As with Highway 11, a century of abandoned neglect had taken a toll.
Potholes pitted the surface. Erosion had produced cracks and etched crazy cobweblike designs everywhere. Despite the wear and tear, sufficient roadway existed to permit the SEAL to navigate.
“All the roads must be in the same shape,” Blade said thoughtfully.
“Not exactly perfect, but we’ll make better time than if we had to travel cross-country.”
“Do you want to stop now or keep going for a spell?” Hickok asked. The sun was directly overhead. “Unless one of you objects,” Blade responded, “I see no reason to stop for a midday meal.”
“All right!” Hickok slapped his right thigh. Blade turned the transport toward the southeast, toward the Twin Cities. He drove faster, a bit more confident. The engine purred flawlessly.
“I wonder how many days it will take us to reach the Twin Cities?”
Hickok was studying the Atlas. “If we run into any more of those trenches, it will take us forever.”
“Did you hear something?” Geronimo inquired. He cocked his head to one side, listening.
“Just the sound of the SEAL,” Hickok answered, still looking at the map of Minnesota.
“No, not that,” Geronimo said emphatically. “Something else, something nearby.”
“I didn’t hear anything,” Blade said, agreeing with Hickok. “You sure you heard something?”
“Positive,” Geronimo confirmed.
“Maybe it was that moose,” Hickok said, grinning, “belching.”
“What did it sound like?” Blade asked Geronimo.
“Can’t be sure.” Geronimo frowned. “Almost like the sound of the SEAL starting, only louder.”
Hickok laughed. “I think you’re cracking, pard. Tain’t another motorized vehicle within a thousand miles of here.”
Hickok was wrong. Again.
It came on them from the rear, abruptly bursting from cover in a tall clump of bushes, the driver gunning the engine as it cleared a small hump at the western edge of the highway. Chrome flashed in the brilliant sun, the spokes gleaming as the tires dug into the earth.
Blade, glancing in the rear-view mirror, spotted it first. “Behind us!” he shouted in warning.
It was already alongside the SEAL, the driver holding something dark and metallic in his right hand, pointing it at the SEAL.
“He’s packin’,” Hickok yelled, and ducked as the other driver fired at point-blank range, directly at Hickok’s closed window.
They heard the thud and the whine as the bullet struck the SEAL and was deflected by the bulletproof plastic.
The driver raced ahead, pulling away.
“A motorcycle,” Blade answered, flooring the accelerator.
The SEAL surged forward.
“We’ll never catch him,” Geronimo observed.
The motorcycle was clearly outdistancing them.
Blade kept the pedal on the floor, concentrating on the highway, trying to avoid the deeper potholes. The speedometer indicated eighty and climbing, and still they were falling behind.
“Hickok,” Blade ordered, “drop him.”
Hickok twisted in his seat. “Quick!” he said to Geronimo.
Geronimo turned and reached into the rear section. The Commando, Browning, and Henry were lying on top of the supplies piled in the back.
He grabbed the Henry and passed it to Hickok.
“What are you doing?” Joshua asked.
Blade brought the SEAL to a stop, turning the transport, angling it across the road, Hickok’s side to the fleeing motorcycle.
Hickok hastily rolled down his window and raised his Henry, sighting carefully.
“You can’t!” Joshua exclaimed.
“He tried to kill us!” Blade reminded Joshua.
“Not in the back!” Joshua protested.
“We have no choice!” Blade declared, watching the other driver speed off. If Hickok didn’t fire soon, even he wouldn’t be able to make the shot.
“No!” Joshua shouted, flinging himself forward, lunging for Hickok.
Geronimo reacted instantly, clutching Joshua, restraining him.
“No!” Joshua struggled to break free. “He’s another human being!”
“Not any more,” Hickok said softly. He inhaled, held the breath, and squeezed the trigger.
“No!” Joshua screamed.
The motorcycle driver had just glanced back to determine his distance from the SEAL. They saw his head buck sideways, his arms jerking upward, his body falling to one side. “Got ya!” Hickok was elated. The driver tumbled to the ground as the motorcycle skidded, out of control, hitting a rut in the highway and flipping end over end for fifty yards before coming to a rest, a tangled, shattered wreck in the middle of the road.
Blade pulled out. “Good shot,” he said to Hickok.
Hickok was grinning. “Piece of cake!”
“You shot him,” Joshua said, stunned, going limp in Geronimo’s arms.
Hickok glanced at Joshua. “I told you,” he snapped, “you shouldn’t have come.”
“You just killed a man in cold blood,” Joshua kept on, scarcely believing what he’d just seen.
“He tried to do the same to me,” Hickok retorted. “What’d you want me to do? Wish him better luck next time?”
Blade braked and stopped the SEAL next to the driver. He turned off the SEAL and jumped out. Hickok did likewise, training his Henry on the prone form.
Their attacker was lying on his stomach, a growing pool of blood forming under his head. He was tall, had black hair. Blade slowly rolled the body over. The man was young, maybe twenty-five or thirty. He was dressed in a gray shirt and jeans, neither of which showed any sign of prolonged wear. His hair was worn in a ponytail, tied at the shoulder with a length of string. Hickok’s shot had caught him between the eyes, creating a good-sized hole, oozing blood. The back of his head, where the slug exited, was a total mess.
“Oh, dear Father!” Joshua and Geronimo had joined them. Joshua’s face was pale, his expression horror-struck. He gaped at the puddle of blood. “Dear Father!” he repeated.
“Haven’t you ever seen anyone shot before?” Hickok asked. Joshua shook his head.
“What about that scavenger?” Hickok inquired. The ragtag scavengers had attacked the Home in the middle of the night. Someone had taken a shot at a Warrior sentry on duty on top of the wall. The shot had missed, the Warrior had sounded the alarm, and the Warriors and the unknown assailants had exchanged sporadic gunfire. The Warriors, and the rest of the Family, were left unscathed by the engagement, but the other side had suffered one casualty. A man was found lying behind a tree the next morning, shot through the chest. His clothes were in tatters, his physical condition emaciated. Everyone assumed the Home had been assaulted by a group of scavengers. “And how about the Trolls? Where the blazes were you during that fight? There were bodies all over the place,” Hickok stated brusquely.
“I did not see any of the bodies,” Joshua replied quietly, beginning to regain his composure.
“I’ll check the cycle,” Geronimo offered, and jogged off.
“Why’d he come at us?” Hickok questioned. “I wish I knew,” Blade answered, standing. He ran his left hand through his dark hair, reflecting.
Why had this joker jumped them? What had he hoped to gain? Where had he obtained the motorcycle? Where was he from? There were a hundred unanswered questions, and he didn’t like not having the answers.
“Should we bury him?” Joshua asked.
“What?” Hickok laughed. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t make a habit of burying people who try to kill me.”
Blade knelt again, searching the dead man’s pockets. In the left front pocket he found a handful of circular metal pieces.
“What are those?” Hickok leaned closer.
Blade studied them in the fading light. “I think they’re coins,” he speculated.