Eighth Square by Herbert Lieberman

Author:Herbert Lieberman [Lieberman, Herbert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4804-3263-5
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2013-07-03T23:31:00+00:00

13

LEO GARVIX PLUNGED AHEAD by himself. His separation from the others appeared to liberate him and his lips moved furiously as he plowed, shoved, and bulled his way through the young saplings and the tall mulleins.

The saplings in that place were of such number and profusion that they gave the impression of a huge cage with innumerable bars. Garvix moved swiftly. He seemed like a man driven by some deadly purpose. At one point a young, springy branch that he had muscled ruthlessly aside recoiled and slapped him above the eye. He took the sapling at the base as if it were some deadly, evil thing and then tried to uproot it—tear it out of the earth. But he couldn’t. Instead, he had to settle for swinging his fists at the branch that had struck him. “Son of a bitch!” He flailed the air with mindless rage. “Son of a bitch—son of a bitch—son of a—” The fierce litany died on his lips and he lurched off, still swinging, like a pugilist going through a shadow dance.

Tom Putney staggered along beneath the weight of the surveyor. In the nearly thirty hours they’d been out he’d barely ever been away from Rogers’ side. But now the job of ferrying Rogers through the forest was made doubly difficult by the thickness of growth and trees through which they were passing. Even as Putney lugged and dragged, two full moons of perspiration had risen on his shirt above each shoulder blade.

At one point as he was attempting to coax and guide the surveyor around an immense rock, Rogers slipped from his grip and slumped to the ground.

“9 degrees—30 min—wes-sou’wes’—” The points drooled from the surveyor’s mouth in a mixture of sour air and spittle. Putney unhooked his canteen and slipped to his knees beside the old man.

“Here, drink,” he said. He cradled Rogers’ head in his arm and tried to get him to drink. Water cascaded in a rude trickle down the old man’s chin and opened into a dark blossom on his shirt. Putney muttered something, then tried to force the neck of the bottle between the surveyor’s parched lips.

“Drink for Chrissake, will you!”

“3 rods—6 chains—”

“Oh, Christ.” Putney wiped the sweat from his brow with an angry swipe of his forearm. He looked round desperately, trying to catch a glimpse of Garvix shuttling through the thickets up ahead. Suddenly he stood up. “Get up!” he said, his teeth clenched and his hands curled into tight, nervous fists. “Get up, I said!” He glowered down at the rumpled, huddled form beneath him.

“7 rods—9 chains—6 minutes—” For a moment, a mindless, idiotic smile passed like a shadow across the surveyor’s blank features.

Putney’s clenched fist rose to a point almost directly above his head. But it never came down. Instead it shuddered there, contending with some invisible force.

“Oh, shit—” he spun round like a man struck by a bullet, then grabbed Rogers by the lapels of his denim jacket and hauled him roughly to his feet.

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