Silence momentarily engulfed their little group.
The door suddenly crashed open and a Troll stalked into the room.
“Are you all comfy?” He laughed.
No one else thought he was funny.
“Four of you will come with me,” he barked, raising his right hand and pointing at four of the women standing near the right wall. “You and you and you and you. Move it!”
The women meekly complied, hastily departing.
The Troll looked at the Family members. “Get plenty of rest today and tonight, because you’ll need your strength for the testing tomorrow.” He grinned, pivoted, and walked to the door.
“I’m not looking forward to this testing business,” Angela anxiously whispered.
“Oh, by the way.” The Troll had stopped with his hand on the door. “I don’t know if anyone has told you yet, but if you don’t pass our tests tomorrow, you’re in for a very nasty surprise. Sleep tight and don’t let the bed bugs bite!” He cackled and exited, the door slamming behind him.
“Can’t those bastards close a door quietly?” Ursa asked.
“What did he mean by that last comment?” Jenny glanced at Nadine.
“They haven’t told you yet?” Nadine seemed surprised.
“No. Saxon mentioned feeding us to somebody called Wolvie, Runt, or Momma. Who are they?” Jenny noticed Nadine stiffen.
“They are not persons.” Nadine gazed at each of them. “If you fail the tests, you will suffer the same fate as any woman who has outlived her usefulness to the Trolls.” She paused, her face a pale, haunted visage.
“What will happen to us if we fail?” Angela gripped Nadine’s right shoulder.
Nadine stared into Angela’s eyes. “You will be thrown, alive, into a pen of ravenous wolverines.”
Chapter Eighteen
“This road makes our trip a lot easier,” Geronimo commented. He was sitting in the front, in the passenger-side bucket seat. Blade was driving the SEAL. Hickok sat in the back seat, behind Blade, Joan’s head cradled in his lap. She was stretched out on the seat, sound asleep.
“At least there aren’t any trees,” Blade admitted. They were cruising in a northeasterly direction on Highway 11, an artery the map referred to as a
“principal paved route.” Possibly, at one time, it was, but not now. The pavement was cracked and split, some sections completely buckled, grass and weeds growing in the fissures. A century of neglect had taken its toll.
Blade carefully avoided a rut in the asphalt. Despite the damage nature had caused, the highway was still functional, probably because the road had not experienced any traffic for one hundred years. Traffic volume, Blade once read in the library, forced prewar societies to spend considerable portions of their budgets on highway repair each year.
“Badger should be just ahead,” Geronimo stated while consulting the map.
Blade had to hand it to Geronimo. Their route had progressed exactly as he predicted. First, they had reached the stream and turned south. Within four miles the SEAL had burst through a thicket onto the highway and they had headed for the next town, a place called Greenbush. Joan had fallen asleep after Hickok had tended her wounds and bandaged her right shoulder. Seeing them so happy, so content to be together, had made Blade feel uncomfortable, reminding him of Jenny’s absence and her dilemma.
Greenbush had been a monumental disappointment. Uninhabited, in utter disrepair, the buildings decayed, the vegetation reclaiming the land, it was an eerie reminder of life before the Big Blast.
“Sure is pitiful,” Hickok had commented.
Blade had decided to head straight to Badger. He couldn’t see any sound reason for stopping to explore Greenbush, and time was too crucial.
Nine miles had elapsed.
“There it is,” Geronimo pointed.
Blade braked.
The buildings of Badger were visible, interspersed with numerous tall trees.
“From here,” Geronimo observed, “it looks as run down as Greenbush.”
“Let’s find out.” Blade gunned the engine. “Roll up your window,” he advised Geronimo, a precautionary measure to prevent anyone from shooting them or hurling a projectile into the transport. Plato claimed the body of the SEAL could withstand a gunshot blast at close range.
“Somebody is home,” Geronimo said.
Blade saw it too. Gray smoke was curling skyward.
“If they turn out to be Trolls,” Hickok spoke up, “they’re all mine.”
Blade glanced in the mirror at Hickok’s granite features. He was worried about the gunman, concerned for his friend. After Joan had drifted into slumber, while tenderly stroking her hair, Hickok had become uncharacteristically quiet and reflective. Blade would look back and see Hickok’s lips compressed, his blue eyes hard. He could imagine what the gunman was thinking, even understand and condone it, but the reprecussions could be deadly for Hickok and those with him. Sheer blood lust made a person reckless, heedless of his personal safety, oblivious to everything but revenge.
Hickok wanted revenge.
The SEAL slowly entered the outskirts of Badger. The structures here were similar to those in Greenbush: gradually disintegrating, windows shattered and doors off their hinges, the concrete and brick buildings in better shape than the wooden-frame houses.
“There!” Geronimo spotted the source of the smoke.
Approximately fifty yards ahead, in the middle of the highway, was a raging fire, the blaze consuming a neatly stacked pile of dry wood.
“This doesn’t read right,” Geronimo warned Blade.
“I know.” Blade braked the vehicle. It made no sense. Who would build a fire in the center of the road? More importantly, why? On a hot day like today!
“Let’s take the bait,” Geronimo recommended, twisting in his seat to retrieve the Browning. The shotgun was leaning against the back of his bucket seat.
“Should I wake Joan?” Hickok asked Blade.
“No need,” Blade answered. “She’s been through an ordeal. You stay in the SEAL with her.” He shifted into Park and switched the motor off. “I’m leaving the keys in the ignition,” he said over his shoulder. “If something should happen to us…” He left the sentence unfinished.
“Understood,” Hickok said.
Geronimo opened his door and slid out of the transport. He glanced back at Hickok, grinning. “You two try and behave yourselves while we’re away, okay?”
“Cute, pard,” Hickok rejoined. “Real cute. You be careful, okay?”
Geronimo hefted the Browning. “They’ll never know what hit them!”
“Don’t forget!” Hickok advised. “Try for a head shot.”
Geronimo was about to close the door. Instead, he opened it and leaned inside. “That reminds me,” he mentioned. “When I was checking the Trolls you blew away, I found one shot through the heart. What happened? You suffer a memory lapse?”
Hickok smiled. “Nope. He was carrying a bow, and from where I stood it covered part of his face. So I went for a heart shot. I never said the head rule was chiseled in concrete.”
Geronimo chuckled and closed the door.
Blade was waiting for him several yards in front of the transport, the Commando in his hands.
“How do we play this?” Geronimo inquired as he joined Blade.
“The direct approach,” Blade ordered. He began slowly walking along the left side of the highway, while Geronimo did likewise on the right.
Tumbled-down houses bordered Highway 11 at this point. Blade, analyzing the setup, spotted the probable ambush site. On his side of the road, directly across from the fire, was a crumbling brick wall. On Geronimo’s side, again across from the blaze, was the rusted hulk of a large vehicle.
Perfect positioning for a bushwhacking, as Hickok might say.