The axe.
Galen was backing away, blood pulsing from his ruined nose, pain making him careless. He took his eyes from the woman.
The axe arced down and embedded itself in his skull, the keen blade splitting his cranium like a sword through a melon, the blood and cranial fluid splashing outward. The Troll blinked twice, dead on his feet. He fell slowly, the axe still in his head.
Joan stared at her fallen opponent, catching her breath. He had come so close!
Trent was lying still, unconscious but alive, his chest rising and falling.
Joan knew she would need to finish him off. She moved toward him, then stopped, bothered by a peculiar feeling in her mouth.
What?
Joan spat, and watched horrified as Galen’s nose dropped to the ground.
She felt her stomach toss and doubled over, retching.
Maybe, she reflected in her misery, this Warrior business wasn’t all she had cracked it up to be.
She finished vomiting and actually smiled.
Hickok would be proud of her.
Where the hell was he?
Chapter Fifteen
“Where the heck are we?” Hickok asked. One moment he was reading the Operations Manual, the next the motion of the transport affected him and lulled him to sleep. He was angry at himself for dozing off.
“About ten miles east of the Home,” Geronimo informed him.
“Have a nice nap?” Blade grinned.
“I can’t believe I fell asleep!” Hickok said.
“We all had a long night,” Blade reminded him. “If I wasn’t slightly nervous driving this thing, I might be tempted to catch forty winks too.”
“As for me,” Geronimo chimed in from the back seat, “Indians are famous for their iron will and superb endurance. I may need a catnap in five or ten days.”
Hickok fondly gazed over his shoulder. “I’ll tell you one thing about Injuns, pard. They are the best tellers of tall tales you’ll find anywhere.”
“I do believe,” Blade glanced into the small mirror dangling above the dashboard, observing Geronimo’s smiling face, “that Hickok just said you’re full of it.”
“He should know,” Geronimo rejoined.
Blade was glad their sense of humor was still intact. Humor served as a release mechanism, as a means of harmlessly venting the tension they invariably felt in critical situations. All of them were extremely worried about the women, but they could not afford to allow their concern to eat at them, to dull their fighting edge. Humor helped relax them, and at the same time it kept them sharp and prepared for the unexpected.
“How far ahead of us do you think the Trolls are?” Hickok asked.
“Depends on whether or not they’ve stopped for rest,” Blade replied.
“If they kept to a brisk pace,” Geronimo speculated, “and really pushed the women all day today, then they could be halfway to Fox by now, maybe further.”
“That’s what I figured too,” Hickok agreed. “Can’t you push this thing any faster?”
Blade was reluctant to increase their speed, apprehensive his ability to steer and negotiate the obstacles in their path might not be adequate. But Hickok had a point. Speed was essential. The speedometer, as Plato had called it, was usually indicating between fifteen and twenty. He was keeping the transport to the open spaces as much as possible, bearing on an easterly course.
“If we damage the SEAL,” Geronimo said, as if he could read Blade’s thoughts, “we damage the SEAL. Nothing we can do about it. What’s more important anyway? This vehicle, or our sisters and loved ones?”
Blade increased the pressure on the accelerator, watching the needle climb to twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five, and forty. The ride was still smooth, the bumps absorbed by the four mammoth tires and the heavy-duty shock absorbers.
“Now we’re cooking,” Hickok stated, delighted.
“I’ve been studying this map,” Geronimo announced.
“And?” Blade swerved to bypass a stand of tall pine trees.
“I think I’ve found a way to make better time.” Geronimo stated.
“How?”
Geronimo had examined the map while Hickok was napping. It was beside him on the seat, open. He picked it up and spoke while he confirmed his calculations. “I’m not positive about the mileage involved,” he began, “but eventually we’ll encounter a stream. When we do, I advise heading south.”
“Why south?” Blade inquired.
“Because if we follow the stream south,” Geronimo responded, “we run into a major highway. Listed as number eleven on this map. Highway 11. It takes us right to Fox.”
“Think this highway will still be there?” Hickok doubtfully asked.
“Beats me,” Geronimo admitted. “It’s been a century, after all. But you never know.”
“Sounds good to me,” Blade decided. “Are there any other towns between us and Fox?”
“Let me see,” Geronimo ran his left hand along the red line marking Highway 11. “Yep. We’ll pass through two small towns. The first is called Greenbush. The second, a bit bigger, is called Badger.”
“How far apart are they?” Blade wanted to know.
“I make it as nine or ten miles from the stream to Greenbush,” Geronimo answered. “Nine more miles from Greenbush to Badger. And another seven miles or so to Fox.”
“They sure put their towns close together before the Big Blast,” Hickok commented. “Hard to accept the fact there once were so many people in the world.”
“I remember reading they even had a population problem,” Blade mentioned. “Too many people in some portions of the globe.”
“Well,” Hickok said, grinning, “they sure found a quick solution to that thorn in their side, didn’t they?”
“That they did.” Blade sighed. His mind couldn’t quite grasp the horrible reality of the Big Blast, the devastating consequences for the human race.
After all, he’d never known what it was like before the missiles were launched. He could not relate to the world as it had been, only as it was now. His lack of remorse never bothered him, though. How could he feel any emotion for people he’d never known? Anger was another story. He deeply resented what the moronic assholes had done to the planet, to the environment and the ecology.
“Think we’ll find anyone in these towns we’ll pass through?” Hickok thoughtfully asked.
“Don’t know,” Blade replied. “The Family records say the Government evacuated most of the population during the Third World War. Some folks might have stayed put.”
“I’ve always been convinced,” Geronimo confidently stated, “the Family isn’t alone. If we survived, then others did. The Trolls have proven that point.”
Hickok made a snorting noise. “I sure hope, pard, that anyone else we meet up with is more hospitable than the blasted Trolls.”
“You and me both,” Geronimo agreed.
They drove on in reflective silence.
Blade thought about Jenny, dreading her welfare. There was a reason to be hopeful. He doubted the Trolls would kill any of the women outright.
Why go to all that trouble, assault an armed fort, just to kill the women you take prisoner? Made no sense. The Trolls needed their women alive.
But why take women by force? What had that captured Troll meant, earlier, when he said they were always running out of women? How do you run out of women? There were so many unanswered questions!
The sun was at the western horizon, night almost upon them.
“Are we stopping when it gets dark?” Hickok asked.
“We better,” Blade said, annoyed at the pending delay. “It would be too easy to wreck this thing at night. We’ll sleep inside and begin again at the first crack of dawn.”
“You mean,” Geronimo corrected him, “we’ll start an hour after you’ve thrown that red lever under the dash. Remember?”