Resistance: A Hole in the Sky

^{CHAPTER FOUR} BAD COMPANY

The sky was blue, the highway was gray, and Capelli was running. With each stride, his sixty-pound pack parted company with his sweat-slicked back and hit him. He could just drop it, of course. But what then? How long would he last without food or backup ammo? Although that would be a moot point if the stinks caught up with him. At least a dozen of the creatures were closing in on them including a squad of Hybrids, a couple of Steelheads, and a hulking Ravager. None of which was of any concern to Rowdy, who was loping along at Capelli’s side with his mouth open and his tongue flapping in the breeze.

Capelli glanced back over his shoulder, only to see that Locke had lost even more ground. He knew it was just a matter of time before the stinks caught up with the businessman.

Capelli felt the ground start to rise as he passed a black Ford, a yellow Buick, and a work-worn John Deere tractor. The machine was hooked to a trailer that had been looted of everything except a rotting couch. But the combination of the incline and the presence of some abandoned vehicles gave Capelli an idea. A desperate one to be sure, but anything was better than letting the stinks gnaw on his bones, so he began to scan the cars ahead. Their batteries were dead, and had been for a long time, but maybe, just maybe, he could start one of the vehicles by compression. All he needed was a downhill slope, a key that had been left in the ignition, and tires that weren’t flat. And some gas. Enough to get them five miles down the highway.

Laughter echoed in his head. Sure, the voice said mockingly. That would be wonderful. By why stop there? How ’bout a VTOL, complete with a beautiful stewardess, and a well-stocked bar?

Capelli wasn’t about to be baited. The top of the rise was just ahead. The pack slapped him on the back as he ran, his lungs were on fire, and his feet felt as if they were made of lead. Then, just when it seemed as if the torture would never end, he was there. The burgundy Oldsmobile was riddled with holes, and bones spilled out onto the highway when he opened the door. They rattled as they hit the ground.

A skull grinned at Capelli from the passenger seat as he eyed the floor and saw two pedals. No clutch, so the 88 had an automatic transmission. And Capelli knew it was damned near impossible to push-start one of those, so he slammed the door and looked back.

Locke was struggling. What had been a clumsy running motion had deteriorated into an awkward shamble. And farther back, partially concealed by the shimmering heat, the Chimera could be seen. And if they were tired, there was no evidence of it.

Capelli swore, turned back towards the top of the rise, and forced himself to run. He passed a truck, but it was blackened by fire. The first vehicle on the reverse side of the slope was sitting atop three good tires, but the fourth was flat. It wasn’t perfect, but it was worth investigating.

Capelli uttered a silent prayer as he approached the 1949 Nash Airflyte and opened the door. What he saw was sufficient to elicit a whoop of joy. The Nash had a stick shift! But his spirits fell when he realized that the ignition key was missing.

Then Capelli remembered that the trunk had been left open. A quick inspection revealed that a set of keys was dangling from the trunk lock. And while everything else was gone, the spare was right where it was supposed to be. As was a jack.

“What-you-got?” Locke inquired as he coasted to a stop and stood with chest heaving.

“A way to outrun the stinks,” Capelli answered, dumping his pack onto the ground. “How are you at changing tires?”

“I was a car dealer, remember?” Locke replied, as he shrugged his pack off.

“Good. Put the spare on as quickly as you can. Then, when the car is ready to roll, give me a holler. We’ll start it on compression.”

Locke pulled the jack out of the trunk and turned to meet Capelli’s gaze. “What if this baby is out of gas?”

“Then all of our troubles will be over,” Capelli predicted grimly.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to slow ’em down,” Capelli answered. “Or try to. Don’t forget to throw our packs into the car. Rowdy. Stay.” Then he was gone.

Rather than go over the rise, and lose visual contact with Locke, Capelli knelt next to the burned-out truck’s half-melted rear tires. As he brought the rifle to bear on the Chimera, he was shocked to see how much closer the aliens were. But that put them within range, which meant an opportunity to slow them down.

Capelli panned from left to right as a variety of heads bobbed up and down within the circle of his telescopic sight. But the one he wanted most towered above all the rest. Because if he could nail the largest and most powerful stink, it would not only reduce the overall threat but cause the lesser forms to advance more slowly.

But he had to bag the monster with a single head shot. Because if he didn’t, the Ravager would activate a shield so powerful his rifle wouldn’t be able to punch through it. And that would submarine his plan.

The stinks were at the bottom of the slope. It took all the nerve Capelli could muster to focus on the Ravager and capture the rhythm of the creature’s movements. Up-down, up-down, up-blam!

Capelli felt the rifle kick his shoulder, saw the spray of blood, and had the satisfaction of seeing the Chimera fall. The rest of the stinks immediately went to ground in the wake of the Ravager’s death. And that was just fine, since it meant they were stationary for the moment.

Capelli turned to look back over his shoulder and saw that Locke had removed the flat and was about to mount the spare. Rowdy was lifting a leg over one of the good tires. The whole thing was going to be close. Very close.

The truck shook as a blast from an Auger ripped through it and a hail of Bullseye projectiles pinged all around. Capelli knew the Chimera could “see” his heat signature, and was forced to back away, in hopes that the top of the rise would offer additional cover. That was dangerous, of course, because the moment he stopped firing, the stinks would advance.

Rather than allow the aliens to climb the slope unopposed, Capelli took the opportunity to switch from the Marksman’s primary to secondary firing mode. He felt the recoil and heard the report as a semiautonomous Drone took off and cruised downslope.

It was only a matter of seconds before the airborne turret “sensed” the presence of living targets and opened fire. There was quite a commotion as Hybrids fell, the Drone took fire from below, and Locke yelled, “Hey, Capelli! It’s ready.”

Capelli turned and ran as lethal Auger bolts flashed through dirt and thick concrete before stuttering off into the distance. The spare was on, the jack was lying where Locke had left it, and the big man had the driver’s-side door open so he could push and steer at the same time. “Come on!” he shouted. “Let’s get out of here.”

Capelli slipped the sling over his head and let the Marksman hang across his back as he caught up with the Nash from behind. With both men pushing as hard as they could, the bathtub-shaped sedan began to roll. Slowly at first, due to its considerable weight, but faster as it gained momentum.

When Locke thought the speed was sufficient he jumped behind the wheel. The transmission was in neutral. So he put the clutch in and pulled the shifter down into first gear. The Nash jerked as he lifted his foot, but nothing happened. So Capelli continued to push.

Was the car out of gas? It was starting to look that way as the sedan gathered speed once again and Locke popped the clutch for the second time. This time there was a loud bang when the engine backfired, coughed, and finally caught.

Locke gunned it as Capelli ran to catch up, pulled the back door open, and dived inside. The rear window exploded and showered the men with safety glass as the surviving stinks topped the rise and opened fire.

But the engine had steadied by then, Locke had up-shifted into second gear, and the sedan was gaining speed. Thirty seconds later they were out of range—and the stinks were dwindling in the rearview mirror. The race had been won. But for how long?

Capelli worked his way out of the sling, pulled himself forward so he could look over the other man’s shoulder, and eyed the gas gauge. It appeared that they had a little less than a quarter of a tank to work with. “Not bad, huh?” Locke remarked cheerfully, as the needle on the speedometer continued to climb. “I’m a Ford man myself! But I have to admit that this thing is roomy.”

Rowdy was sitting in the front passenger seat with his head out the window and tongue flapping as Capelli allowed himself to fall back into the seat. The last few hours had been exhausting, and now as the shadows began to lengthen, he was tired. The engine hummed, the slipstream roared, and miles melted away. The situation wasn’t perfect. Nothing ever was. But right then, in that moment, Capelli was happy.

Capelli and Locke were standing at a crossroads about half a mile off the highway when the first drops of rain fell. There was a gas station, a general store, and a forlorn-looking post office. None of the buildings appeared to be occupied. The sky was increasingly dark, the occasional bolt of lightning could be seen to the north, and the threesome had been looking for a place to hole up when they happened across the dead body. Rowdy, for reasons known only to him, was busy barking at it. Capelli told Rowdy to shut up, and he did.

Two days had passed since the Nash had run out of gas, thereby forcing them to abandon it. They had been walking ever since, and the trip had been wonderfully uneventful until now.

Locke stepped forward to inspect the corpse. It was roped to a telephone pole. He grabbed a handful of greasy hair and jerked the man’s head up. Lightning strobed, a loud crack was heard, and Capelli saw that the man’s face was badly swollen. It appeared as though he had been beaten to death. That was too bad, but dead is dead, and there was nothing they could do about it. “Come on. It isn’t safe out here. We need some cover.”

That was when the rain fell harder, hitting the man’s face and reviving him. His eyes popped open.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Locke remarked. “The sonofabitch is alive.”

“Cut him loose,” Capelli instructed, as another bolt of lightning zigzagged across the sky. It was closer now and the bang came quickly. “Let’s try the post office. Maybe we can take shelter there.”

By sandwiching the man between them, and half-carrying, half-dragging him across the empty street, Capelli and Locke were able to help him into the post office. Like everything else in the state of Kansas, it had been looted.

Locke lowered the man onto the floor as Capelli activated the light on his shotgun. He knew from experience that the building could be home to just about anything. That included pods, Grims, and Leapers. So it was necessary to check the place out before taking up residence. As Capelli’s light played across the floor he saw dozens of unopened envelopes, many of which were stamped with dirty boot prints. Rowdy’s claws made clicking noises as he nosed along, pausing only to sniff an oak bench, before continuing his investigation.

Capelli figured the walls were pretty much as they had been before the area was overrun. A red, white, and blue Uncle Sam stared out at him from a recruiting poster. The old man’s gaunt-looking face was stern and his right index finger was pointed at Capelli’s chest. “Uncle Sam needs you!” the caption read.

Uncle Sam kicked your ass out of the Army, the voice put in. And for good reason.

Laughter that only Capelli could hear followed him through a door and into the postmaster’s office. There was a counter that faced out onto the main room, plus shutters that could be closed in order to seal the space off from the public area beyond. A potbellied stove occupied a corner and the south wall consisted of nothing but niches, many of which contained undelivered letters.

It was 2:36 according to the clock mounted on the back wall. The timepiece was flanked by Wanted posters on one side and copies of postal regulations on the other. All of them were held in place by red thumbtacks.

Then, turning back to face the door, Capelli saw that most of the north wall was taken up by a glass-covered American flag. It had been punctured more than once and, according to the plaque below, had been carried into the battle of Seicheprey in 1918 by local troops.

Not having detected any signs of Chimera, Capelli returned to the main room as thunder rolled outside. It was dark by then and rain pattered on the roof. The man was coming around, after receiving half a Hershey bar from Locke and some water to wash it down. He blinked owlishly as Capelli’s light stabbed him in the eyes. “Come on,” Capelli said. “We’ll hole up in the inner office. If we pull the shutters, less light will show.”

Locke helped the man to stand and gave him a shoulder to lean on as they followed Capelli and Rowdy into the office. The next half-hour was spent building a fire in the stove, clearing away some of the litter, and laying out their bedrolls. Once the baked beans were hot, and everyone had a mug full of black coffee, the man told his story. Long, lank hair served to frame a narrow face. One eye was swollen shut. The rest of his face was puffy, his upper lip was swollen, and judging from appearances it was difficult for him to chew.

His name was Pete Sowers, and it seemed that he was part of a community living in the huge salt mine located under Hutchinson, Kansas. Originally most of the salt from the mine had been used to make pharmaceuticals, baked goods, and chemical products. In post-industrial America, those markets didn’t exist anymore.

But, to hear Sowers tell it, survivors were increasingly in need of common table salt. Both to flavor their food and to preserve meat. So business was on the upswing. “I’m one of twelve salesmen,” Sowers explained earnestly. “My job is to deliver salt to existing customers and identify new ones. I generally travel with two bodyguards. Calvin, Ted, and myself were headed for the rendezvous in Colby when at least two hundred Leapers jumped us in a dry wash about ten miles south of here. We fought like hell, but I’m the only one who made it out, along with one of the pack animals.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Capelli said sympathetically. “You mentioned a rendezvous in Colby. When is it supposed to take place?”

Sowers wiped his lips with a grimy sleeve. “In a couple of days. The stinks are a big threat—so the rendezvous won’t last for more than five or six hours.”

The door to the potbellied stove was open and firelight danced the walls. Rowdy was lying in front of the fire with his head on his paws. His eyes were open, and Capelli knew the dog was alert to the slightest sound.

Locke took a sip of coffee. “So how did you wind up here? Tied to a telephone pole?”

“I figured I’d go to the rendezvous, sell the remaining salt, and head home,” Sowers replied. “But a group of bandits spotted me and gave chase. They caught up, beat the crap out of me, and I passed out. When I came to, they were gone. Maybe they left me for dead.”

“So what now?” Capelli inquired.

“I’m a charity case,” Sowers said, as he glanced from face to face. “I know that. But if you’ll let me accompany you to the rendezvous, there’s a good chance that some of my folks will be there. If not, I’ll borrow some ammo from one of our customers. Either way I’ll pay you.”

“We aren’t looking to make a profit,” Capelli responded. “But food is always welcome.”

Locke eyed Capelli. “So we’re going to Colby?”

Capelli was seated on an upside-down waste-paper basket. He shrugged. “Why not? It’s on the way.”

Sowers opened his mouth as if to ask, “On the way to where?” but closed it again. A terrible darkness had fallen over America and everything was different. People were generally reluctant to say where they were going and it wasn’t polite to ask.

The fire crackled as it consumed pieces of what had been the postmaster’s desk drawers, thunder muttered to the south, and Rowdy produced an elaborate yawn. The day was done.

It took two days to reach Colby. The weather had improved by then, although there was a nip in the air, and some of the trees were starting to turn. And with each passing mile there were more and more signs that other people were headed for the rendezvous as well. As the two-lane road carried them east, Capelli spotted campfires, so recent that some of them were still smoking, piles of fresh horse dung, and a so-called message tree. It was located at the center of a town too small to have a name.

The stinks couldn’t read. That was the theory, anyway, and insofar as Capelli knew it was true. But humans could, so many of the messages that were pinned to the big oak tree located at the center of town were cryptic. One said, “J.C., So far so good,” and was signed “H.N.” And another read, “Luke, dad’s better, Love, T.”

But some of the messages were open and direct, such as a pistol-shaped card that read, “Need a gunsmith? Ask for Hank Fowler.”

There were hundreds of them. So many that the lower part of the tree trunk looked as if it had been painted white. Sowers read them all, or tried to, looking for any sign that other salt salesmen were in the area. Some of them made him very upset. Like the one that read, “My husband needs penicillin! Will do anything for it. Ask for Amanda Hartly.”

By that time, Capelli had come to the conclusion that Sowers was a bit too naïve to be out roaming the badlands alone. The man had a tendency to see everything in simple black-and-white terms. And that reminded him of another person who had all of the answers: a lieutenant named Nathan Hale.

As they approached Colby, the men found themselves sharing the highway with a steady stream of other people. Some were mounted, some were on foot, and in spite of the danger represented by such a gathering, most of the travelers were in a good mood.

The same couldn’t be said for their dogs, however, many of whom saw Rowdy as a threat. They growled whenever the big mix approached them. But if Rowdy was offended, there was no sign of it as he made the rounds of people and animals alike, his tail a-wagging.

As they entered Colby, Capelli saw a sign that read, “Colby, The Oasis on the Plains,” and thought there was some truth to it. Except for a swath of destruction that cut across the town at an angle, the city was largely intact. That included the Romanesque courthouse, which, though partially burned, still had a stately appearance and served as the backdrop for the chaotic rendezvous spread out in front of it.

The gathering was part picnic, part yard sale, and part revival meeting. As Capelli looked around, he saw people sharing food around small fires, merchants selling everything from homemade candles to blocks of cheese, and preachers of every stripe. One of them claimed to be in touch with the Chimeran hive-mind and was wearing a Leaper skull on top of his head. And there were musicians, too. Along with jugglers, hollow-eyed beggars, medicine men, and a man who claimed to represent President Thomas Voss. He stood on a park bench and gave a speech about the attempt to destroy a tower in New York City, but only six people paused to listen.

In spite of the country fair–like atmosphere, there was an overlay of fear as well. It could be seen in the way that people continually scanned the sky for any sign of a Chimeran shuttle and never ventured more than a foot or two away from their possessions. And there were other dangers, too. Because all manner of thieves were roaming the crowd. They ranged from fast-talking con men to heavily armed thugs. Capelli was just about to warn Locke of that when Sowers uttered a shout of outrage. “There they are! The bastards that stole my salt!”

Then Sowers was off, winding his way between clumps of people, as he hurried to confront a group of five heavily armed men. They had a string of horses hitched to a picket line, and from what Capelli could see, they were selling bags of something off a wide-spread blanket. “Come on!” Locke said. “Sowers is unarmed. He’s going to need some backup.”

“Wrong,” Capelli responded as he reached out to grab the other man’s arm.

“Why not?”

“Rule six.”

“Which is?”

“Mind your own business.”

Locke jerked his arm free. “There’s more to life than looking out for yourself, Capelli.”

Yeah, the voice said, as Locke hurried away. There’s more to life than what’s in it for Capelli.

Capelli sighed, whistled for Rowdy, and followed his client over to the spot where Sowers was locked in a heated confrontation with a much larger man. He had thick black hair, a unibrow, and a crooked nose. And, judging from his expression, he was pissed.

“You stole my horses and my salt,” Sowers said accusingly. “And I want them back.”

Predictably enough, the man with the black hair drew a pistol and pointed it at Sowers’s head. “You want to die, don’t you? Well, you’re about to get your wish.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Locke said coolly.

The man looked up, saw the Winchester that was leveled at him, and frowned. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m the guy who’s going to blow your head off unless you put that pistol away.”

“Oh, really? What about them?” the man demanded, as his companions drew weapons and pointed them at Locke.

“It looks like they’re going to die too,” Capelli said, as he stepped forward. At that range the Rossmore could blow two or three men away with a single blast, and all of them knew it. Rowdy, who was standing at Capelli’s side, growled menacingly.

The result was a Mexican standoff. People who were in the line of fire hurried to clear the area as time seemed to stretch. Then it snapped as Locke fired, the man with the black hair was thrown off his feet, and all hell broke loose. A bandit shot Sowers in the left leg; Capelli blew him away with the Rossmore, and was pleased to see the man standing next to him fall as well.

The Winchester made steady bang, bang, bang sounds as Locke worked the lever and brass casings arced through the air. A second BOOM from the shotgun was like the period at the end of a sentence as a load of double-ought buck nearly cut the last bandit in two.

That was followed by a moment of silence while the crowd absorbed what had occurred. Then it was as if someone dropped a needle onto a record. A baby cried, Sowers groaned as he clutched his thigh, and hawkers went back to haranguing the crowd. Time was short; scores had been settled the only way they could be, and life went on.

Locke fished a first-aid kit out of his pack and went to work. Having cut Sowers’s pant leg away, he checked to see if there was an exit wound. When he found one, he announced the good news. “The bullet went through—and it looks like it missed the bone. I’ll pour some gin in there, slap pressure dressings on both of the holes, and wrap everything with gauze. That should hold you for awhile.”

“Thanks for backing me up,” Sowers said, as Locke opened a bottle of gin. “I know what I did was stupid. But I was pissed!”

“Yeah,” Capelli said, as he eyed the crowd. “We noticed. Of course, Locke is just as stupid as you are. Although I do give him credit for shooting first.”

Sowers swore as the gin trickled into the entry wound. Locke wiped some blood-tinged alcohol away and placed a gauze pad over the wound. “I didn’t have a choice,” the businessman said. “It was either that or allow something bad to happen.”

Capelli thought about Hale. The gun, the look in the officer’s golden eyes, and the explosion of gore. “Yeah, it’s like that sometimes.”

A sturdy-looking woman appeared. She was wearing a broad-brimmed hat, a buckskin jacket, and faded jeans. A pair of scuffed cowboy boots completed the outfit. There was a frown on her homely face and her voice was gruff. “Sowers? Is that you? God damn it, son, you’re supposed to sell salt, not lay around on your ass.”

Sowers’s face lit up and he grinned. “Capelli, Locke, I’d like you to meet Meg Bowers. Meg’s a salesman, just like me, only pushier.”

“I’m a saleswoman,” Bowers put in combatively, “and that ain’t all. I’m pushier, meaner, and better-lookin’ than Sowers is. But, worthless or not, the sonofabitch is ours! So we’ll take him off your hands.”

A trio of rugged-looking men had appeared by then. They were armed to the teeth and leading horses. Once Locke’s rough-and-ready first-aid efforts were complete, they loaded Sowers onto a horse and placed his boots in the stirrups. “Two of those horses over there are mine,” the salt vendor said, “plus the bags of salt. But I reckon the other mounts are yours.”

Capelli looked across the scattering of dead bodies to where the horses stood. There were seven of them. “We’ll take three of them. Two to ride and one to sell. You keep the others.”

Sowers shrugged. “It’s a deal. Take the ones you want.”

Capelli looked at the string of horses but stayed where he was.

Bowers laughed. “You don’t know the first thing about horses, do you, son?” Capelli shook his head.

“Hanson,” Bowers said, “go over there and cut out some mounts for our friends! And I’ll be watching you. So give them something decent.”

One of the riders obeyed, and five minutes later Capelli and Locke had three horses, complete with saddles and related gear. Sowers waved as he followed Bowers down the crowded street and was soon lost to sight.

Then it was time to carry out the gruesome task of stripping the dead bodies of valuables as members of the crowd looked on. The take included a small arsenal of weapons, a quantity of ammo, and some food. As soon as the process was complete, Capelli insisted that they move a block away before trying to figure out what to do with the extra horse and nine guns.

“Stay here,” Locke said. “If I can sell cars, I can sell a horse! I’ll be back.” And with that, both he and the extra mount disappeared into the crowd.

Capelli wasn’t so sure about his client’s claim, but Bowers had been correct. He didn’t know the first thing about horses. So maybe Locke could pull it off.

The ex-soldier was an expert where weapons were concerned, however, and having laid his wares out for potential customers to look at, was soon haggling away. He had attracted plenty of possible buyers. But Capelli had a limited amount of time to work with—and didn’t want to haul the weapons around. So he set the prices low but refused to accept anything less than quality ammo.

Twice, Capelli had the funny feeling he had come to associate with danger. Back during his days as a Sentinel, a SRPA psychologist named Cassie Aklin had told him that such sensations were thought to originate in something called the “reptilian complex,” meaning the part of the brain that higher mammals share with reptiles and is responsible for basic fight-or-flight responses.

Whatever it was, Capelli had come to trust such warnings. So on both occasions he interrupted what he was doing to take a quick look around. But there were dozens of people in the area, and when Capelli scanned their faces, none of them looked especially suspicious. So all he could do was continue to sell the weapons, stash his profits, and hope for the best. He was down to a beat-up Luger and a .303 Enfield when Locke returned with a stranger in tow.

The man was tall, with a ruddy complexion and a well-tended mustache. He was wearing a tweed cap, a shooting jacket, and knee-high riding boots. His armament consisted of a riding crop, a double-barreled pistol in a cross-draw holster, and a knife that could be seen sticking up out of a boot. There was a pleasant smile on his face.

“Capelli, this is Mr. Patrick Murphy! He’s a packer and the new owner of what was our horse. Patrick, this is Joe Capelli.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Joe,” Murphy said genially. “You’ll be glad to know that Al got a fair price for your animal.”

“I’m pleased to hear it,” Capelli replied, as he stood to shake hands.

“Patrick and his men are packers,” Locke explained as Rowdy arrived to check the newcomer out. “And they’re headed for Hoxie. That’s our next stop, right? So I asked Patrick if we could tag along and he said yes!”

“That’s right,” Murphy agreed. “The word is that there are plenty of stinks over that way, and the more guns the better.”

Capelli was anything but pleased. What Murphy said was true. But a large group of people could attract trouble too. And the arrangement Locke had in mind was a clear violation of rule eight, which was “Never trust anyone.”

But Murphy seemed to be okay, and Locke was so pleased with the arrangement he had made that Capelli couldn’t bring himself to say no. “That sounds good,” he agreed. “When do you plan to leave?”

“In about fifteen minutes,” Murphy replied, as he looked up at the empty sky. “We want to put some distance between ourselves and Colby. A rendezvous is hard to resist—but they’re damned risky. The stinks nailed one near Lincoln a few months back. I hear there were hundreds of casualties.”

“I agree,” Capelli said. “We’ll be ready.”

Murphy delivered a salute with the riding crop, gave Rowdy a pat on the head, and melted into the crowd. Capelli felt the strange tingling sensation at the back of his neck, took a long fruitless look around, and wound up selling the Luger for two .38s and a pocket knife. Later, when he went to open it, he discovered that the second blade had been broken off.

As the sunlight began to fade, and the shadows lengthened, Capelli figured they were a good five or six miles east of Colby. His knees hurt, his butt was sore, and the horse he was riding seemed to know that he was a novice rider. A fact made obvious by its tendency to make a side trip whenever a clump of especially succulent grass appeared.

The pack train included six wranglers, all of whom were amused by Capelli’s lack of equestrian expertise, and never tired of poking fun at him. Besides the mounts the men were riding, the group had a spare purchased from Locke. The actual cargo, whatever it was, had been loaded onto ten mules, each of which could carry about eighty pounds. So Capelli figured the group was moving eight hundred pounds of something. Less supplies, of course. Not that it mattered to him so long as everything went smoothly.

It was clear that the wranglers not only knew what they were doing, but had been working together for quite awhile as they laagered for the night. The site consisted of a rise crowned by a sturdy rock wall and a burned-out farmhouse. There wasn’t any shelter to speak of, but the waist-high wall would offer cover if the group was attacked, and the ruins were a plentiful source of firewood.

As the camp was set up, most of the animals were unloaded and given a chance to graze under the watchful eye of a mounted wrangler. All of which struck Capelli as very professional. And after darkness had fallen the well-screened fire, an excellent dinner, and the neatly aligned tents all combined to reinforce this impression. In fact, it was almost too well run in Capelli’s estimation.

The whole thing was reminiscent of the Army. And, as he listened to the men chatter among themselves, he was struck by the frequent use of phrases like “Roger that,” “He’s on the far side of the perimeter,” and “What’s for chow?”

Of course there were lots of ex-soldiers around, and the fact that a group of them had banded together could be explained in all sorts of ways, but Capelli resolved to keep his eyes peeled nevertheless.

Locke had no such reservations, and clearly felt at ease with the wranglers, as a group of them sat around discussing the finer points of Ford flathead engines. A subject of very little interest to Capelli, who was sore after more than three hours spent in the saddle and looking forward to turning in early. And, more than that, to a full night’s sleep, since Murphy insisted that his men would take all of the two-hour watches.

So the packers were gathered around the fire when Capelli got up and slipped away. Rowdy had been gone for an hour by then, hunting probably, because that was the way he got most of his food.

Capelli wasn’t trying to walk quietly. Doing so was second nature. And that was the reason why the wrangler who was kneeling next to Locke’s open pack failed to hear him. Capelli froze as the beam from a penlight played across his client’s gear. The fire threw some light into the surrounding area, but because the runner was standing in the dense shadow cast by the farmhouse’s freestanding chimney, he was impossible to see.

Capelli’s first instinct was to draw his pistol, step forward, and challenge what appeared to be a thief. But what if the man wasn’t acting alone? What if he had orders to search the packs? Given what he’d observed earlier in the day, such a thing seemed to be all too possible. The thought sent a chill down his spine.

Putting the flashlight down in order to use both hands, the wrangler bent forward to inspect the inside of the pack. For a brief moment part of the man’s face was illuminated. Only then did Capelli recognize him as a packer named Cody, a wrangler who had been standing nearby as he sold weapons back in Colby. He wondered if there was some sort of connection.

No more than a minute had passed since Capelli had left the circle of firelight. He heard a low whistle, saw Cody kill the light and melt into the darkness. It didn’t take a genius to realize that he’d been missed and a wrangler had been sent to warn Cody.

Capelli turned back towards the fire and pretended to zip up his pants as he reentered the firelight’s soft glow. Murphy was seated on the ground and leaning on a saddle. His eyes seemed to glitter as he looked up. “It’s a nice evening, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Capelli said, agreeably, as he held his palms towards the warmth. “It is. The nights are getting colder, though.”

Capelli and Locke announced their intention to turn in about twenty minutes later. As soon as they were alone, Capelli told Locke about what he’d seen and his decision to part company with the pack train as soon as possible. They couldn’t do so that night, not with a sentry on duty at all times, but an opportunity would arise soon. Or so he hoped.

So they agreed that they would take turns sleeping with weapons at the ready just in case the wranglers attacked during the night. That was why Capelli was awake when dozens of Grims burst up out of the farmhouse’s basement, killed the sentry, and attacked the men trapped in their sleeping bags.