“A friend of mine turned him from a bull into a heifer,” the stranger recounted, still making no move toward his guns.
Grant and the other Troll were clear of the fire, only feet from the newcomer. “Maybe we can return the favor,” Grant mentioned sarcastically.
“Just hurry it up!” Hickok rejoined. “I’m gettin’ bored.”
Grant glanced at the elderly Troll and nodded again, and both men went into action simultaneously.
Hickok finally moved, the Colt Pythons in his hands, and he swiveled to his right and fired, aiming for the head as he almost always did, the two heavy slugs catching the senior Troll right between his brown eyes and exiting out the top of his head. The Troll silently slumped to the ground, even as Hickok turned, the Pythons held low, at waist level, and the Colts boomed again as Grant was bringing the Glenfield barrel to bear on the gunman.
Grant felt a tremendous impact in his groin area and he involuntarily doubled over, still holding his rifle, as the shock and the excruciating agony hit him.
“That’s for Joan,” Hickok said grimly, walking over to Grant.
Grant’s vision was spinning and he dropped the Glenfield. He managed to croak a few words as blood trickled down the right corner of his mouth.
“Don’t! Please! No!”
“That was for Joan,” Hickok repeated, reaching the Troll. “This is for me.”
“Don’t!” Grant pleaded.
Hickok ignored the entreaty. Instead, he jammed the barrels of his Pythons into Grant’s eyes and slowly cocked the hammers of the .357’s.
Grant frantically attempted to pull away from the revolvers.
Hickok pulled the triggers.
It was as if the Troll was smashed in the head with a sledgehammer. He jerked backward and toppled on the grass, twitching.
The gunman grinned. He twirled the Colts back into their respective holsters. “Piece of cake,” he commented.
A heavy silence filled the night.
Hickok sighed, stared at the fire for a moment, then walked around it, bearing east.
“Wait a minute!”
Hickok kept walking.
“Hey! Hickok!” Sherry yelled. “Hold it!”
He apparently entertained no notion of stopping.
“Damn it!” Sherry angrily exclaimed. She ran up to him and grabbed his left arm, spinning him around. “Hold it!”
The gunman glared at her in annoyance. “You want something?” he demanded.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” she barked, peeved.
“What’s it to you?” he retorted, pulling his arm free. He began to leave.
“You’re going? Just like that?”
“I have a score to settle,” he informed her.
“You’d abandon a helpless woman in the middle of nowhere?” Sherry questioned him.
Hickok stopped in midstride. He faced her and thoughtfully studied her from head to toe. “I doubt you’re the helpless type.”
“Like what you see?” she asked, a hint of possible pleasures to come implied in her tone and her expression.
“You offering yourself to me?” Hickok asked, his tone laced with unconcealed digust.
Sherry stepped up to him. “I’m sorry,” she hastily apologized. “But you’ve got to understand my position.
I don’t want to go it alone. I thought if I offered my body to you, you…”
“You thought wrong,” Hickok interjected distastefully.
“I’m sorry,” she stressed. “I misjudged you.”
“Did you offer your body to the Trolls?” Hickok asked.
Her temper flaring, Sherry aimed a slap at his right cheek. He easily gripped her wrist and prevented the blow from connecting. “They took what they wanted!” she answered. “They…” she began, then hesitated, swaying, her ordeal catching up with her. Two days without food, and the harsh treatment accorded by the Trolls, combined with the emotional excitement of the past few minutes, all conspired to take their toll at this particular moment. “I think I’m going to pass out,” she announced weakly.
She did.
Hickok caught her as she fainted and carried her over to the fire. He gently laid her on the grass and stared at her lovely face. “You remind me of someone,” he told the sleeping form, then grinned. “But, lately, every woman I run into reminds me of her. Guess it’s only natural.” His mind drifted, recalling another beautiful woman, a soldier with the Nomads in the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul, a feisty female named Bertha.
“She has the spunk, but not the looks,” he absently mentioned. “You’ve got the looks, but I wonder about the rest…”
Sherry groaned.
The gunman smiled. “Reckon I put my quest on hold for a spell.” He gazed into the darkness. “But not too long. I’ve got a debt to collect, honor to satisfy, and a dummy to find.”
Hickok set about ministering to her wounds. Just great! Just what he needed! He seemed to have developed a knack for attracting women in distress. Shaking his head, he looked straight up. Why me?
Chapter Two
Hundreds of miles to the west, another man was reflecting along similar lines. Why couldn’t I stay at the Home this trip? Why must I constantly be separated from my beloved Jenny? Why couldn’t Rikki or one of the other Warriors go for once? He sighed, knowing the answer.
None of the others had his experience with the SEAL.
He was a large man, this malcontent, with bulging muscles, black hair, and piercing gray eyes. He wore a green T-shirt and green fatigue pants.
Hanging in leather sheaths from his belt, one on each hip, were two Bowie knives, his favorite weapons. Absently avoiding ruts, holes, and cracks in the road, he steered the SEAL west on U.S. Highway 2.
The vehicle was a green van, constructed with a bulletproof and heat-resistant plastic body. Its tires were huge, over two feet wide and four feet high. A pair of unique solar panels were attached to the roof, and suspended under the transport was a lead-lined case containing the revolutionary batteries used to store the converted solar energy and power the vehicle. The transport was called the SEAL, an acronym for Solar Energized Amphibious or Land Recreational Vehicle.
Although no one outside the vehicle could view the interior because of the tinted plastic, the four current occupants were able to enjoy the scenery. The big man behind the wheel praised again, for the umpteenth time, Kurt Carpenter’s foresight.
Kurt Carpenter. The man responsible for constructing the compound in northwestern Minnesota intended to serve as the survival site for his followers. The thirty-acre plot became known as the Home, and Carpenter’s followers adopted the title of the Family. Carpenter spent millions building the walled, fortified Home, and providing the provisions and supplies the Family would require after World War III. He wanted to ensure the Family would persist in a world run amok. The SEAL was built according to his precise specifications by automakers eager to take his money. They viewed him as another harmless, but immensely wealthy, eccentric. Carpenter wanted the engineers and scientists to fabricate a vehicle capable of enduring a century if necessary. He had the transport hidden in an underground chamber, leaving instructions that it was to be left alone until needed. Ironically enough, one hundred years after The Big Blast, as the Family referred to the nuclear conflict, the current Leader of the Home, Plato, had the SEAL uncovered and put to use.
Plato wanted to send three of the Family’s Warriors, the trio known as Alpha Triad, to the Twin Cities in the hope of locating certain medical and scientific equipment he required. The Family was suffering from a form of premature senility, and Plato was optimistic he could discover the cause and develop a cure if he only had the right implements and resources.