It took a full twenty minutes to saddle the horse, get Locke up onto the animal’s back, and load his belongings into some saddlebags. Then Capelli led the heavily laden horse down the graveled drive. He planned to head east, in the direction they had been going originally, and find a place to hole up. They could hit the road again once Locke felt better.
But finding such a hideout wouldn’t be easy. Locke was slumped forward in the saddle, morning wasn’t that far away, and Capelli had no idea where to look for shelter.
The next few hours unwound slowly. The journey was interrupted on two different occasions when Locke fell out of the saddle and hit the ground. After the second incident, Capelli tried to rope his client in place. But the horse didn’t like the way the rope passed under her belly, and during the periods when Locke was lucid, he complained about the fact that his wrists were secured to the saddle horn.
There was quite a bit of starlight, so Capelli could see some of the features around him, and take occasional side trips to inspect anything that might serve as a hideout. But none of the deserted houses, barns, or silos felt right. And Capelli had learned to trust his instincts.
So the first blush of dawn was visible along the eastern horizon by the time he spotted the concrete grain elevator and left the highway to check it out. The ten-story-high concrete cylinder held very little interest for him. The outbuildings were worth a look, however. They included a small stand-alone office structure and a storage shed, both of which had been looted and would offer little or no protection during a firefight.
But about fifty feet away, right next to a faded sign that read “Storm Shelter,” was a slab of angled concrete to which a rusty steel door was attached. Metal squealed as Capelli pulled the barrier open and pointed the Rossmore’s light down into the black hole below. A short flight of stairs led down to a room about eight feet wide and twelve feet long, furnished with metal benches that ran along both walls, a folding card table, and some rickety chairs.
Had the elevator workers used the underground shelter as a lunchroom on hot days? Or gone there to take illicit naps? Yes, judging from the half-naked pinup girls on the walls, Capelli thought they had. A brunette with the title “Miss October” seemed to watch him, her smile forever frozen in place, as he checked the inside surface of the door. He was pleased to find a steel bar that would allow him to lock the shelter from within.
An Auger could send blasts of transient radiation right through the barrier, of course, but the underground shelter would be impervious to just about everything else, and was unlikely to draw attention from all but the most meticulous of searchers. Especially if he removed the sign.
All these factors played into the final decision. But the first rays of light from the steadily rising sun, and Locke’s deteriorating condition, settled the matter. The shelter would have to do.
Capelli’s first task was to prepare a bed on one of the long benches, and revive Locke long enough to get him down off the horse, and into the shelter. Then it was time to take all of the supplies down, whistle Rowdy in, and remove the horse’s bridle, saddle, and blanket. He wasn’t especially good at the task, but Capelli got the job done.
Then, painful though the decision was, he had to turn the animal loose. Partly because he lacked the knowledge required to care for the beast, but for another reason as welclass="underline" the horse was like a neon sign pointing at a human presence. A simple slap on the hindquarters was enough to send the animal trotting away.
Capelli knew it was important not only to take cover but to tend Locke’s wound. But water was critical too. And a line of very lush trees about two hundred yards away hinted at the presence of a river or stream.
Arming himself with the Marksman, and picking up a couple of galvanized buckets taken from the storage shed, Capelli made his way across a grassy field to a spot where a game trail led to the stream below. Sheets of water flew and droplets of moisture sparkled in the morning sun as Rowdy charged into the brook.
Capelli followed the dog into the stream. After quenching his thirst, he filled the buckets and carried them back to the shelter. Rowdy entered on his own, so all Capelli had to do was put the buckets down, and close the door behind him. It was safe to do so thanks to the presence of an air vent. The metal lock bar screeched as it slid into place.
Then it was time to light candles and turn his attention to Locke. The big man was only semiconscious, but he came to for a moment, as Capelli removed the bandage. “Capelli? Where are we?”
“We’re in a storm shelter. All you need to do is get better. Here… Have some water.”
Capelli held the cup to Locke’s lips and the big man took a couple of sips. “Sorry,” Locke croaked. “Sorry to be so much trouble.”
Then he was gone again. Either asleep or unconscious. Not that it made much difference. The good news was that the bleeding had stopped. But Locke’s forehead was hot, his breathing was shallow, and the margins around the puncture wounds were red.
Capelli found three packets of antibacterial sulfa powder in Locke’s first-aid kit, sprinkled one of them over the holes, and replaced the old dressing with a new one.
Then it was time to pour some water into a pan for Rowdy, heat some beans over a can of Sterno, and eat. Just minutes after finishing his meal an overwhelming sense of fatigue came over Capelli. He extinguished all but one of the candles and slipped into his sleeping bag, giving himself permission to take a one-hour nap.
Capelli awoke more than five hours later with a painful headache, a foul taste in his mouth, and an urgent need to pee. All of which had been sufficient to wake him. Or had they? The candle had burned out, so it was pitch black as Rowdy growled, and what felt like an earthquake shook the shelter.
Capelli fumbled for the flashlight, found it, and sat up. “What is it boy? What do you hear?”
The answer came as something hit the ground nearby and Capelli felt the resulting vibration through the soles of his feet. There were a number of possible causes. And none of them were good. Was a Chimeran hunter-killer team outside? Complete with a big spider-like Stalker? Or was something even larger on the loose?
Of course Capelli knew there were flesh-and-blood possibilities as well. Like a Titan, or God forbid, a Leviathan. Although that seemed unlikely, because monsters like the one that had laid waste to most of downtown Chicago were rare. Not that the exact size of the menace made much difference, since all he could do was sit in his hidey-hole and hope for the best.
Then Capelli heard the whine of powerful servos through the vertical air vent and knew that one of his earlier guesses had been correct. Some sort of Chimeran mech was in the area. Looking for the two humans? Or just looking? And alone? Or in company with a force of Hybrids? There was no way to know as he waited for the Auger blasts to tunnel down through the concrete roof and kill him.
But Capelli’s fears began to dissipate as the noise faded away. He waited for a couple of minutes and, not having heard or felt anything, concluded that they were safe for the moment.
Having taken care of his own physical needs, Capelli went to work on Locke’s. The big man was in a bad way. He was semiconscious at best, his skin felt unnaturally hot in spite of the cold air, and Capelli knew his client was dehydrated. All of which were bad. But worst of all was the foul odor that invaded his nostrils when the bandage came off. Capelli’s spirits plummeted.
Why so glum? the voice inquired cheerfully. There’s nothing like a bullet in the head to put a patient right! Go ahead! Take care of Locke the way you took care of me.
Screw you, Hale.