“So nothing has changed? Grace still plans to negotiate with the Chimera?”
Walker scowled.
“He says that the Omega Project is an option, not a policy, but that’s a crock. Things are going poorly, dearest… Very poorly. And it’s only a matter of time before he tries to contact them. He says we could use the negotiations to buy time. I think Grace has something else in mind.”
The maid entered the room at that point, so Myra was forced to wait for her to serve the coffee and go out before she could ask the obvious question.
“You said Grace has something else in mind… What would that be?”
Walker took a sip of coffee and put the cup down.
“I don’t know for sure, but if I had to guess, I’d say he hopes to cut a deal for himself.”
Myra shook her head sadly.
“The rotten bastard. So this is it? We’re leaving?”
“Yes,” Walker said soberly, “assuming you agree. I have all of it on the recorder. We’ll make our way to Chicago and link up with Freedom First. Then, once they broadcast the recordings for the American people to hear, Grace will be forced out of office.”
Although the Walkers’ hometown of Chicago had been overrun by the Chimera, a few hundred brave men and women still lived there, hiding in basements, sewers, or any other spot they could find. Places from which lightning-fast strikes could be launched against the Chimera, even as uncensored radio broadcasts went out over the airwaves.
Something which, ironically enough, would have been almost impossible to accomplish in government-controlled areas.
So Myra knew that what her husband proposed to do verged on suicidal, but she also knew it was important as well, and she smiled bravely.
“Yes, Henry, of course I agree. All of the preparations have been made. I can be ready in an hour.”
He stood and took Myra’s hand as she came to her feet.
“I love you,” he said.
“Yes,” Myra answered softly, as his lips met hers. “I know.”
As Walker and his wife left the house they knew they had about eight hours—twelve at most—before they would be missed. Although the couple normally made use of a chauffeur, they had been careful to take outings on their own as well, so the servants would think nothing of it as their employers drove away.
Later, once the truth was known, each staff member would receive a full month’s severance pay.
Walker took the wheel of the black Bromley and guided the car out into traffic. Their destination was in the southeast quadrant of the city, but rather than head there directly, he chose a meandering route which provided him the opportunity to make sure they weren’t being followed. Not so much by the police, but by members of the Domestic Security Agency, the increasingly aggressive arm of government tasked with identifying dissidents and taking them off the street.
When he was confident that no one was following them, Walker drove the car to a working-class district where they parked behind a church, then walked the last three blocks to a small one-bedroom apartment that had been rented under a false name. That was where two suitcases were waiting, along with a selection of equipment, all of which would come in handy once they made it to Chicago.
An hour later, with the recorder in one coat pocket and an Army-issue Colt .45 semiautomatic in the other, Walker was ready to go. Myra was right behind him as he carried both suitcases down three flights of shabby stairs and out to the street, where it was still raining. A battered station wagon was parked at the curb. Having loaded the suitcases into the back, Walker opened the passenger-side door, waited for Myra to get in, and circled around to get behind the wheel.
The engine caught on the third try, the wipers slapped from side to side, and a siren could be heard off in the distance. No one was present to see them off, other than the local postman—and he was busy delivering the mail.
After years spent living in a city which neither one of them enjoyed, it felt good to be free. Even if their next home was likely to be a good deal less pleasant.
The car pulled away.
CHAPTER SIX
Home Sweet Home
Near Draper, South Dakota
Wednesday, November 21, 1951
Snowflakes continued to swirl down out of the pewter gray sky as Hale stood in front of the mass grave, and paid his last respects to his parents and their ranch hands. Then came the clang of metal on metal, which caused him to pivot toward the barn, Rossmore at the ready.
But rather than the sudden burst of gunfire he half expected, the only sounds were the gentle tinkle of the wind chimes hanging from the porch of his childhood home, the rasp of his own breathing, and the steady crunch, crunch, crunch of his footsteps as he made his way over to the barn.
There was a yawning black hole where the big doors hung open. Hale entered cautiously, shotgun at the ready, but saw nothing other than what he expected to see. His father’s office was located at the near end of the cavernous building, the workshop was next to it, and stalls lined the west wall. Stalls Hale had been responsible for mucking out each day along with all the other chores his father insisted on. He’d been resentful then, but those duties didn’t seem so bad now, and Hale would have been glad to return to that carefree time.
The north end of the barn was stacked high with bales of hay intended to get the family’s livestock through the winter.
Hale’s father had purchased sheets of steel and laid them just inside the entrance, where they would protect the wooden floor from the wide range of abuses that the entryway would otherwise have suffered. Now, as Hale took a step forward, he saw a hunting knife lying in the middle of the metal ramp.
His head went back and his eyes focused on the half-loft located directly above his father’s office. A central walkway led across the rafters to the point where the hay was stacked. All of which had been an indoor playground for Susan and himself.
Is someone up there now, concealed by the darkness? Yes, Hale thought so, and he felt certain that the knife’s owner was human. Because had any of the Chimera been present they would have attacked.
“I know you’re here!” Hale shouted. “Come on out… I won’t hurt you. My name is Hale… Lieutenant Nathan Hale. And this is my parents’ ranch.”
There was a long moment of silence, followed by a vague rustling, and the sound of footsteps somewhere over Hale’s head. Then he heard what sounded like a boy’s voice. “Don’t shoot! We’re coming down.”
Moments later the end of a rope slapped the steel ramp, and a boy in his late teens slid down, followed quickly by a younger girl. The boy hurried to retrieve the knife—leaving the girl to speak for both of them. She had big brown eyes, a slightly upturned nose, and a wide mouth.
“My name is Tina. That’s my brother, Mark… He’s the one who dropped the knife. I told him not to play with it, but he did.”
Hale saw that both youngsters were dressed in multiple layers of clothing, and both were armed. The boy had a lightweight Reaper carbine slung across his chest and carried at least half a dozen extra magazines stored in a modified Chimeran battle harness. The girl was wearing some sort of semiauto pistol in a shoulder holster and had what Hale recognized as a sawed-off .410 shotgun as well. The weapon dangled from a lanyard.
“I recognize you,” Tina added. “Except for the eyes… They look Chimeran.”
“You recognize me?” Hale inquired incredulously. “Have we met?”
Tina shook her head.
“No, Mark and I are from Pierre. We were going south when a Chimeran fighter strafed the road. Mommy and Daddy were killed, but we got away. That was four—no, wait—five weeks ago, and we’ve been on our own ever since. The house was empty when we got here, but there were pictures all over the floor. That’s how I knew you.”