Dexter spun around in confusion as gunfire erupted from behind home plate. One by one, the soldiers in the compound fell, clutching at their wounds, unable to even get their weapons free.
Stacy shrank back behind the foliage in horror. Only Dexter was left standing.
Then she saw a tall, silver-haired man step out of the darkness. With him were half a dozen more men. All of them wore grimy overalls; most were holding automatic weapons. She could see that each had the same tattoo in black letters across his right biceps: F. T. R. A. The silver-haired man walked to where Dexter was standing. They were only twenty feet from her.
"I told you we were gonna be friends," the silver-haired man said.
"He was going to kill me," Dexter stammered. "How did you know?"
"I know all about you, brother. Your coming is foretold in Revelation."
"What?" Dexter asked, confused.
" 'One of the four beasts gave unto the seven angels seven golden vials full of the wrath of God,' " Fannon quoted. " 'The first angel poured out his vial onto the earth, and there fell a noisome and grievous sore upon them which had the mark of the beast, and upon them which worshiped his image' " Fannon smiled at Dexter. "You an' me, we're gonna pour some a' that wrath you been cookin' outta your vial onto the earth. We're gonna destroy the lower races. Niggers and Jews. Whatta you think a' that, bub?" Then Fannon took Dexter by the elbow, and along with his band of armed hobos, he led the bewildered microbiologist off the baseball diamond.
As they passed, Stacy Richardson used her last exposure on a firelit close-up of Fannon Kincaid.
Chapter 13
He's dropping air," Lucky said, after the freight crested the pass. They could hear air brakes hissing, indicating the engineer was slowing for the long downhill grade ahead. The freight crested the pass and began rumbling down the northern range of the Black Hills. The diesel engine was a big black-and-orange SD 45-2 high-hood road locomotive. "These were used by the Denver Rio Grande Railroad for long hauls," Lucky said, realizing that probably meant it was a "mixed" train containing a variety of different kinds of cars. Lucky was "scoping the drag," looking for one that would be easy for Mike to board with his broken ribs. Thankfully, the onset of D. T. S had subsided for the moment, killed by the exertion of climbing the rugged terrain to the rail, or by the earlier jolt of adrenaline as he watched the two soldiers die. But Lucky's stomach was rolling. For the last hour he'd felt as if he was about to throw up.
They were in a perfect place to catch out. The train had slowed to five miles an hour at the mountain pass. Lucky and Mike were crouched low, out of sight, as the big yellow MoPac diesel rumbled by. Then came a long line of piggyback cars, known as "pigs." Lucky was looking for a sleeper, because often one was left between two long lines of the same kind of cars. Not this time. The fifteen pigs rumbled past immediately followed by twenty stack cars, not good for hoboing. The double-decker stacks were thickly loaded with huge metal containers, which often shifted and had crushed more than one sleeping 'bo. Then came a dozen closed grainers, followed by a line of gondolas.
"About to get boned here," Lucky murmured. "Shoulda caught one a' them pigs."
They were running out of train when he finally saw a few "ledged grainers" coming toward them. They were old cars, not very common anymore, characterized by a narrow ledge on each end just wide enough to sit on. It wasn't the best option, but at least it was an easy car to get on.
"Okay, let's take the green one, second old grainer after the row of reds," Lucky said. He held his hands out in front of him to check his nerves. His hands were shaking badly. "Shit, these fuckers are comin' back," he muttered.
Mike didn't answer. When Lucky looked over at him he saw a strange, troubled look in Hollywood Mike's eyes.
"Let's go!" Lucky said. They took off running up the tracks. Lucky sprinted along next to the car, trying to find his coordination, which was just about lost now. He was feeling awkward, as his neurons and muscles trembled inside his body, on the verge of turning on him, attacking his voluntary nervous system. Lucky grabbed the ladder handle with his left hand and swung himself up onto the small ledge at the back of the car. He moved over as Mike grabbed the handle, gritting his teeth in pain. Lucky grabbed Mike's shirt, and with great effort, finally hauled him aboard.
They were now sitting backward, looking at the front of the grain car behind them. The tracks were flashing past; under their feet the huge metal coupling was groaning and creaking with the changing stress of the car.
"How's the ribs?" Lucky asked, his own nerves rioting in his alcohol-ravaged system. Again, Mike didn't answer.
The train had crested the peak at the top of the grade and was now picking up speed, heading downhill.
The ledge they were on was only two feet wide. If they fell off, they would land in the space between the cars and be run over and maimed, if not killed, by the car behind.
Lucky sat with his feet dangling, looking at the back of Mike's head. "You okay?" he asked.
Mike spun his head around. "Stop askin'. You're not in charge a' me," he snapped.
Now Lucky could see a shiny menacing glare in Mike's eyes that he had never seen before. "Calm down," he said. "I was just-"
"Screw you," Mike said, and then without warning the train went into a tunnel, and they were both in diesel-choking, inky blackness.
"Been through this tunnel before," Lucky screamed over the echoed racket. "Only a mile long. Hold yer breath."
"Shut the fuck up," Mike screamed back.
Suddenly and strangely, Lucky could feel Mike's hands clawing at him in the dark.
"Whatta you doin'?" Lucky yelled, knocking Mike's hands away. "Don't screw around. Dangerous back here." There was no light at all, and worse still, the tunnel was becoming thick with throat-closing exhaust.
"Fuck you!" Mike screamed. Then Mike's hands were back up by Lucky's throat. Before Lucky could defend himself, Mike had him in a strangulation grip, and was squeezing hard, shutting off Lucky's air supply.
"The fuck you doin'?" Lucky croaked, letting go of valuable air. He could hear Mike's teeth snapping close by his ear. His friend was actually trying to bite him! "Leggo! Leggo me!" Lucky protested, inhaling heavy diesel smoke that was closing his constricted windpipe.
Lucky did not want to hit Mike, but he was beginning to feel his consciousness dimming. He couldn't see anything in the black tunnel. Finally, in desperation, he swung a short-chopping right hand in the general direction of where he thought Mike's busted ribs were. He landed the blow and heard Mike scream in pain. Mike's grip on his neck loosened slightly, and Lucky inhaled another quick breath of lung-choking smoke. They were struggling in the pitch black, fighting each other on the narrow ledge. Lucky was trying to save his own life without throwing Mike off the grainer and under the steel wheels.
He couldn't fathom why Mike was attacking him. The noise of the train was magnified in the tunnel, but over the racket Lucky could hear Mike screaming, "You're dead, fucker!"
Once Lucky had pried Mike's hands off his neck, he instinctively fell back on his old Marine Special Forces Recon training. Instead of pushing Mike away, he pulled him closer, encircling Mike's trunk with both arms. Fueled by adrenaline from the unexpected attack, Lucky began to squeeze Mike hard, using as much force as he could. Mike screamed as his broken ribs shot pain through his torso, then Lucky head-butted him.
They flashed back out of the tunnel into pale moonlight. Overhead lights attached to a parallel trestle strobed over them. Lucky now spun Mike away from him and quickly looped an arm around Mike's throat. As he struggled and fought, Lucky choked him out, compressing his carotid arteries until Mike was unconscious. Then Lucky held his slumped friend tight, so he wouldn't fall off the narrow platform.