For the last two minutes she had heard the telltale noises again. She had left Michael and Annie with Mary Mulliner, being practical and giving Michael her M-16— Mary was the worst shot Sarah had ever seen. She laughed at herself— before the Night of The War, she herself was the worst shot she had ever seen, would never have touched a gun except to move it out of the way when she dusted the house, would never have left her young son with a loaded gun in his hands.
The Trapper .45 felt good in her hand, her right fist clenched around it. She carried it cocked, her right thumb poised over the locked safety. She ducked under a low-hanging tree branch, the branch snagging at the blue and white bandana handkerchief covering her hair.
"Shit," she murmured. Bill turned, looking back at her, and she shook her head to signify nothing was wrong. Saying a word like that— she would rarely if ever have said it before the Night of The War. It was the people she had associated with since then, she thought— they swore sometimes. And now she did, too.
She kept moving, watching Bill Mulliner as much as she watched the trail and the shadows beyond it where the meager starlight didn't penetrate.
Sarah heard something— she wheeled, something hammering at her, driving her down.
Her thumb depressed the upped safety, the muzzle of the .45 searching a target as though it had become independent of conscious thought.
She found flesh, the pistol rammed against it, her first finger touching at the trigger.
"Sarah!"
The voice was low, a whisper, whiskey-tinged. The breath smelled of cheap cigars— "Sarah—
it's me—"
She edged her trigger finger out of the guard, finding the safety before she moved anymore. She sank her head against the man's chest. She had never thought she'd be so happy to see the Resistance leader, Pete Critchfleld.
"Pete." She said the name once and quietly— he was more competent than she. She needed that now.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The wood crackled as the cross burned and Cole felt somehow safer— He watched the wildmen, watching him now, puzzled that he too had ordered a cross erected, but only to burn it.
"When the hell somethin' gonna happen, captain?" It was Kelsoe, crouched beside him, Armitage sitting on the ground near where Teal was handcuffed to the pine tree.
"Soon, Kelsoe— real soon."
"Soon— they're gonna come down here and cut us up into little pieces, captain."
"Maybe," Cole nodded— he looked up at the wildmen on the ridge. "If they haven't yet— well, maybe they are gettin'—"
"Cole—"
It was Armand Teal. Cole turned, facing him, shifting his position on the ground, his legs stiff from squatting beside the burning cross. "Yes, colonel?"
"What the hell you plan to offer those lunatics— power. What power?"
Cole stood up, his legs unable to take it anymore, cramping. "Well— I guess you could call it the ultimate power. The power of the sun. The power to destroy—"
"You're gonna give them a goddamn missile?" Cole shrugged and turned away. There was movement now on the rise, the lines of gaping wildmen separating, forming almost a wedge as Cole watched, a new group of wildmen coming from the center of the wedge— they seemed better armed as best he could judge in the firelight and the light from the torches they carried.
"Throw down your weapons!" It was a voice, loud, powerful-sounding, coming from the opening in the wedge.
"No," Cole shouted back. "I come to offer you power— not to surrender myself and be killed!" He was gambling— he knew it.
"Throw down your weapons!" The voice sounded again, as if whoever spoke had not heard him.
"The ultimate power is what I offer— power undreamed of for your leader!"
A man stepped forward then. He held no torch. He held no rifle. What looked like a fur pelt— at the distance Cole could not tell if it was the skin of a dog or a bear— was draped around his shoulders. He seemed short, or perhaps only by comparison to the well-armed men with torches who flanked him. His body seemed thick— but it could have been the animal skin he wore like a robe.
The voice was not the one that had called for Cole to lay down his weapons.
It was higher-pitched, almost amused-sounding.
"An audacious man— there are hundreds of us. Four of you and one is apparently your prisoner. You offer me power— undreamed of, ultimate power? I like a sense of humor. My followers, I'm afraid, are relatively humorless types, as you might imagine. So— tell me. What's this ultimate power you offer me?"
Cole paused for a moment, then shouted back, "An eighty-megaton thermonuclear warhead mounted on an intercontinental ballistic missile, which I can arm and target."
The man on the ridge said nothing for a moment, then, "I am called Otis— who knows, we may become great friends."
Cole's palms stopped sweating and he wiped them, one at a time, along the sides of his fatigue clad thighs.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sarah sat in the darkness at the base of an oak tree, Bill Mulliner beside her, the children and Bill's mother further along in the woods with some of Critchfleld's men. Pete Critchfield sat opposite her, cross-legged, Indian fashion, shielding one of his foul-smelling cigars with his hand— she knew why. So the glow from the cigar's tip wouldn't show light. She wondered if it had ever occurred to Critchfleld that an enemy could track him simply by the smell.
"We can't wait none for the Resistance leadership— with David dead or captured—"
"God bless him," Sarah whispered.
"Amen to that," Bill Mulliner intoned.
"Yeah— Amen, but with him out of the picture now, we gotta act. There's a big supply base the Commies are runnin' out of Nashville— been hoardin' stuff there for the last few days. Even more stuff than they had—"
"For what?" Bill asked him.
"Beats the hell outa me, Bill— but they got stuff we need. Medical supplies for openers— I got three men with bad gunshot wounds back in the woods there— no ampicillin or nothin', and no painkiller. The one guy's so bad, got two fellas sittin' with him to keep his mouth shut if he starts screamin'— been pourin' whiskey into him—"
"It's not a stomach wound, is it?"
"No, ma'am— legs."
"You should be careful— alcohol's a depressant— depressants act funny with blood loss," she told him.
"Well, Sarah— I guess I jes' started a-callin' ya that, ma'am—"
"That's fine— Sarah's my name."
"Well, Sarah— seems to me we could use you helpin' out in two ways— lessen' you got yourself somewheres to go—"
She laughed. "Well, I had a dinner engagement—"
"I'd offer y'all some food, Sarah— but we ain't—"
"I ate this morning," she told him.
"They got food there too at that supply base. If n you could keep an eye on the wounded, tend to
'em maybe— well, you're pretty good with a gun, too, ma 'am. I seen ya, Sarah. You could do that, maybe get your kids to help a might— that'd free up Bill and me and the men to hit that supply depot. We got two trucks stashed out in the woods. We can get to Nashville and be back soon enough—"
"If you come back," she said candidly.
"Well— ain't no arguin' that with ya, Sarah— that's a true fact."
"I'll play nurse," she nodded.
Sometimes, on the other hand, she reflected, being a woman, despite the lack of ego problems, was not such a good thing. "I'll play nurse," she said again.
Chapter Twenty-Four
He sat on the ground opposite Otis— the ground was the only place to sit and Otis seemed well at home sitting there, Cole thought.
"You must have a great number of questions."
"Who the hell are you people?" Cole began.
"We are the people who control the entire Pacific Northwest. Anyone who is obviously a stranger here is killed. Those who live here when they are encountered are taken prisoner, given the choice of joining, or dying. Most join. Some die."