Meanwhile, Susan could hear Brewster swearing as he battled to regain his feet and hoist his pants up. Did she have time to load four of the six chambers? Or only three? It was a life-and-death decision. Because Brewster was a lot bigger and stronger than she was. And if he got his hands on her, the fight would be over very quickly indeed.
Susan chose to close the gate after inserting three rounds. She turned just in time. Brewster shouted something incoherent and charged. Susan squeezed the trigger and heard an impotent click as the hammer fell on an empty chamber. It was a single-action revolver. So before she could fire the weapon a second time she had to pull the hammer back again. Was there enough time? Or was she about to die?
Brewster was only inches away when the pistol went off. The lead slug punched a hole through his intestines and blew a bloody divot out of his back. He swayed drunkenly, looked down at his belly, and was still trying to inspect the damage when he keeled over backwards.
Susan brought the Colt up and was holding it with both hands as Pardo and Olson charged into the cavern. The men were heavily armed and with only two bullets left, each shot would have to count. Pardo took a slug in the chest, stumbled, and took a nosedive.
Olson fired, missed, and paid the price when a well-aimed bullet smashed through his forehead. His boots left the floor, and he seemed to float briefly, before landing with arms spread. Dust exploded up out of the carpet.
Susan stood there for a moment as gun smoke swirled around her head. Then, conscious of how vulnerable she was, she circled around behind the desk. Less than a minute later, the pistol was reloaded and ready in her hand as she crossed the room to where the green Hudson’s Bay blanket hung.
After slipping through the doorway, she followed a short tunnel to a wooden ladder. A patch of gray sky was visible above. Brewster had been careful to provide himself with a back door and Susan planned to use it. But not until she returned to the cavern and collected at least some of what she would need in order to survive outside.
She had just reentered the cave, and was about to visit the weapons rack, when Brewster uttered a heart-rending groan. “I’ll bet that smarts,” Susan said unsympathetically. Then she shot him in the head. “Have a nice trip to hell.”
CHAPTER FOUR
BAD COMPANY
The sky was blue, the highway was gray, and Capelli was running. With each stride, his sixty-pound pack parted company with his sweat-slicked back and hit him. He could just drop it, of course. But what then? How long would he last without food or backup ammo? Although that would be a moot point if the stinks caught up with him. At least a dozen of the creatures were closing in on them including a squad of Hybrids, a couple of Steelheads, and a hulking Ravager. None of which was of any concern to Rowdy, who was loping along at Capelli’s side with his mouth open and his tongue flapping in the breeze.
Capelli glanced back over his shoulder, only to see that Locke had lost even more ground. He knew it was just a matter of time before the stinks caught up with the businessman.
Capelli felt the ground start to rise as he passed a black Ford, a yellow Buick, and a work-worn John Deere tractor. The machine was hooked to a trailer that had been looted of everything except a rotting couch. But the combination of the incline and the presence of some abandoned vehicles gave Capelli an idea. A desperate one to be sure, but anything was better than letting the stinks gnaw on his bones, so he began to scan the cars ahead. Their batteries were dead, and had been for a long time, but maybe, just maybe, he could start one of the vehicles by compression. All he needed was a downhill slope, a key that had been left in the ignition, and tires that weren’t flat. And some gas. Enough to get them five miles down the highway.
Laughter echoed in his head. Sure, the voice said mockingly. That would be wonderful. By why stop there? How ’bout a VTOL, complete with a beautiful stewardess, and a well-stocked bar?
Capelli wasn’t about to be baited. The top of the rise was just ahead. The pack slapped him on the back as he ran, his lungs were on fire, and his feet felt as if they were made of lead. Then, just when it seemed as if the torture would never end, he was there. The burgundy Oldsmobile was riddled with holes, and bones spilled out onto the highway when he opened the door. They rattled as they hit the ground.
A skull grinned at Capelli from the passenger seat as he eyed the floor and saw two pedals. No clutch, so the 88 had an automatic transmission. And Capelli knew it was damned near impossible to push-start one of those, so he slammed the door and looked back.
Locke was struggling. What had been a clumsy running motion had deteriorated into an awkward shamble. And farther back, partially concealed by the shimmering heat, the Chimera could be seen. And if they were tired, there was no evidence of it.
Capelli swore, turned back towards the top of the rise, and forced himself to run. He passed a truck, but it was blackened by fire. The first vehicle on the reverse side of the slope was sitting atop three good tires, but the fourth was flat. It wasn’t perfect, but it was worth investigating.
Capelli uttered a silent prayer as he approached the 1949 Nash Airflyte and opened the door. What he saw was sufficient to elicit a whoop of joy. The Nash had a stick shift! But his spirits fell when he realized that the ignition key was missing.
Then Capelli remembered that the trunk had been left open. A quick inspection revealed that a set of keys was dangling from the trunk lock. And while everything else was gone, the spare was right where it was supposed to be. As was a jack.
“What-you-got?” Locke inquired as he coasted to a stop and stood with chest heaving.
“A way to outrun the stinks,” Capelli answered, dumping his pack onto the ground. “How are you at changing tires?”
“I was a car dealer, remember?” Locke replied, as he shrugged his pack off.
“Good. Put the spare on as quickly as you can. Then, when the car is ready to roll, give me a holler. We’ll start it on compression.”
Locke pulled the jack out of the trunk and turned to meet Capelli’s gaze. “What if this baby is out of gas?”
“Then all of our troubles will be over,” Capelli predicted grimly.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to slow ’em down,” Capelli answered. “Or try to. Don’t forget to throw our packs into the car. Rowdy. Stay.” Then he was gone.
Rather than go over the rise, and lose visual contact with Locke, Capelli knelt next to the burned-out truck’s half-melted rear tires. As he brought the rifle to bear on the Chimera, he was shocked to see how much closer the aliens were. But that put them within range, which meant an opportunity to slow them down.
Capelli panned from left to right as a variety of heads bobbed up and down within the circle of his telescopic sight. But the one he wanted most towered above all the rest. Because if he could nail the largest and most powerful stink, it would not only reduce the overall threat but cause the lesser forms to advance more slowly.
But he had to bag the monster with a single head shot. Because if he didn’t, the Ravager would activate a shield so powerful his rifle wouldn’t be able to punch through it. And that would submarine his plan.
The stinks were at the bottom of the slope. It took all the nerve Capelli could muster to focus on the Ravager and capture the rhythm of the creature’s movements. Up-down, up-down, up-blam!