Resistance: A Hole in the Sky

^{CHAPTER TWO} HEAD CASE

The Deep Home Saloon and Pleasure Emporium occupied the lowest level of a parking garage in Burlington, Colorado. The top two levels had been bombed into rubble, a half-dozen vehicles trapped inside. What light there was came from lanterns hung at regular intervals. They conspired to produce a soft, smoky glow and shadows that danced the walls as people moved about.

One corner of the space had been walled off with sheets of plywood to create a kitchen, where everything was cooked over charcoal fires. The mouthwatering odor of barbecued meat wafted out into the larger room, and from there into the ruins above, which acted to trap it.

An improvised bar was set up along one wall. The rest of the furnishings consisted of mismatched tables and a wild assortment of chairs. They sat willy-nilly on top of the diagonal parking slots and the grease spots centered between the white lines.

The saloon’s clientele came in all sorts of shapes and sizes, but they all had certain things in common. They were dressed for the outdoors, they were heavily armed, and they were doing business. Most of it consisted of straightforward “I’ll give a John Deere ‘Trapper’ jack-knife for your magnifying glass” type of barter. But darker bargains were being struck as well, at packed tables where burly men and hard-faced women eyed each other over drinks.

One man sat alone. His name was Joseph Capelli. He wore a knit cap pulled down over his ears, a black sweater, and military-style wool pants. A pistol rode in the shoulder holster under his left arm. His shotgun was within easy reach, too, as was the Marksman rifle he wore strapped to a pack frame.

Capelli was finishing a huge steak as a waitress delivered a second mug of home-brewed beer. She had blond hair, steely blue eyes, and was wearing a short skirt. The latter being a surefire tip-getter. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

“No. What do I owe you?” Capelli’s voice was hard and inflectionless.

“A box of .22s, five twelve-gauge shotgun shells, or half a dozen rifle rounds,” she said in a singsong voice. “The boss prefers 30-06 cartridges, but 30-30s are okay, and he’s willing to consider .303s.”

Capelli’s sage-green Type N-3 military parka was hanging on the back of his chair. He slipped a hand into a pocket, felt for the bottle, and pulled it out. “How ’bout this? One hundred tablets of Bayer aspirin. Never opened.”

The waitress accepted the bottle and examined it more closely. “How do I know they’re real? The boss’ll take it out of my pay if they aren’t.”

“They’re real,” he assured her. “And so is this.” The lipstick appeared as if by magic. It was one of six tubes he had come across in a previously looted five-and-dime. A look of greed appeared on the woman’s face as the bottle of aspirin went into the sack that hung at her side and the bribe disappeared into her bra. “Thanks, mister.” Then she was gone.

Having paid for dinner, it was time for Capelli to enjoy his second mug of home-brewed beer. It was full-bodied, and reasonably smooth, but a little too sweet for his taste. Capelli’s thoughts were interrupted as a little boy in a plaid coat dashed into the room and went over to speak with the man behind the bar. The bartender had slicked-back hair and two days of salt-and-pepper stubble. He listened, nodded, and rang a silver bell, which made a gentle, tinkling sound. “Quiet! Two Hunter Drones are sniffing around outside.”

The Chimeran machines could detect heat. Capelli knew that. But sound? That wasn’t entirely clear. It was a good idea to play it safe, though. So all of the customers were careful to minimize their movements, and keep their voices down, until the bartender rang the silver bell again.

That was when Capelli heard a rustling sound and turned to find that a big, bearlike man was standing next to his table. “Mr. Capelli? My name’s Locke. Alvin Locke. Mind if I sit down?”

Capelli opened his mouth to reply, but the other man had already dumped his pack on the floor and taken a seat. “I’m looking for a runner,” Locke announced. “And people tell me that you’re one of the best.”

“I’m still alive.”

Locke chuckled. “And that’s a mighty fine recommendation. Especially these days.”

Locke opened his mouth as if to continue, but stopped when he heard a low and very menacing growl. He turned to discover a large dog looking up at him with teeth bared. The animal looked a lot like a German shepherd but had a Mohawk-like ridge of fur that ran the length of his spine. “Is that your dog?” Locke inquired nervously.

“Nope. Rowdy belongs to himself.”

“Then why is he growling at me?”

“Because you’re sitting in his seat.”

Locke got up, circled around the table, and sat down.

After jumping up onto the vacated chair, the dog sat on his haunches and yawned. “What’s so special about that particular chair?” Locke wanted to know.

“I’m right-handed,” Capelli replied, tossing a chunk of steak up into the air. With an audible snap, Rowdy intercepted the piece of meat and gulped it down.

Locke grinned. “Makes sense. So, like I was saying, I need a runner.”

Capelli nodded. The U.S. Mail was a thing of the past, so anyone who wanted to send a letter or package badly enough hired a runner. And that was the way he’d been making his living ever since the Army kicked him out. So people knew about him. That was how most clients came his way—through referrals. “How big is the package? And what’s the destination?”

“I’m the package,” Locke replied. “And the destination is Haven, Oklahoma.”

Capelli opened one of the pockets on his pack, withdrew a well-worn Texaco road map, and opened it up. Then, after a minute or so, he put it away again. “Sorry, Mr. Locke, I can’t help you. I specialize in short runs. No more than a couple hundred miles or so. Your destination is at least twice that. Plus we’re talking about thirty-five or forty days of travel through territory I’m not familiar with. That adds more danger. So, I suggest you find someone else.” As if to signal the end of the conversation, a piece of gristle soared into the air and disappeared with a snap.

“I see,” Locke replied thoughtfully. “My sister and her family live in Haven and, since I have no family of my own, I plan to join them. It was a nice little town back before the Chimera shot it up. And it could be again, because what the stinks don’t know is that people still live there. Not on the surface, mind you, but underground, where a network of tunnels tie their homes together.

“I had a good hiding place and enough supplies to last me for ten years up near Glenwood Springs,” Locke continued. “But, after spending the last couple of years in hiding, I came to the conclusion that mere survival isn’t enough. I want to be part of something, I want to help make life better, and if that means walking a few hundred miles, then so be it. But I’m a businessman, Mr. Capelli, or was back before the shit hit the fan, so I lack the skills to make the journey on my own. That’s why I need a runner. I hope you’ll reconsider. If you’ll take me to Haven I’ll give you ten of these right now—and ten more when we arrive.”

Locke pushed a 1920 gold piece through a puddle of beer. It came to rest next to Capelli’s mug. The runner pushed it back.

“Put that away. Half the people in this saloon would slit your throat for a tube of Ipana toothpaste.”

Like so many other things, the American monetary system was a thing of the past. Most business transactions were handled via barter. But precious metals still had value to those willing to bet on some sort of future. Locke smiled as he made the coin disappear. “But not you, Mr. Capelli, or that’s what I hear. They say you’re an honest man.”

Capelli took a sip of beer and pushed his plate to the right. Three squares of carefully cut meat were waiting for Rowdy and the dog hurried to lap them up. “You could join a community here in Colorado. New ones start up all the time.”

“And they fail just as frequently,” Locke replied. “Usually because of internal dissention, a communicable disease, or an attack of some sort.”

“So what makes Haven different?”

Locke was quick to follow up on a possible opening. “They have elected leaders, some of whom were smart enough to see what was coming, and lay in supplies before the stinks took control of North America. The soil under the town is reasonably easy to dig through, they have a good source of water, and a doctor! A young one, thank God. The place isn’t perfect, of course, nothing is, but there’s a chance. And that, my friend, is better than nothing.”

The little boy came scooting into the room and to the bar. He said something to the bartender, who then rang the bell and brought a double-barreled shotgun out from under the counter. “It looks like the stinks are on to us,” the bartender announced grimly. “Follow the signs to the emergency exit and good luck! We’ll set up somewhere else if we can.”

With a great deal of shouting people sprang to their feet, swung packs up onto their backs, and grabbed their weapons. Then, like a herd of spooked cattle, they stampeded towards a door with the words “Emergency Exit” scrawled on it. Only one person could pass through the doorway at a time, so there was an immediate backup.

Rowdy jumped off the chair and barked. Capelli’s movements were casual as he stood and slipped his arms into the parka. “No, boy. Not yet.”

Locke was on his feet, his pack was on his back, and he held a .30-30 Winchester in the crook of his arm. He gestured towards the crowd. “Shouldn’t we get in line?”

“Keep your eye on the bartender and his son,” Capelli replied, as he hoisted the pack frame onto his back. “We’ll follow them.”

Locke looked and saw that rather than head for the emergency exit with the others, the bartender and the boy were headed towards the main entrance. And, judging from the pack on the bartender’s back, he was carrying that evening’s receipts. Locke swore softly. “Well, I’ll be damned. They’re using their customers as decoys!”

“Roger that,” Capelli agreed matter-of-factly. “Come on. There must be a third way out of here.”

The bartender and his son had already passed through the door and entered the stairwell by the time Capelli arrived. But where the locals turned right, they turned left. Then they climbed the stairs to the level above, and to what had been a dead space until a bomb fell on the building. The explosion had left a crevice wide enough for father and son to slip through. Rowdy led the way and Capelli was quick to follow. Muted gunfire could be heard by then, which meant that at least some of the saloon’s customers were doing battle with the stinks, who had been topside waiting for them.

Capelli heard Locke swear and turned to discover that the other man was too big to fit through the narrow opening. “Give me the rifle, shed the pack, and slip through sideways. Hurry!”

As Locke handed the Winchester through the crevice, the dog growled a warning and Capelli heard the gabble of stink speech coming from the stairs above. Then Locke passed his pack through the opening, quickly followed by Locke himself, who then reclaimed his rifle.

Capelli had been hoping to avoid combat, but it was too late. He motioned for Locke to squeeze past him, leveled the Rossmore at the passageway, and waited for a Hybrid to appear. One of the slope-headed monsters arrived seconds later. It was backlit by a single lantern that dangled out in the hall. The Chimera snarled loudly, and was raising a Bullseye, when a full load of double-ought-buck blew half of its head away. Blood and gore painted the concrete wall behind it.

But as the first stink collapsed, another appeared to take its place. And so it went until the Rossmore’s tubular magazine was empty and it was necessary to reload. That was a dangerous moment, and one in which Capelli would have been forced to pull his pistol had he been alone, but Locke was tugging at his pack.

So Capelli stepped into a gap, let the big man take his place, and was pleased to see the calm manner in which Locke fired the Winchester. Brass casings arced through the air and tinkled off concrete as Locke worked the lever. The battle came to an end as two more Hybrids went down.

Capelli was satisfied with the weapons he already had, and couldn’t carry more, but it was tempting to strip the Hybrids of ammo. Even if he couldn’t use it, someone else could, and ammo was the equivalent of money. But there was no way to know how many Chimera were in the area, or when more of them would decide to come charging down the stairs, so he let the opportunity pass.

“Come on,” Capelli said, as he pumped a round into the chamber of his newly reloaded shotgun. “Let’s get the hell out of here. Rowdy—take the point.”

The dog, standing stiff-legged next to Capelli, barked. Then, having turned within his own length, he was gone.

“That’s quite a dog,” Locke said admiringly.

“He’ll do,” Capelli replied. “Don’t forget to reload.”

Locke had forgotten. He smiled sheepishly as he slipped a couple of shells into the rifle’s receiver and picked up his pack as if it were a suitcase.

Activating the light attached to his shotgun, Capelli followed the pale blob through a zigzagging passageway until he came upon a wooden ladder. It slanted up through a dark hole, and the angle was such that Rowdy could climb it. The dog was already halfway up the crudely built structure by the time Capelli arrived.

Wood creaked as Capelli stepped aboard, and it gave slightly as he made his way upwards. Cool night air greeted him as the light from the shotgun splashed the underside of a slab of concrete. From there he had to get down on his hands and knees and crawl through a short tunnel to the spot where the bartender, his son, and Rowdy had escaped into the darkness beyond. The light was a potential liability, so Capelli paused to turn it off, and took the opportunity to listen. The air was chilly, hinting at things to come.

Capelli heard something rattle behind him. It was Locke, and Capelli wished that the big man could move more quietly. He took note of the fact that the sound of gunfire could no longer be heard. It seemed that one side or the other had won. Capelli would have put his money on the stinks.

Shotgun at the ready, he eased his way out onto what had been a ramp and froze. A little bit of light shone from the street beyond. When Locke appeared, Capelli held a finger to his lips and began to slide along the sloping wall. He found a corner at the bottom, just inside the big doorway, a good place to hide while he looked outside.

It was a horrible scene.

A bonfire blazed in the middle of the street. But the Chimera liked cold air, so it wasn’t for the heat. They were cooking with it. Half a dozen human bodies had been dragged into the circle of flickering firelight, where they were being systematically butchered and eaten. The axes made a thunking sound as they rose and fell. Was the blond waitress among the victims? Capelli hoped not. “Follow me. And be quiet,” he whispered to Locke. “Or they’ll have us for dinner too.”

Locke looked ill. But he managed a nod and followed Capelli out onto the sidewalk. The ruins of the parking garage were at the very edge of the firelight’s reach. Moving stealthily, the men were able to slip from shadow to shadow, steadily putting distance between the stinks and themselves.

The Chimera were ghastly silhouettes by then, gathered around the leaping flames, gnawing on human flesh. Capelli had seen a lot of horrible things during his days as a Sentinel but nothing worse than the scene in the middle of Rose Avenue.

It was a clear night, and the stars were out, leaving just enough light to navigate by as they sought to put the stinks behind them. Moving carefully, Capelli led Locke east about a quarter of a mile until the taller buildings began to thin out. Then he was faced with the usual conundrum. Should they find a place to hole up because it was dangerous to travel at night? Or should they keep going because it was dangerous to travel during the day?

That’s a tough one, the voice in Capelli’s head said unsympathetically. If you make the wrong decision you could wind up like me—which is to say dead!

Shut up, Hale.

That’s shut up “sir” to you, the voice responded sternly. Because I’m an officer. Or was, until you blew my brains out.

You were changing, Capelli countered, for what might have been the thousandth time.

You could have taken your concerns to the Major, or to Dr. Malikov, the voice said accusingly, but you didn’t. Why was that, Capelli? Was it because you were afraid I would turn into something like Daedalus? Or was it because you’re an insubordinate sonofabitch who can’t take orders?

Screw you.

Peals of laughter echoed inside Capelli’s head. The laughter faded away as he heard the familiar click of claws and Rowdy materialized out of the gloom. He was panting and he produced a soft whining sound as he bumped Capelli’s leg. Then, having announced his presence, he surged forward to take up a position roughly fifty feet ahead.

They went on like that for another ten minutes when the bulk of a barely seen building blotted out a section of stars. Capelli gave a low whistle to let Rowdy know that he was turning off the road, then activated the shotgun’s light as a church loomed in front of him.

They climbed a few stairs, the blob of white light playing across the gaping door and probing the chapel beyond. It revealed signs of a battle: spent casings, the projectile-riddled pews, and what might have been dried bloodstains. Then, as Capelli made his way down the center aisle, he saw that some words had been painted to the right of the altar. “Why, God, why?”

It was a good question. One that Capelli couldn’t answer.

Locke gave the only eulogy the people who had taken refuge in the church were likely to receive. “Poor bastards.”

“Yeah,” Capelli agreed as he spotlighted the choir loft above. “See that? We’ll spend the rest of the night there. Then, immediately after daybreak, we’ll follow U.S. Route 40 east.”

Locke looked from the loft down to the man next to him. “So you’ll take me to Haven?”

“Yes.”

“But you said you wouldn’t.”

“That was then,” Capelli answered. “This is now. Let’s get some rest.”

No matter where Capelli found himself, he was almost always able to get a reasonable amount of rest since Rowdy’s finely tuned senses were on duty twenty-four hours a day. That night the dog, a half German shepherd, half Rhodesian ridgeback mix, gave no warnings, so both Capelli and Locke were able to log six hours of sleep. But it seemed like only a matter of minutes before a beam of bright sunlight slanted down through a dirty window and threw a carpet of gold across the choir loft’s wooden floor.

That woke Capelli, who wiggled out of his sleeping bag and slipped the Magnum back into its shoulder holster. Both Locke and Rowdy were awake and watching him. “I’m going to climb up into the tower and take a look around,” Capelli announced as he laced his boots. “Assuming the area is clear I’ll be back down. Then we’ll make breakfast and hit the road.” If Locke resented taking orders from what amounted to an employee, he showed no signs of it as he began the process of extricating himself from his bedroll.

After retrieving a pair of binoculars from his pack Capelli went over to a narrow door, pulled it open, and began to climb the twisting-turning stairs. The stairs delivered him to a small platform just below a large pair of church bells. Four vertical windows allowed Capelli to scan the area without being seen. The air was cold, but the clear sky suggested that the day would warm up later.

After about ten minutes of peering out through the narrow slits, he saw that with the exception of a wispy column of smoke spiraling up into the sky from town, there were no signs of life, Chimeran or otherwise. Having eaten their fill and resterilized the town, it appeared that the stinks had left for parts unknown.

Satisfied that there weren’t any imminent threats to worry about, Capelli returned to the choir loft. Locke was in the midst of preparing breakfast for the two of them, black coffee and thick oatmeal, with some precious raisins thrown in, all brewed over a can of Sterno. The meal was followed by half a Tootsie Roll each.

Haute cuisine it wasn’t, but Capelli felt pleasantly full after the meal, and ready to begin the thirty-five-mile hike to the city of Goodland. He figured it would take about two days, unless the weather turned bad or some stinks got in the way.

After checking the surrounding landscape, the threesome left the church and made their way east onto Route 40. The two-lane blacktop led them through mostly flat farmland with overgrown wheat fields on both sides of the highway. Houses could be seen here and there, along with barns and silos, and trees that had been planted to shelter the buildings from the wind.

Once in awhile a feral Chimera could be seen in the distance, searching for something to eat, and they passed the rotting remains of a cow. But other than an occasional bark from Rowdy as he took off after a rabbit, and the eternal hum of the wind, the land was silent.

They saw cars of course, and trucks, and even a yellow school bus, but all were motionless. Some sat as if abandoned only moments before, out of gas perhaps, or broken down. Others lay every which way, having been attacked from the air, and shot full of holes. That had been at least a year earlier, of course. The drivers and passengers who could be seen through filthy windows looked like skeletonized half-mummies, still clad in scraps of rotting cloth, waiting for the elements to bury them.

And they saw graves, too, with improvised crosses standing like lonely sentinels beside the road. Each marked the end of a desperate journey, back when there had been places to go and the strength required to dig.

But amidst these signs of death there were unmistakable signs of life: Route 40 was a natural trail for people to follow. Capelli’s practiced eye took note of a recent campfire, a signpost with a cryptic message written on it, and a couple of .22 casings too bright to have been lying on the road for very long. All signs that, in spite of Chimeran efforts to exterminate them, human beings still walked the surface of the planet.

They had been walking for three hours by the time Capelli called a halt just short of a bridge. The sun was high, and other than the white scar that a Chimeran shuttle had left on the blue sky, it was as if the threesome had the entire world to themselves. From the highway they had to skid down a steep bank into the shadowy area below. A stream ran under the bridge, and judging from the trash left by others, they weren’t the first people to pause there. “You supplied breakfast,” Capelli said, “so lunch is on me.”

Capelli opened his pack and brought out a jar of applesauce he had found in an abandoned farmhouse—plus two cans of Vienna sausages purchased a couple of weeks earlier. “Looks good,” Locke said. “Shall I heat the sausages?”

Capelli shook his head. “No, save the Sterno for later. Rule number one is never light a fire during the day.”

Locke nodded. “If you’ll give me your mess tin I’ll divide everything up.”

Locke and Capelli made small talk during lunch, but not much, since the two men didn’t know each other that well. But Capelli learned that Locke had done a hitch as a hospital corpsman in the Navy after high school, inherited some money, and gone into business as a car dealer back before what he referred to as “the plague.”

Then, after the Chimera overran Great Britain, Locke had been quicker than most to see how things were going. So he purchased a large quantity of supplies while they were still available, stashed them near his cabin in the mountains, and eventually moved there. At first, Locke had been satisfied to simply hide out, but after receiving a couple of runner-delivered letters from his sister, he eventually resolved to join her in Haven.

Capelli was intrigued by the possibility of a truly successful survival community. But when pressed, Locke had very few details to add. Still, Capelli thought to himself, it’s worth taking a look at. And the truth is that I don’t have anything better to do.

So Capelli finished the last of his applesauce, washed his plate in the stream, and removed a pair of binoculars from the top of his pack. “See the tree over there? The one on the east side of the stream? I’m going to climb it and take a look at our back trail.”

Locke looked around. “Where’s Rowdy?”

“Wherever he wants to be,” Capelli replied.

The stream was shallow enough to wade through without overtopping his boots. So Capelli followed it as far as he could, knowing that he wouldn’t leave any tracks. His caution wasn’t the result of a specific threat, but because it was always best to be careful, even when there was no apparent danger.

Having left the streambed at a point approximately thirty feet from the cottonwood, he made straight for it. The dry calf-high grass swished past his boots and a raven made a throaty cawing sound as Capelli arrived at the base of the tree. With a flapping noise, the bird took to the air.

He passed his binoculars around so they hung down his back and shinnied up the textured trunk, up to the point where he found reliable footholds in a series of sturdy branches. A few minutes later Capelli was as high as he could safely go and scanning the countryside through the binoculars. I taught you that, the voice said. I taught you to stop, look, and think.

Yeah, Capelli agreed. You were a fucking genius. Now shut the hell up.

The voice could be quite insistent, but this time it did as it was told, and Capelli was free to examine the horizon without any distractions. And it was then, while scanning the highway, that he saw the tiny figures coming up the road. His heart began to beat faster. Were they Hybrids? Grims?

No; as Capelli rolled the image into perfect focus he saw that they were humans. And that was when he swore. Not because they were headed east on Route 40; lots of people did that. But because these individuals were jogging! And nobody runs while carrying a heavy pack unless they have a very good reason to do so.

Like catching up with people ahead of them.

Turning the glasses to the right, Capelli scanned the area beyond the bridge, before making his way out of the tree. Once on the ground it was a simple matter to hurry down to the streambed and follow the water back to the bridge. He found Locke reading a leather-bound book. He closed it as Capelli approached. “See anything?”

“Yeah, I sure as hell did. How many people did you show those gold coins to back in Burlington?”

Lock frowned. “Not many. Two, no three people, counting yourself. I exchanged one of them for some silver coins and I gave the other away.”

“You did what?”

“I gave it to a woman with a sick child so that she could pay for a doctor,” Locke answered defiantly. “Why do you ask?”

“Because five men are hot on our trail,” Capelli answered darkly. “Maybe it was the money changer, or maybe it was the woman, but somebody fingered you. And now some very unpleasant people are coming to take your gold.”

Locke looked doubtful. “What makes you so sure?”

“Because they’re running, goddammit, and that’s the only explanation that makes sense. Now, here’s what we’re going to do. I want you to head over to the rise on the other side of the stream and build a little fire.”

Locke frowned. “You’re going to use me as bait.”

“That’s right,” Capelli replied, as he removed the Marksman from its scabbard.

“How do I know I can trust you?” Locke wanted to know. “You could let them kill me.”

“You should have considered that before you went to sleep last night.”

Locke grinned. “That’s true! I’m alive, aren’t I?”

“For the moment. Now take your pack and rifle, cross the stream, and build that fire.”

“Okay,” Locke said reluctantly. “But what if they shoot me from a thousand yards away?”

“Then you’ll be dead. Now get going.”

Rowdy had reappeared by then. He nosed the ground, then ran to catch up as Locke splashed through the stream and climbed the slope beyond. Rowdy was always up for an outing and followed along behind, pausing every now and then to lift a leg.

Capelli considered calling the dog back, thought better of it, and took a moment to stash both the pack and the Rossmore on top of the retaining wall that ran under the bridge. Then he returned to the stream and followed it north. That enabled him to move quickly and stay off the skyline as he made his way towards the spot he had chosen while up in the tree.

A sharp left-hand turn took him up a slope and into a field of unharvested wheat. His boots produced puffs of dust, and a squadron of grasshoppers fled ahead of him as he went facedown on the hard ground and elbowed his way up onto a rise. Even though the land looked flat there were slight undulations, and even a few feet of additional elevation would give him a slight advantage.

Once at the highest point, and with a screen of wheat stalks to conceal him, Capelli put his eye to the Marksman’s scope. It was, as the name implied, a very accurate weapon. Though not appropriate for the task at hand, the semiautomatic rifle could launch a small semiautonomous Drone as well, which would fire on any life form it encountered.

The highway seemed to leap forward as Capelli found the strip of blacktop and followed it back to the five-person column. They looked bigger than they had before, the heat rising off the blacktop causing them to shimmer slightly, and the left-to-right breeze would be a factor as well. Not to mention the fact that the bastards were still running.

Still, Capelli was confident of his ability to make the shot as he led the first figure slightly and wondered which one of the would-be thieves was the group’s leader. The one in front was a good bet. Unless the number-two man had enough power to force someone else into the point position. Capelli was running through the possibilities when he saw the lead figure wave the others forward.

Confident that he knew which person to shoot first, Capelli glanced over his left shoulder, and saw that a thin column of smoke was rising up into the sky. Locke was doing his part and the thieves were taking the bait.

Capelli turned back, nuzzled the rifle with his cheek, and felt a sudden emptiness at the pit of his stomach. Suddenly the column was close, a lot closer, which left very little margin for error. Capelli made a slight adjustment for windage, squeezed the trigger, and felt it break. The butt kicked his shoulder, and the report was nearly lost in the vast grasslands, as the group’s leader appeared to stumble and fall.

It was tempting to stay on him, and make sure he didn’t get up, but that would be dangerous. The column was breaking up, so he had to send a second projectile after the first, and do so quickly. The trigger gave, and another man threw up his arms in a gesture of final surrender, as the rest of the thieves sought cover in the wheat field beyond.

That was good, but not good enough, as the wheat rippled and the surviving thieves made a beeline for Locke. Capelli swore. He’d hoped that after two pursuers went down the rest would pause, giving him an opportunity to thin the group even more.

But these people were not only tough, they were determined, and that made them that much more dangerous. And as the road rose to meet the bridge deck, it was going to provide the thieves with more cover if he remained where he was.

So Capelli was forced to pull back, slide down the slope, and splash south. As he passed under the bridge and emerged on the other side, he noticed that Rowdy was nowhere to be seen. And, having heard the gunshots, Locke had gone to ground.

Capelli didn’t have time to look for his client as he climbed up out of the streambed and looked towards the west. He could see them now, plowing their way through waist-high wheat, weapons at the ready. And they could see him. The man on the right fired a Bullseye tag, which missed by a foot. Then, as the thief triggered half a dozen poorly aimed projectiles, Capelli shot him in the chest. He appeared to throw the Chimeran weapon away as he fell over backwards.

The others were firing by then, so Capelli had no choice but to throw himself facedown, and roll sideways. The man on the far left fired a carbine, and geysers of dry dirt shot up all around the ex-Sentinel as he came to a stop. He was pinned at that point, or would have been except for Locke and his Winchester. The rifle made a crack, crack, crack sound as the businessman triggered three rounds. That was followed by a familiar growl and a cry of pain as Rowdy attacked one of the men from behind.

Capelli popped up at that point, and saw that another thief was down as the last one whirled, trying to bring his shotgun to bear on Rowdy. However, the dog’s teeth were locked onto his butt. So as he turned, Rowdy spun with him.

Capelli’s first shot was hurried. It nicked the man’s shoulder, and produced a puff of aerosolized blood, but failed to bring him down. Capelli was worried lest the man shoot Rowdy, but he forced himself to concentrate, and fired again. The second projectile was dead-on. The would-be thief staggered, appeared to lose his balance, and collapsed.

It had been a brief but bloody battle, and as Capelli stood there in what should have been a peaceful wheat field, the scene had a surreal quality. “Damn,” Locke said, as he arrived. “You’re good.”

That’s true, the voice said mockingly. You are good. At killing people.

Capelli felt the usual post-combat tremors, as a surfeit of adrenaline coursed through his circulatory system, and he sought to hide them. “We need to check each body, strip it of anything that has value, and get the hell out of here.”

It was clear that Locke didn’t want to deal with the bodies, but he understood the need to do so, and followed along behind as Capelli went from corpse to corpse. And it turned out that the third one, the thief he’d shot immediately after emerging from under the bridge, was a woman. That didn’t surprise Capelli, but his client was shocked. “That’s her!”

“That’s who?”

“The woman I gave the coin to. The one with the sick baby.”

Capelli nodded expressionlessly. “That comes under rule six.”

“Which is?”

“Mind your own business. Search her pockets! See if you can find the coin.”

Locke knelt, and it took him less than a minute to find what he was looking for. He shook his head as he slipped the gold piece into a pocket and stood. “This world sucks.”

“Tell me about it,” Capelli said, and that was when Rowdy began to bark. Capelli turned towards the highway, raised the Marksman, and looked through the telescopic sight. “Shit.”

Locke squinted into the afternoon sun but couldn’t see anything. “What is it?”

“Stinks, at least a dozen of them, all coming on strong.”

“After us?”

“No, not originally. I think they were following the people who were planning to rob us,” Capelli said as he eyed the oncoming mass. There were Hybrids, a couple of Steelheads, and an eleven-foot-tall Ravager. “But now they’re after us,” he added. “Or will be in a couple of minutes.”

“So what are we going to do?” Locke inquired nervously.

Capelli lowered the rifle and turned back towards the bridge. “We’re going to grab our gear and run like hell.”