“Better not mess with me then,” Sherry joked in mock seriousness.
Hickok suddenly grimaced.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“It just occurred to me!” Hickok exclaimed.
“What?” Sherry queried, concerned.
“I may go to romancing you one night, and you might have a headache or something, and if I don’t take no for an answer you just might wallop the tar out of me!” Hickok feigned terror at the prospect.
Sherry snuggled against him. “No need to worry about that, lover!” She giggled. “And I don’t have a headache right now.”
“Do tell.”
They embraced, Sherry passionately pressing her warm form into his hard body, their lips locked together, their tongues entwining.
“Mmmmmmm,” Sherry moaned after they finally broke the kiss. “That was real nice! Do that again!”
“Anything you…” Hickok abruptly sat up, alert.
“What’s wrong?” Sherry questioned, gazing around them. “Did you see something?”
“Listen.”
“What?”
“Quiet! Listen!” Hickok released her and stood, his hands on his Colts.
“I don’t…” she began, then stopped, hearing the distant sounds.
Popping noises.
“It’s gunfire,” Hickok stated, facing toward the west.
“Some of the Warriors practicing?” she suggested.
“Nope.” Hickok shook his head. “Too far off. What could it be? No one’s sounded the alarm.”
“One of the Family out hunting?” Sherry opined.
“Too many shots. It’s still…” Hickok started a sentence, then snapped his fingers. “Of course! It has to be!”
“Of course what?” Sherry rose to her feet.
“Come on!” Hickok was running off.
“Wait for me!” She ran in pursuit.
Hickok slowed to allow her to catch up. “Looks like I’ll need a rain check on some heavy breathing.”
“Just don’t make a habit of it,” Sherry warned him. “My hormones couldn’t take the stress!”
Chapter Eight
The Dead Zone certainly lived up to its reputation.
In all his travels, in all his experience, Geronimo had never encountered any terrain as devoid of life, any geographical area so utterly barren and destitute.
It was uncanny, almost as if he’d been transported to a landscape on another planet.
Vegetation was completely absent. Wildlife was nonexistent. Even the breeze seemed sluggish and abnormally warm. The earth was a reddish color and unnaturally fine.
How could anything live in such a sterile habitat?
The Legion patrol was gathered on top of a large hill, the riders allowing their weary mounts a brief rest.
“I don’t see any sign of pursuit,” Hamlin noted. “Do you?” he asked Kilrane.
Kilrane was studying the plain below them. “None,” he agreed.
“They must have given up!” Hamlin elated. “They knew they couldn’t catch us!”
“Or they had accomplished their purpose and wisely withdrew,” Kilrane stated.
“What do you mean?” Hamlin inquired.
“They may figure we’re far enough into the Dead Zone to accomplish their goal,” Kilrane elaborated. “We must be a good fifteen miles into this wasteland.”
“So what now?” Cynthia queried.
Geronimo was wondering about the same subject. He mentally attempted to envision their approximate location. He knew the Cavalry and the Legion occupied the eastern half of South Dakota, dividing it between them with the Cavalry controlling the eastern section and the Legion the western part. They were still in Cavalry territory, somewhere in the northern portion. He tried to recall the map of South Dakota he’d seen while paging through the atlas on the trip to Montana. Strange. He couldn’t remember any important military or civilian targets in this region. Why had it sustained a direct hit from a nuclear weapon? Maybe it was another miss. From records and journals kept immediately after the war, and from the data acquired since commencing Alpha Triad’s extended travels, the Family knew many primary military and civilian targets had been spared direct hits during the Third World War. Other areas, lacking any major significance, had been struck. A peculiar paradox, explained away by one of the Family Elders who suggested that the incoming missiles hadn’t been as accurate as the other side had boasted. It was entirely feasible that a missile aimed at, say, a missile silo in North Dakota might have strayed a few hundred miles and instead obliterated a grazing herd of pronghorn antelope in South Dakota. When dealing in distances of thousands and thousands of miles, any slight deviation in the missile’s trajectory would negate a direct hit and result in a miss of gigantic proportions. The history books in the Family library also mentioned a disturbing number of disastrous high-technology-related accidents in the years before the war, clearly indicating that humankind’s vaunted ingenuity had been an infinitesimal speck compared to its exaggerated ego.
“Maybe we should head southwest,” Hamlin was suggesting. “We’d get to Pierre a lot faster if we made a beeline for it.”
“I was thinking along the same lines,” Kilrane said. “The Cavalry might anticipate our move and attempt to cut us off, but it can’t be helped. We can’t remain in the Dead Zone. The sooner we’re out of here, the better.”
“Do you see that?” one of the other riders asked, pointing to the west.
Geronimo swiveled, surprised at the sight.
A mile or two distant towered a huge conical mound, rearing up several hundred feet from the ground. The mound was massive, staggering the senses. Some low clouds seemed to be brushing the top of the cone.
“What the hell is that?” Hamlin inquired in awe.
“Maybe it’s where the missile or bomb struck?” Cynthia suggested.
“No,” Geronimo mentioned. “They left gaping holes, not the other way around. Some force pushed that mound up from within.”
“Could it be a…” Hamlin paused, searching for the right word.
“Volcano?” Geronimo guessed, and Hamlin nodded. Geronimo shook his head. “I never heard of any volcanoes in South Dakota.”
“Look!” Cynthia cried. “At the top of the mound!”
Geronimo saw it, and his skin suddenly tingled, goosebumps all over his arms.
Some… thing… was moving along the rim of the cone. Details were indistinct because of the great range involved, but whatever the creature was, it appeared large and oddly menacing.
“L… L… Let’s get out of here!” Hamlin stuttered, his fright readily apparent.
“Let’s go!” Kilrane barked, sweeping his left arm toward the southwest.
Geronimo kept the big black close to the Palomino as they descended the hill and galloped across the plain, great clouds of red dust billowing behind them.
What was that thing? Geronimo’s mind drifted as he rode, pondering the drastically altered nature of the environment and the ecology since the Big Blast. The so-called experts had failed to accurately predict the devastating consequences mega-doses of radiation and toxic chemicals would wreak on the organisms affected. Diligent research had proven radiation induced bizarre mutations. Combined with the unknown chemical elements, it was no wonder the land was crawling with deviate life forms. There were mutates everywhere. Deadly opaque green clouds proliferated; one such cloud had killed the Founder of the Home, Kurt Carpenter. And to top it off, the Family had fought other recurrent horrors, including rare cases of giantism restricted to insects or their close kin. Who knew what else lurked out there? As Plato had once noted, all it would take would be two similar mutations mating and the world could see the rise of a new species unheralded in its ferocity and adaptability. If this ever happened, it could well signal the death knell for the human race on planet earth.