Seconds later, the man tripped, proving Caplan right. Arms waving like a windmill, he pitched forward into the swamp. The other two shot him nervous glances.
The man lifted a hand, signaling he was okay. Holding his rifle aloft, he let the rain wash away some sludge. Then he backtracked to where he’d tripped and started to fish through the mud.
What he saw — one of the dead bodies, no doubt — startled him and he reared backward, limping awkwardly along the way. The others raced to his side, catching him before he could fall. Then they gathered together and examined the swamp.
After a minute, the men broke apart and returned to their former positions. Stepping far more carefully now, the limper approached the wreckage and aimed his rifle into the interior. Then he lowered it. Twisted toward the second man — the tongue-flicker — and shrugged.
The tongue-flicker, clearly the leader, snapped his fingers. He pointed at the swamp and the other two men began to hike loudly through the mud, evidently searching for more bodies.
Caplan’s senses surged to full height as he slid into the swamp. He saw the way the trio moved, the way they shifted their bodies in response to noise. He saw their range of movement, their lack of body armor. He smelled burnt wood and grass along with body odor. He heard a resurgence of crackling flames alongside heavy rain, squelching mud, and buzzing flies.
Wading forward, he approached the trio in relative silence. Yes, he was outnumbered. And yes, his two axes, at least on paper, were no match for rifles. But he didn’t doubt his victory, not even for a second.
The key to taking out a small group was to strike fast and hard. First, eliminate the leader. Second, take out the others before they could regroup and find new leadership.
Still crouching, he waded quietly toward tongue-flicker, shifting his legs one at a time. Then he rose upward like an ethereal being, gripped his left axe and swung it like a tennis racket.
Tongue-flicker grunted as the tip of the handle struck the back of his head. He dropped his rifle and only the shoulder strap kept it from hitting the ground. Reaching backward, he felt his skull. Then he went limp and sagged into the muck.
The limper and the trembling man spun toward the noise, guns at the ready. A mixture of fear and confusion crossed their visages as they laid eyes upon tongue-flicker’s still body. Immediately, they shifted their weapons, searching for the mysterious attacker.
But he was nowhere to be seen.
An axe handle slammed into trembler’s skull. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.
Sensing movement, the limper spun westward, his gun moving toward Caplan’s position. Caplan knocked the barrel with his left axe, propelling it away from him.
The air boomed. The rifle recoiled in the limper’s hands. A bullet exited the chamber and soared toward the wreckage. It slammed into the Blaze’s still-intact gas tank. The tank began sputtering fuel, spitting it out like a fountain.
Time slowed down for Caplan. He tasted smoke and cinders. Felt warm heat. Smelled the pungent fuel.
Flames roared with renewed intensity. Glancing over his shoulder, Caplan saw the flames, orange and hot, licking at the gas.
A massive explosion pierced the air and a shock wave stretched outward. Caplan went airborne before crashing back to the swamp, rolling and flopping around until he came to a halt.
A full minute passed. Groggily, he sat up, covered in muck. Miraculously, the axes were still in his grip.
He twisted his neck. Wrenching his eyes open, he tried to focus his blurry vision. A giant fire engulfed the wreckage. Pieces of blackened metal, expelled outward by the explosion, were strewn across the swamp.
Caplan tried to get up, only to collapse back to the earth. He tried again, but couldn’t even reach his knees. Physically, he was spent.
Vaguely, he heard Roadster’s engine ignite. It puttered softly for a minute or so before receding into silence.
Caplan dug deep, found a little energy in his reserves. Slowly, painfully, he stood up.
Pearson snaked out of the forest and waded into the swamp. “What happened?”
“One of them got off a lucky shot. Blew up the wreckage all over again.” Caplan bent over, chest heaving for air. He searched the clearing for signs of the trio. But they were gone. “They got away.”
“Damn it, Zach. I told you this was a bad idea.”
Caplan winced. “We can fix this.”
“You don’t get it.” Pearson shook his head. “If you’d kept quiet, those guys would’ve thought everyone was dead. Now, they know otherwise.”
Chapter 29
“Lost in time?” Pressing his back against rough schist, Brian Toland managed an exaggerated eye roll. “Well, that’s… interesting. Does anyone else have an idea? A real one?”
Her face warm with shame, Bailey Mills dipped her head to her lap. “It was just a thought,” she muttered softly.
“Yeah, a stupid one.” Toland gave her a withering look from the opposite side of the thin cave. “I can’t believe an entire generation of women look up to you. Oh, how I weep for the future.”
“How about you?” Tricia Elliott interjected.
Toland blinked. “Me?”
“At least she’s trying. So far, you’ve been nothing but dead weight.”
“Oh, I see. You’re one of those solidarity types. Feminism and girl power, right?” He smirked. “How droll.”
“You don’t know anything about me, old man.”
“Oh, an age joke! So original. Well, I may be older than you, my dear, but at least my entire personality isn’t wrapped up in my hair.”
Elliott’s eyes flashed. “Why you—”
“Stop it.” Travis Renjel’s voice rumbled through the semi-enclosed space. “Both of you.”
Mills leaned back, pressing her shoulder blades against the rock wall. After skirting around the woolly mammoths, their little group had followed the running water upstream, hoping to find some kind of village or encampment. Although they came up short, they’d ventured upon a grassy hillside, partially shaded by pines and spruces, cedars and Douglas-firs. The hill, which rose several hundred feet above ground, promised a much easier way of locating the nearest town. They’d started to climb it, but a sudden outburst of rain turned the ground into a sloppy mess. And so, the group had sought out shelter instead, eventually locating a tight but deep cave a quarter up the hillside.
Peering outside, Mills watched the rain. It was a mesmerizing rain, full of ancient mysticism and strange vibrations. But unfortunately, this was no cleansing storm from a generous higher power, capable of erasing everything that had transpired and spiriting her back to New York City. Rather, it was a force of pure isolation, one that made her feel lonelier by the second.
“I wish I’d never agreed to go to that stupid ball.” Tearing her gaze from the rain, she stared at a spot of rock wall between Toland and Renjel. “I wish I’d just stayed home.”
Toland cocked an eyebrow. “Ball?”
“Yes, a charity ball.” All her anger, all her frustration came out in a sudden spurt of emotions. How dare this man continue to sit in judgment of her? How would he like it if she mocked every aspect of his life? “What about you? What were you doing before you woke up here? Harassing innocent women, I assume?”
“Writing, actually,” he said with an air of superiority. “You see, I’m working on a new book.”
“Fiction?” Renjel asked.
“As if I’d waste my time on that nonsense. No, it’s a generational study, fully and gloriously unauthorized, of the Corbotch family.”