“There you go, Twitch… The second half of your fee.”
Twitch looked down, then straight ahead again.
“Thank you, Mr. Paulson… And one more thing…”
Walker’s eyebrows rose.
“Yes?”
“If the stinks close in, shoot Mrs. Paulson right away.”
Walker felt a cold, clammy hand clutch at his intestines, and never got a chance to reply as the car skidded to a halt.
“Now!” Twitch said urgently, and he pointed. “Run east, that way!”
So Walker hopped out and opened the passenger-side door for Myra. She handed her husband the pump-action Winchester shotgun purchased in Indianapolis, and got out of the car.
They shut the doors in quick succession, and true to his word Twitch made a U-turn, skidding around until the tires found traction and the car headed back the way it had come. A few seconds later it was gone, as a pair of beams appeared to the south.
Having already shouldered his pack, Walker helped position Myra’s, and led his wife up off the road. There was a three-foot bank, and no sooner had they climbed it than a flash of light strobed the wintry landscape and a clap of what sounded like thunder rolled across the land.
“The bastards got Twitch,” Walker said bitterly while a fireball floated up into the night sky. “God damn them to hell!”
There was no time to wonder who—or what—the bastards were, or to mourn Twitch, as the headlights quickly grew brighter. The two of them turned and ran.
The snow was deep, however, and it was slow going. They hadn’t made much progress when a loud thrumming noise filled the air. It came from above, some sort of aircraft. Suddenly a bright spotlight shot down to sweep the ground in front of the fugitives.
They changed course and ran north, both gasping for breath by that time, but to no avail. The spotlight—or the Chimera who were operating it—seemed to know exactly where they were as a circle of white light washed over them.
Walker pumped a shell into the shotgun’s chamber, and was about to shoot Myra in the back of the head when a ball of blue light hit him from above. His muscles seized up and he fell helpless to the ground.
Myra was firing her pistol up into the air by then, but the puny .38 caliber bullets had no effect on the ship that was hovering above, and seconds later she, too, was lying on the ground, her face contorted in pain. Without warning the light disappeared as the aircraft responsible for it veered to the east, and the thrumming noise began to fade into the distance.
Walker struggled to regain control of his body, and had just managed to sit up when a cluster of handheld electric torches came bobbing out of the surrounding darkness. One of them was directed into his face as a pair of Hybrids jerked him to his feet.
“I have no idea whether you want to live,” a female voice said, “but if you do then don’t resist.” The voice was human.
Walker was still processing the words when the pack was jerked off his back and alien fingers probed his clothing. They found and removed the .45, two spare magazines, and his folding knife. But other items, including Walker’s wallet, compass, and the recorder taped to the small of his back were left where they were. Whether that was intentional, or the result of a sloppy search, wasn’t clear. Later, after they had a chance to talk, Walker would discover that Myra’s experience had been similar. It was as if the stinks were after weapons—but had no interest in anything else.
And why should they? Anything that couldn’t hurt them was irrelevant.
As Walker squinted his eyes against the bright light the torch came up to light the woman’s face from below. She had short gray hair, haunted eyes, and a pointed chin. It gave her an elfin look. A metal collar was buckled around her neck—and a silvery chain led off into the darkness.
“My name is Norma,” she said. “Norma Collins. I’m a fifth-grade teacher from Kokomo. You are to return to the road.”
“You can speak with them?” Myra wanted to know.
“No, of course not,” Collins answered, contempt in her voice. “No one can. But I know what they want. Now move… Or all three of us will be punished.”
As he and Myra turned toward the road, Walker caught a glimpse of what he would come to know as a Steelhead standing immediately behind Collins. The vehicle Twitch had spotted in his rearview mirror was idling below. It was a Lyon flatbed truck, and it appeared to be new—most likely it had been taken from a dealership.
A vicious-looking Hybrid snarled at Myra, who hurried over to the tailgate, where two men were waiting to pull her up. Walker was next, and he soon found himself wedged in amongst approximately twenty people, all standing, as the engine revved and the truck jerked into motion. For a moment he couldn’t see Myra, and he panicked, but then their eyes met.
At that moment the lights that illuminated them were extinguished. There was a horrible clashing of gears as the Hybrid in the driver’s seat missed second and Walker heard a voice in his right ear. “We call the stink behind the wheel Shit-for-Brains,” the man explained. “He’s still learning to drive.”
Walker couldn’t see the man’s face, but he had the impression of a big bearlike body, and a forceful personality.
“Where are we headed?” Walker inquired.
“Beats me,” came the answer. “But I’m in no hurry to get there. How ′bout you?”
Walker couldn’t help but smile ruefully.
“Point taken. But why stay aboard? We could jump off.”
“Take another look,” the man replied. “Up at the cab.” Walker turned, saw that the top half of a Hybrid was sticking up through a hole cut in the roof. The cab light was on, so the ′brid was lit from the bottom, and the weapon cradled in his arms was plain to see.
“My name’s Burl,” the man said. “Harley Burl. I can’t say it’s a pleasure to meet you, or any of these other folks for that matter, but welcome aboard. The good news is that we’re all bound for heaven. Except for Norma Collins that is… She’s going to hell.”
Time seemed to stretch after that, as the truck rumbled through the night and the prisoners sat or stood huddled together for warmth. Night gradually gave way to day, as if the darkness was reluctant to surrender its power over the land and allow another day to begin.
The sun was victorious but was little more than a dimly seen presence off to the east where a layer of thick clouds filtered the sun and kept any warmth from reaching the badly ravaged landscape. Everywhere Walker looked he saw deserted homes, wrecked vehicles, and the unmistakable signs of defeat. The truck had bypassed Chicago and was headed toward Rockford when a battlefield appeared off to the right. Just one of the many places where the Army and the Marine Corps had attempted to make a stand. Something which Walker, as the former Secretary of War, understood better than most.
Wrecked M-12 Sabertooth tanks, LU-P Lynx All-Purpose Vehicles, and shattered Chimeran Stalkers stretched away into the distance, and Walker knew that thousands of dead soldiers lay below the shroud of snow. Eventually, when spring came, a vast boneyard would be revealed. Because the Battle of Rockford, like so many other battles, had been irretrievably lost.
Then the panorama was gone. Farmhouses blipped past, and the truck began to pick up speed. Myra, who was standing directly in front of him now, turned her head.
“The road, it’s icy! We’re going too fast!”
Walker agreed with her, and others did as well, but they were powerless to do anything about the situation as Shit-for-Brains took advantage of a long straightaway to make better time. Before long the Lyon was up to fifty miles per hour as it roared down the center of the highway.