Gravely wounded, she still tore at her enemy with her nails, unfortunately blocking Gordon from a clear shot. The surprised bandit fumbled at first, cursing and trying to catch her wrists. Finally, he managed to hurl her to the ground. Angered by the painful scratches — and unaware of his partner’s demise — the Holnist grinned and hefted his knife to finish the job. He took a step toward the wounded, gasping woman.
At that point Gordon’s arrow tore through the fabric of his camouflage fatigues, slicing a shallow, bloody gash along his back. The shaft struck the couch and quivered, humming.
For all their loathesome attributes, survivalists were probably the best fighters in all the world. In a blur, before Gordon could snatch up his last arrow, the man dove to one side and rolled up with his assault rifle. Gordon threw himself back as a rapid, accurate burst of individual shots tore into the balustrade, ricocheting from the ironmongery where he had just been.
The rifle was equipped with a silencer, forcing the raider to fire on semi-automatic; but the zinging bullets clanged all about Gordon as he rolled over and pulled out his own revolver. He scurried over to another part of the balcony.
The fellow down below had good ears. Another rapid burst sent slivers flying inches from Gordon’s face as he ducked aside again, barely in time.
Silence fell, except that Gordon’s pulse sounded like thunder in his ears.
Now what? he wondered.
Suddenly there was a loud scream. Gordon raised his head and caught a blurry motion reflected in the mirror … the small woman below was charging her much bigger foe with a large chair raised over her head!
The survivalist whirled and fired. Red blotches bloomed across the young gleaner’s chest and she tumbled to the ground; the chair rolled to the survivalist’s feet.
Gordon might have heard the click as the rifle’s magazine emptied. Or perhaps it was only a wild guess. Whatever the reason, without thinking he leapt up, arms extended, and squeezed the trigger of his .38 over and over again-pumping until the hammer struck five times on empty, smoking chambers.
His opponent remained standing, a fresh clip already in his left hand, ready to be slammed into place. But dark stains had begun to spread across the camouflage tunic. Looking astonished, more than anything else, his eyes met Gordon’s over the smoking pistol barrel.
The assault rifle tipped and fell clattering from limp fingers, and the survivalist crumpled to the floor.
Gordon ran downstairs, vaulting the rail at the bottom. First he stopped at both men and made sure they were dead. Then he hurried over to the fatally wounded young woman.
Her mouth made a round inquiry as he lifted her head. “Who… ?”
“Don’t talk,” he urged, and he wiped a trail of blood from the corner of her mouth.
Pupils widely dilated, eerily alert on the threshold of death, her eyes took in his face, his uniform — the embroidered restored u.S. mail service patch over his breast pocket. They widened briefly in question, in wonder.
Let her believe, Gordon told himself. She’s dying. Let her believe it’s true.
But he couldn’t make himself say the words — the lies that he had told so often, that had taken him so far for so many months. Not this time.
“I’m just a traveler, miss,” he shook his head. “I’m . … I’m just a fellow citizen, trying to help.”
She nodded — only slightly disappointed it seemed — as if that in itself were a minor miracle.
“North…” she gasped. “Take boy… Warn… warn Cyclops…”
In that last word, even as her dying breath sighed away, Gordon heard reverence, loyalty, and a confident faith in ultimate redemption … all in the spoken name of a machine. Cyclops, he thought numbly, as he laid her body down. Now he had yet another reason to follow the legend to its source.
There was no time to spare for a burial. The bandit’s rifle had been muffled, but Gordon’s .38 had echoed like thunder. The other raiders would certainly have heard. He had only moments to collect the child and clear out of this place.
But ten feet away there were horses to steal. And up north lay something a brave young woman had thought worth dying for.
If only it’s true, Gordon thought as he gathered up his enemy’s rifle and ammunition.
He would drop his postal play-act in a minute, if he found that someone, somewhere, was taking responsibility — actually trying to do something abo.ut the dark age. He would offer his allegiance, his help, however meager it might be.
Even to a giant computer.
There were distant shouts… coming closer rapidly.
He turned to the boy, who was now looking up at him, wide-eyed, from the corner of the room.
“Come on, then,” Gordon said, holding out his hand. “We had better ride.”
4. HARRISBURG
Holding the child on the saddle in front of him, Gordon raced away from the grisly scene as fast as his stolen mount would go. A glance showed figures charging after them on foot. One raider knelt to take careful aim.
Gordon bent forward, sawed on the reins, and kicked. The horse snorted and wheeled around a looted corner Rexall store just as high-velocity bullets tore apart the granite facing behind them. Stone chips flew whistling across Sixth Avenue.
He had been congratulating himself on taking the added time to scatter the other horses before galloping off. But in that last instant, looking back, Gordon had seen one more raider arrive, riding his own pony!
For a moment he felt an unreasoning fear. If they had his horse, they might also have taken or harmed the mail-bags.
Gordon shook the irrelevant thought aside as he sent the horse dashing down a side street. To hell with the letters! They were only props, anyway. What mattered was that only one of the survivalists could pursue at the moment. That made the odds even.
Almost.
He snapped the reins and dug in his heels, sending his mount galloping hard down one of downtown Eugene’s silent, empty streets. He heard the clatter of other hooves, too close. Not bothering to look back, he swerved into an alley. The horse pranced past a fall of shattered glass, then sped across the next street, through a service way and down another clutter-filled alley.
Gordon turned the animal toward a flash of greenery, cantering quickly across an open plaza, and pulled up behind an overgrown oak thicket in a small park.
There was a roar in the air. After a moment Gordon realized that it was his own breath and pulse. “Are… are you all right?” he panted, looking down at the boy.
The nine-year-old swallowed and nodded, not wasting breath on words. The boy had been terrorized and had witnessed savage things today, but he had the sense to keep quiet, brown eyes intense on Gordon.
Gordon stood in the saddle and peered through the seventeen-year growth of urban shrubbery. For the moment at least, they seemed to have lost their pursuer.
Of course the fellow might be less than fifty meters away, quietly listening himself.
Gordon’s fingers were shaking from reaction, but he managed to draw his empty .38 from its holster and reloaded while he tried to think.
If there was only the single rider to contend with, they might do better to just stay still and wait it out. Let the bandit seek them, and inevitably drift farther away.
Unfortunately, the other Holnists would catch up soon. It would probably be better to risk a little noise now than let those master trackers and hunters from the Rogue River country collect themselves and organize a real search of the local area.
He stroked the horse’s neck, letting the animal catch its breath for a moment longer. “What’s your name?” he asked the boy.