“Potter’s Junkyard,” as the locals called it, wasn’t harboring any Chimera, not unless you counted the five skulls arranged directly in front of the house, each sitting atop its own carefully planted pole. Each trophy wore a cap of white and an extra eye socket, where a bullet had passed through—tributes to Potter’s stalking skills and his prowess with the Mauser bolt action rifle he treasured so highly. It was a weapon that employed the high-powered 6.5 X 68mm Von Hofe Express cartridges favored by German hunters in the Alps.
“Wow,” Mark said, as he examined the skulls. “That was good shooting.”
“Yes,” Hale agreed soberly, “it was. Even though it was my dad who taught me how to shoot, Mr. Potter took my education to the next level. He didn’t believe in scopes, he thought semiautos were for sissies, and when he went deer hunting he took one bullet with him.”
“So where is he?” Tina inquired pragmatically, as she looked around.
“I have no idea,” Hale replied. “Dead most likely. He was like my parents, like a lot of folks around here, which is to say stubborn. So when the Chimera came, chances are he fought them. Five lives for one… That isn’t bad.”
“So what are we going to do?” Mark wanted to know. “Hide here?”
Hale shook his head.
“No, we have a plane to catch, and about eight hours to reach the landing zone. What we’re looking for is a ride.” He glanced around, then turned toward them again. “Wait here and keep your eyes peeled. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Hale’s boots produced a hollow sound as he made his way up onto the porch, opened the door, and entered Potter’s living room. And that’s where the old man was, rifle across his lap, sitting in a rocking chair. He was dead of course, and had been for weeks, judging from the condition of his mummy like corpse. A few hanks of white hair still hung from his leathery scalp, his eyes were gone, and his tobacco-stained teeth were bared in a permanent grin. Potter’s bib overalls were intact however, as were his lace-up boots, which could be seen below a length of bright bone. Surprisingly there were no signs of violence, leading Hale to suppose that Potter had died of natural causes, while sitting in his shabby parlor waiting for the Chimera to come. Hale nodded respectfully as he circled the chair and went back to the 1920s-style kitchen. The homemade key rack was hanging right next to the back door. Would the vehicle Hale had in mind start? There was no way to know for sure, but he took the keys to the Lyon dump truck, and passed out through the living room.
Out front, Mark and Tina were eating oatmeal patties they had fried up the evening before.
“Come on,” Hale said, “let’s see if we’re going to walk or ride.”
It had been years since Hale had been back to visit Potter, but he wasn’t surprised to find the truck where he’d last seen it, parked next to the old man’s rickety workshop. The outlines of the vehicle were plain to see in spite of the snow, including the Lyon’s considerable bulk, the flat two-panel windshield, the softly rounded cab, and the chromed lion that stood on the hood with one paw lifted as if in mid-step.
Would the engine start? Although Potter wasn’t much of a housekeeper, he had always been meticulous as far as his machines were concerned, even going so far as to fire up the fishing boat’s diesel on a regular basis. So there was reason to hope as Hale circled the snow-encrusted rig and confirmed that all of the truck’s six tires were inflated.
With that established he put a foot on the driver’s-side running board, opened the door, and climbed into the cab. The flat bench-style seat squeaked under his weight as he pushed the clutch all the way to the floor, checked to make sure the stick shift was in neutral, and turned the key.
The starter produced a weak ur-ur-ur sound, but nothing happened. The battery was low, the engine was cold, and Hale could feel his hopes starting to slip away.
“Come on, baby,” he muttered. “Do it for Mr. Potter.”
The starter produced the same ur-ur-ur sound, followed by a loud bang that caused Hale to jump. Then came a friendly rattle as all six cylinders began to fire.
“That’s right!” Hale said exultantly, as he revved the engine. “I knew you could do it.”
The fuel gauge was down to a quarter-tank, so the next fifteen minutes were spent searching for gas, and then pouring it in. Hale let the engine run throughout the process fearing that the Lyon would refuse to start a second time.
The cab was far too small for three people and their gear, so they put most of their equipment in back, and kept only weapons and ammo up front. Hale placed both the Fareye and the Rossmore in the bed of the truck and used some cord to tie everything down.
Finally with the sawed-off .410 shotgun lying across his lap, Tina sitting astride the gear shift, and Mark on the passenger side, they were ready to go. He shifted into low, let the clutch out, and stepped on the gas. The engine roared, ugly black smoke belched out of the Lyon’s twin stacks, and the dump truck began to roll.
Heat was pouring into the cab by that time and the snow had stopped. Frank Sinatra was singing “April in Paris” as Mark turned the AM radio on, and a familiar voice was heard as the song came to an end.
“Hello, fellow citizens, this is Jack Peavy, welcoming you to the Jack Peavy News Hour.” The announcer’s voice was deep and resonant, and he spoke with the authority of a man who knew things other people didn’t.
“Contrary to information put out by the so-called Freedom First party,” Peavy said, “we have reports that the Army is battling the Chimera in South Dakota, and has recently won a major engagement near Rapid City. Once the hard-fought battle was over, thousands of enemy bodies lay on the bloodied snow…”
“That’s bullshit!” Mark exclaimed, as he clicked the broadcast off. “Do you see any god-damned soldiers here?”
“Lieutenant Hale is here,” Tina replied tartly, “and Mom doesn’t like it when you swear.”
“Mom’s dead,” Mark replied bleakly. “Hell, just about everybody’s dead, so far as I can tell, and Peavy is lying.”
Peavy was lying, or that’s how it appeared to Hale, as he downshifted and caressed the brake, careful not to put the truck into a skid. The main road lay just ahead, and judging from the way it looked, it was heavily used. With his heart beating faster, he made a right-hand turn onto the pavement. They were committed at that point, because the bridge was only two miles away, and there was nowhere else to go.
He upshifted, put his foot down, and upshifted again. Within minutes the truck was doing its top speed of sixty and rattling like a can full of marbles as it charged down the middle of the road and threw waves of slush to both sides.
They were approaching the bridge when a Chimeran Stalker lurched out onto the road ahead of him, repositioned its turretlike body, and fired on the truck. Hale was familiar with the big crablike machines, having piloted one in the past. So he knew how dangerous they could be.
His eyes narrowed as a steady stream of machine gun projectiles kicked up geysers of dirt and snow. Fortunately, the gunner hadn’t latched on to them yet, as Tina covered both eyes. Was there enough room? Yes, Hale thought there was, and proceeded to bet all their lives as he swerved to the right, then left again.
The Chimeran pilot attempted to respond, but the dump truck was more agile than it was, and managed to swerve around the mech, before it could be repositioned. Machine gun bullets followed the truck south, but the pilot couldn’t fire missiles without hitting the bridge and the guards that had been positioned to defend it.