choked with foliage going
autumn-yellow and brown. Near the center of the town another road came in from
the west, and a concrete traffic circle marked the intersection with the old
highway. It took him a moment to spot the men sitting at ease in the circle,
enjoying the afternoon sun.
    Even
with the telescopic sight, it was too far to make out much detail. There were
eight or ten people he could see, all adults. They wore a mix of clothes; most
had hooded jackets, at least one wore a deerskin duster not unlike Grey’s. They
had horses, too, he realized after a minute. They were picketed under the
branches of some crowded cottonwood trees. Two chocolate brown dogs circulated,
and Grey discarded the notion of finding a closer vantage point.
    If
they’d had a few hundred cattle with them, he’d have written them off as
drovers; maybe gone down to see if they had trade to do. There weren’t any
cattle, though.
    Grey
watched until the sun set and darkness rose up the walls of the valley. Below,
campfires began to glow; five of them. The fires pinpointed groups he hadn’t
seen for the trees, and he realized there were probably two dozen men, maybe
more, camped in the ruins.
    The
temperature fell as dusk passed and full dark came. Grey unrolled his blanket
and draped it around his shoulders, then settled to watch and nap. Overhead,
bolides drew hairline ghosts in the night.
     
    The
predawn sky was pale rose when the distant rattle of hooves and the single bark
of a dog woke Grey. The men below were packing up. The watcher shifted a bit,
settling sore legs into a different position. He left his rifle propped against
the log, and watched the hurried scramble of a camp getting ready to move out.
    By
the time the sun had cleared the far mountains, the group was making its way
south, six or seven horsemen leaving every fifteen minutes. He could hear
raised voices as each group departed, but the distance was too great to make
out what was said. The dogs went with the first group. Grey squinted at the
sun, riding into a faultless blue sky, and stayed in his cover. The ruins were
quiet within two hours; Grey made his way down the hill an hour later.
    He
moved through the ruins, staying in the thick brush of yards choked with thirty
years of untrimmed hedges.