Another shriek sounded, louder than the previous cry.
Nelson glanced at the hut and saw Sergeant Whitney using the radio to contact Lieutenant Garber. He licked his lips and scanned the field on the right, and a flicker of movement approximately a hundred yards from the gate drew his attention. His brown eyes narrowed and he leaned forward.
The bushes in a thicket were shaking violently.
He raised the M-16 to his shoulder and sighted on the center of the thicket, hoping the cause of the movement was just a mutation of some kind, a two-headed coyote or a six-legged skunk or some other form of genetically warped animal. In the 106 years since World War Three, mutations had proliferated. Encountering genetic deviations was an ordinary occurrence. The ecological chain had been severely disrupted by the massive amounts of radiation and chemical-warfare toxins unleashed during the holocaust, and physical deformities were commonplace in all wildlife. According to an article he’d read in the Army News, the experts believed that embryonic development was no longer predictable. So if a four-eyed rabbit or a feral dog with two tails should pop out of that thicket, he wouldn’t be surprised.
The bushes ceased shaking.
Nelson breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed, lowering the M-16 to his waist. How could he allow himself to become so worked up over a lousy moving bush? He grinned at his stupidity, and the grin froze on his face when a figure, doubled over at the waist and racing too fast for details to register, darted from the thicket into a patch of tall weeds. Shocked disbelief rooted him to the spot for all of three seconds, and then Nelson dashed toward the hut. “Sarge! Sarge!”
Whitney appeared in the doorway, an M-16 in his right hand. “Calm down, Art. What is it?”
“I saw someone,” Nelson reported, and pointed at the thicket.
“Only one?” Sergeant Whitney asked, walking to the gate and peering at the field.
“Yeah.”
“Male or female?”
“I couldn’t tell.”
“Were they armed?”
“I couldn’t tell,” Nelson said, embarrassed by his lack of perception. “I caught a glimpse of someone running into the weeds, but I couldn’t distinguish any features.”
They waited in an expectant silence for over a minute, but nothing else happened.
“I know I saw someone,” Nelson insisted.
“And I believe you,” Whitney assured him.
“What did the lieutenant say?”
“I didn’t speak to him,” Sergeant Whitney answered. “Dutch told me that Lieutenant Garber is at Sentry Post 19. There was an incident there two hours ago.”
“What kind of incident?”
“Dutch wouldn’t tell me. But he’s relaying our message to the lieutenant.”
Nelson pursed his lips, troubled by the news. Dutch Miller was the Communications man on duty at headquarters, and Dutch would never withhold information unless under direct orders, which meant the top brass had clamped a lid on whatever had transpired at Sentry Post 19.
“Listen,” Sergeant Whitney said. “Do you hear that?”
“What?” Nelson responded, tilting his head. “I don’t—” he began, and then he heard the sound too. A peculiar low intonation coming from far to the south. “What is it?”
“Chanting, I think. Dozens of people.”
“Who the hell would be chanting out there?”
“Beats me,” Sergeant Whitney said with a shrug. “But I don’t like it one bit.”
“Me neither,” Nelson concurred. The chanting had a droning, rhythmic quality, rising and falling in an eerie cadence, the individual words, if there were any, indistinguishable.
“I’m calling for reinforcements,” Sergeant Whitney announced, and went to take a step, but he glanced down the road and did a double take.
“Do you see what I see?”
Nelson looked, and for a moment doubted his own vision.
A white horse and rider were approaching the sentry post at a sedate pace. One instant the highway had been empty, and the next they were in the middle of the road, as if they had materialized out of thin air, near the structures about 200 yards away.
“Where’d they come from?” Nelson asked.
“Maybe they came from behind those buildings and we didn’t notice,” Sergeant Whitney conjectured.
Nelson squinted, discerning dark, flowing, shoulder-length hair on the rider. “It’s a woman!”
“Yep.”
“What’s a woman doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”
“How should I know?”
“Where’d she get a white horse?” Nelson asked in astonishment.
“What I’d like to know,” Whitney said, “is where are her clothes?”
Nelson studied the rider, his eyes widening in amazement as he realized Whitney spoke the truth. The woman appeared to be naked! Except for the hair falling over her breasts, she wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing.
“This can’t be happening. I must be dreaming.”
“Cover her,” Sergeant Whitney instructed, resting the barrel of his M-16 on the top rail.
“Do you want me to frisk her when she arrives?” Nelson asked hopefully.
“Wait until I tell Cindy on you,” Whitney joked.
The woman rode ever closer, the clopping of the horse’s hoofs growing louder and louder. Her right hand held the reins, her left lay on her left thigh.
“Who are you?” Sergeant Whitney called out when the woman was 50 yards off. “What do you want?”
She did not reply.
Sergeant Whitney wagged the M-16. “Didn’t you hear me? What’s your name?”
Still she came on without responding.
“Do you want me to shoot her?” Nelson offered in jest. “She might be hiding a hand grenade in her hair.” He chuckled at his own joke and stared at the woman. At a range of 40 yards he could see a smile on her rather lovely features. He also saw strange greenish dots on her body, dots that grew in size with each passing yard until, at 75 feet, the dots had blossomed into distinct green splotches marking her skin from her chin to her feet.
Sergeant Whitney had also seen them. “Halt!” he shouted. “Stop where you are!”
But again the woman refused to acknowledge the noncom.
“I’m warning you!” Whitney yelled, elevating the M-16. “This is an official entry point into the Civilized Zone. No one enters without permission. Stop or I’ll shoot.”
The naked woman continued to ride toward them.
“Please! Halt!” Whitney commanded, and aimed at her forehead. “I’ll count to three, and then I’ll fire.”
Nelson watched her move forward, flabbergasted by her audacity.
“One!” Sergeant Whitney declared.
She smiled even more broadly.
“Two!”
The woman was only 20 yards from the gate when she unexpectedly reined in. “Hello,” she greeted them in a pleasant, melodious voice. “Don’t shoot me.”
Sergeant Whitney slowly lowered his M-16. “Who are you?”
“My name is Marta,” the woman said. She leaned down to pat her mount on the neck, exposing her large breasts to their view. “This is Victor.”
“I’m Sergeant Whitney of the Civilized Zone Army,” the noncom informed her, and motioned at Nelson. “This is Private Nelson. I’m afraid we can’t allow you to proceed any further north. We’ll have to notify our superior officer of your presence. You can’t enter the Civilized Zone unless Lieutenant Garber personally approves your admittance and you pass your physical.” He paused and eyed her quizzically. “You do want to enter, don’t you?”