Resistance: A Hole in the Sky

^{CHAPTER SIX} A DAMNED SHAME

Capelli was inside his sleeping bag when the Grims came surging up out of their underground lair to attack the unsuspecting humans. The basement of the burned-out farmhouse was the perfect place for dozens of pods to mature. And because of the charred debris piled on top of the ground floor, the unsuspecting humans had no idea what was lurking below.

The lone sentry managed to get off a single shot before a charging Grim threw its skeletal arms around him and opened its mouth to expose two rows of needle-sharp teeth. The man tried to push the foul-smelling creature away, but it was too strong. So the wrangler started to scream. But the sound was cut off as the Chimera tore his throat out. The sentry’s eyes rolled back in his head, his body went limp, and he collapsed.

The gunshot, and the gibbering sounds that the Grims made, offered some warning but not enough. Most of the humans were still in the process of exiting their bags and scrabbling for weapons when the Chimera fell on them.

But unlike the rest, Capelli was not only awake but on guard against a possible attack. Not from the Grims, but from the wranglers, at least one of whom had been acting suspiciously earlier in the evening.

So he was fully dressed and his sleeping bag was unzipped as the stinks swept across the encampment and a scattering of shots were heard. He didn’t have enough time to do more than sit up, however. Capelli had battled Grims in the past and knew how important it was to keep them at a distance. They liked to attack en masse. And once the Chimera made physical contact with their victims the battle was over. So Capelli fired the Rossmore, heard the sharper blam, blam, blam sound produced by Locke’s Winchester, and knew the other man was fighting as well.

As Capelli’s buckshot tore into them, the Grims literally flew apart. But the runner knew there was reason to worry because he was going to need time to reload. Even if it was only two or three shells. Fortunately, that opportunity came as the last of what might have been a dozen Chimera disintegrated and Capelli was able to thumb two rounds into the Rossmore’s magazine as a grotesquerie collapsed at the foot of his sleeping bag.

But another group of stinks was already charging towards him, and it was only a matter of seconds before the shotgun was empty. Capelli was reaching for the Magnum when Rowdy flew past him and tore into the Chimera with such ferocity that the attack stalled.

As the growling dog tore gobbets of bloody flesh out of the Grims, Capelli was able to not only shove six shells into the Rossmore, but throw the sleeping bag off his legs and scramble to his feet. “Rowdy! Here, boy.”

The dog broke contact and whirled away. That allowed Capelli to fire freely. Now, with only half a dozen stinks left to deal with, he was able to blow them away two at a time. Finally, after what seemed like an hour but was actually a matter of minutes, the last Grim went down. A profound silence settled over the encampment, broken only by the click, click, click sound the shotgun shells made as Capelli thumbed them into the tubular magazine. He was still in the process of absorbing what had occurred when Locke groaned.

As Capelli swiveled towards his client, he saw that a dead Grim was sprawled across Locke’s body and immediately knew what had taken place. Once the big man had expended all of the rounds in the Winchester’s tubular magazine, the stink had been able to close in on him. Then, seeing the knife hilt that was protruding from the left side of the Chimera’s skull, Capelli knew that Locke had managed to kill the monstrosity.

But as Capelli rolled the corpse off the big man’s body, he saw Locke’s badly bloodied shoulder, and his heart sank. His client wouldn’t turn into a Chimera, not without being infected by a Spinner, but Grim bites were known to be extremely toxic.

Capelli put the shotgun down and knelt next to Locke’s pack. The first-aid kit was sitting on top of everything else.

“Find the bottle of gin,” Locke instructed through gritted teeth. “Give me a swallow and pour the rest into the wound.”

After removing the bottle, Capelli used the pack to prop the other man up, and set about giving him first aid. Locke swore a blue streak as the alcohol made contact with his raw flesh—and Capelli did the best he could to blot the puncture wounds dry.

As fresh blood continued to well up from below, Locke told Capelli how to create a pressure bandage and tape it in place. The truth was that Capelli had been forced to treat dozens of wounds over the last few years, many of which were worse than Locke’s. But there was no point in saying so and he didn’t.

Once Locke was stabilized, Capelli took the shotgun and set about the grisly process of inspecting the rest of the encampment with Rowdy at his side. The average Chimera smelled like rotting flesh even at the best of times. So their body odor, plus the smell of spilled intestinal matter, combined to form a stench so powerful it made Capelli gag. Bodies lay everywhere, Grims mostly, but with badly mauled human corpses mixed in.

But Capelli wasn’t interested in either one. Not at the moment, anyway. What he wanted was two or three horses. Capelli thought he had heard screaming noises during the worst of the fighting, so he figured that at least some of the mounts were dead. And as the light from the shotgun swept across the ground ahead, he saw that he was correct. Two of the horses were down and one was dead. The other whinnied pitifully and kicked its legs in a futile attempt to stand.

Capelli was disappointed to see that with the single exception of an animal tied to a tree, rather than the picket line, all the rest of the horses had broken free. He went over to make sure that the remaining mount was secure before putting the wounded animal out of its misery. The Magnum made a loud boom, the horse jerked reflexively, and Capelli was about to turn away when he heard a barely audible croak. “Capelli? Is that you?”

The pistol was back in its holster by then. The beam from the Rossmore swept across the huddled mess and returned to it. Gravel crunched under Capelli’s boots as he made his way over to the spot where the man lay. It didn’t take a degree in medicine to see that Murphy was dying.

Judging from the sprawl of bodies around him, the head packer had given a good account of himself before a couple of Chimera were able to break through and take him down. It wasn’t clear what had taken place after that, except to say that a hole had been torn in the middle of the sleeping bag, and the area around it was dark with blood. Murphy blinked as the light flooded his pain-contorted face. The words arrived one at a time. “Don’t-leave-me-like-this.”

“I won’t,” Capelli promised. “But, before I send you on your way, there’s something I want to know.”

Murphy winced and bit his lower lip. “Anything.”

“Were you and your men going to kill us?”

Murphy tried to smile. It came across as a grimace. “Yes, we were. Locke is carrying a large quantity of gold. Did you know that?”

Capelli nodded. “Yes, I did.”

With another loud boom the Magnum went off. An even louder explosion followed as Capelli triggered the pistol’s secondary fire function. Murphy ceased to exist.

The horse’s hooves made a soft clopping sound as Capelli led the animal over to where Locke sat with his back resting against the pack.

“Who were you shooting at?”

“Just tidying up, that’s all. This is going to be tough, Al, but we need to get out of here, and that means you’ve got to climb up onto this horse.”

“I can do it,” Locke said gamely. “But I’ll need some help.”

It took a full twenty minutes to saddle the horse, get Locke up onto the animal’s back, and load his belongings into some saddlebags. Then Capelli led the heavily laden horse down the graveled drive. He planned to head east, in the direction they had been going originally, and find a place to hole up. They could hit the road again once Locke felt better.

But finding such a hideout wouldn’t be easy. Locke was slumped forward in the saddle, morning wasn’t that far away, and Capelli had no idea where to look for shelter.

The next few hours unwound slowly. The journey was interrupted on two different occasions when Locke fell out of the saddle and hit the ground. After the second incident, Capelli tried to rope his client in place. But the horse didn’t like the way the rope passed under her belly, and during the periods when Locke was lucid, he complained about the fact that his wrists were secured to the saddle horn.

There was quite a bit of starlight, so Capelli could see some of the features around him, and take occasional side trips to inspect anything that might serve as a hideout. But none of the deserted houses, barns, or silos felt right. And Capelli had learned to trust his instincts.

So the first blush of dawn was visible along the eastern horizon by the time he spotted the concrete grain elevator and left the highway to check it out. The ten-story-high concrete cylinder held very little interest for him. The outbuildings were worth a look, however. They included a small stand-alone office structure and a storage shed, both of which had been looted and would offer little or no protection during a firefight.

But about fifty feet away, right next to a faded sign that read “Storm Shelter,” was a slab of angled concrete to which a rusty steel door was attached. Metal squealed as Capelli pulled the barrier open and pointed the Rossmore’s light down into the black hole below. A short flight of stairs led down to a room about eight feet wide and twelve feet long, furnished with metal benches that ran along both walls, a folding card table, and some rickety chairs.

Had the elevator workers used the underground shelter as a lunchroom on hot days? Or gone there to take illicit naps? Yes, judging from the half-naked pinup girls on the walls, Capelli thought they had. A brunette with the title “Miss October” seemed to watch him, her smile forever frozen in place, as he checked the inside surface of the door. He was pleased to find a steel bar that would allow him to lock the shelter from within.

An Auger could send blasts of transient radiation right through the barrier, of course, but the underground shelter would be impervious to just about everything else, and was unlikely to draw attention from all but the most meticulous of searchers. Especially if he removed the sign.

All these factors played into the final decision. But the first rays of light from the steadily rising sun, and Locke’s deteriorating condition, settled the matter. The shelter would have to do.

Capelli’s first task was to prepare a bed on one of the long benches, and revive Locke long enough to get him down off the horse, and into the shelter. Then it was time to take all of the supplies down, whistle Rowdy in, and remove the horse’s bridle, saddle, and blanket. He wasn’t especially good at the task, but Capelli got the job done.

Then, painful though the decision was, he had to turn the animal loose. Partly because he lacked the knowledge required to care for the beast, but for another reason as well: the horse was like a neon sign pointing at a human presence. A simple slap on the hindquarters was enough to send the animal trotting away.

Capelli knew it was important not only to take cover but to tend Locke’s wound. But water was critical too. And a line of very lush trees about two hundred yards away hinted at the presence of a river or stream.

Arming himself with the Marksman, and picking up a couple of galvanized buckets taken from the storage shed, Capelli made his way across a grassy field to a spot where a game trail led to the stream below. Sheets of water flew and droplets of moisture sparkled in the morning sun as Rowdy charged into the brook.

Capelli followed the dog into the stream. After quenching his thirst, he filled the buckets and carried them back to the shelter. Rowdy entered on his own, so all Capelli had to do was put the buckets down, and close the door behind him. It was safe to do so thanks to the presence of an air vent. The metal lock bar screeched as it slid into place.

Then it was time to light candles and turn his attention to Locke. The big man was only semiconscious, but he came to for a moment, as Capelli removed the bandage. “Capelli? Where are we?”

“We’re in a storm shelter. All you need to do is get better. Here… Have some water.”

Capelli held the cup to Locke’s lips and the big man took a couple of sips. “Sorry,” Locke croaked. “Sorry to be so much trouble.”

Then he was gone again. Either asleep or unconscious. Not that it made much difference. The good news was that the bleeding had stopped. But Locke’s forehead was hot, his breathing was shallow, and the margins around the puncture wounds were red.

Capelli found three packets of antibacterial sulfa powder in Locke’s first-aid kit, sprinkled one of them over the holes, and replaced the old dressing with a new one.

Then it was time to pour some water into a pan for Rowdy, heat some beans over a can of Sterno, and eat. Just minutes after finishing his meal an overwhelming sense of fatigue came over Capelli. He extinguished all but one of the candles and slipped into his sleeping bag, giving himself permission to take a one-hour nap.

Capelli awoke more than five hours later with a painful headache, a foul taste in his mouth, and an urgent need to pee. All of which had been sufficient to wake him. Or had they? The candle had burned out, so it was pitch black as Rowdy growled, and what felt like an earthquake shook the shelter.

Capelli fumbled for the flashlight, found it, and sat up. “What is it boy? What do you hear?”

The answer came as something hit the ground nearby and Capelli felt the resulting vibration through the soles of his feet. There were a number of possible causes. And none of them were good. Was a Chimeran hunter-killer team outside? Complete with a big spider-like Stalker? Or was something even larger on the loose?

Of course Capelli knew there were flesh-and-blood possibilities as well. Like a Titan, or God forbid, a Leviathan. Although that seemed unlikely, because monsters like the one that had laid waste to most of downtown Chicago were rare. Not that the exact size of the menace made much difference, since all he could do was sit in his hidey-hole and hope for the best.

Then Capelli heard the whine of powerful servos through the vertical air vent and knew that one of his earlier guesses had been correct. Some sort of Chimeran mech was in the area. Looking for the two humans? Or just looking? And alone? Or in company with a force of Hybrids? There was no way to know as he waited for the Auger blasts to tunnel down through the concrete roof and kill him.

But Capelli’s fears began to dissipate as the noise faded away. He waited for a couple of minutes and, not having heard or felt anything, concluded that they were safe for the moment.

Having taken care of his own physical needs, Capelli went to work on Locke’s. The big man was in a bad way. He was semiconscious at best, his skin felt unnaturally hot in spite of the cold air, and Capelli knew his client was dehydrated. All of which were bad. But worst of all was the foul odor that invaded his nostrils when the bandage came off. Capelli’s spirits plummeted.

Why so glum? the voice inquired cheerfully. There’s nothing like a bullet in the head to put a patient right! Go ahead! Take care of Locke the way you took care of me.

Screw you, Hale.

In addition to everything else, Locke had soiled himself. So the next hour was spent cleaning the big man up, putting a new dressing on the suppurating wound, and trying to pour some water into him.

Finally, once Capelli had done everything he could, he allowed himself to take another nap. Rowdy wasn’t too pleased with that decision, and he spent a good five minutes whining by the door, before curling up in front of it.

When Capelli awoke it was evening, and time to work on Locke again, before fixing a large dinner that he shared with Rowdy. It seemed as if Locke was dreaming, because he spoke occasionally, and even laughed out loud once.

After darkness fell, Capelli opened the door and stuck his head out. There was a scattering of clouds, but the moon was up, and threw a ghostly glow over the land. It was cold, damned cold, and Capelli figured it would freeze later.

Rowdy stood in the opening for a moment as his supersensitive nostrils sampled the night air and his ears stood at attention. Then he was gone, and Capelli knew better than to try and call him back. Rowdy was tired of being cooped up and eager to hunt.

Capelli wanted to stretch his legs too. But first there were chores to take care of. He took a broken shovel he’d found earlier and the Rossmore out to a spot a couple of hundred feet from the shelter and dug a hole. After dumping a load of garbage into the depression, Capelli covered it with a thick layer of dirt. Because if he could smell it, then Howlers could too, and the last thing Capelli needed was to have a couple of those monsters hanging around.

Once he was done, it was time to fetch more water from the river. So Capelli armed himself with the shotgun, two buckets, a grimy towel, a bar of Lava soap, and some clean clothes before making his way to the stream.

After placing everything on the bank within easy reach, Capelli removed his clothes, took the bar of soap, and waded out into the freezing water. It wasn’t deep enough to swim in. But he could sit down, and that was a shock.

Working quickly, Capelli scrubbed his skin with the highly abrasive soap, rinsed it off, and hurried to wash his hair. Then he stood up quickly and made a grab for his towel. The moment he was dry enough to put them on, Capelli slipped into clean clothes and a warm jacket.

Once he’d filled both buckets with water, he returned to the shelter, where he took a look at Locke before returning outside. Not for any particular purpose, but to enjoy the night air, and escape the confines of the shelter.

As Capelli sat on the mound of earth over the shelter and looked upwards he saw three bright lights streak across the blue-black sky. He wondered if they were meteorites but knew they weren’t. Not only did the Chimera own the Earth, they owned the sky, and as far as he could tell, they owned the future, too.

It took Locke the better part of three days to die.

When the end came, it came quietly; Locke simply stopped breathing. Capelli might have been able to resuscitate him, but knew it would be pointless if he couldn’t solve the real problem, which was the raging infection that had taken over the big man’s body.

Capelli would have needed more than a day to dig a proper grave. And he had no way of knowing who or what might catch up with him while he did it. Not to mention the fact that he would have had a hard time moving the corpse by himself.

So Capelli closed Locke’s eyelids, arranged his body in a peaceful repose, and went looking for something to write with. He found half a can of black paint in the storage unit, plus a still-serviceable brush, and took them back to what was about to become a crypt.

Capelli wrote the epitaph in military-style block letters on the wall directly above the body. Miss October smiled as she watched from across the room. “HERE LIES ALVIN LOCKE. A GOOD MAN, FORCED TO LIVE IN BAD TIMES, WHO WAS ON HIS WAY TO DO GOOD THINGS WHEN THE CHIMERA KILLED HIM.”

Afterwards he sorted through Locke’s belongings and took what he could use. Food mostly, since Capelli had no use for .30-.30 cartridges, or clothes that were way too big for him. The money belt, however, was still heavy with gold coins, and his to keep if he wanted to do so.

But at some point over the last few days he had made the decision. Though he could not deliver his client to Haven, Oklahoma, he could deliver the money belt—and take a look at the community at the same time. Maybe it was just another group of pathetic survivors eking out a day-to-day existence while they waited to die. Or maybe Haven was something more. Locke had thought so, and Capelli was determined to find out.

So Capelli tidied up, left the rifle and the supplies he couldn’t use in plain sight on the card table, and made his way up the stairs, where Rowdy was sitting with one leg up in the air, nibbling at his fleas.

Having lowered the door into place, Capelli turned towards the access road, and the highway beyond. He figured he was pretty close to Hays, Kansas. After that it would take a good six or seven days of walking to reach what had been Salina, Kansas, and was currently referred to as “Tank Town” by runners who had been down that way.

It was early morning, a good time to travel. As Rowdy led the way, and Capelli followed along behind, farms gradually gave way to light industry and a scattering of houses. But rather than enter Hays, and be forced to deal with whatever might be lurking there, Capelli elected to give the city a wide berth by swinging south. He crossed a set of railroad tracks, and pushed down into farm country, before heading east again.

That took him into the early evening, when the weather turned bad and he sought refuge in a barn. One end of the structure was filled with pods. They made raspy breathing sounds, and with no way to know when they might pop, Capelli couldn’t stay there. He could set the barn on fire, however—which he did before going back out into the rain. Capelli knew the flames could attract some stinks, but it was a chance he was willing to take rather than leave the pods intact.

Half an hour of walking brought him to a road, a sizable junkyard, and the opportunity to hole up in the back of an old bread truck. And with Rowdy acting as his alarm system he felt reasonably safe. Rain rattled on the roof as he ate cold beans out of a can. Then, after finishing his meal, he brushed his teeth. The floor was hard but the sleeping bag was warm. Sleep came quickly.

The next day dawned bright and clear. Capelli made breakfast for himself, packed his belongings, and was on the road by eight. He followed it north to Route 40, where he took a right-hand turn, and continued east.

Following the highway was a dangerous thing to do. Both the Chimera and humans used it. But cross-country travel was often extremely slow due to the need to traverse occasionally difficult terrain, cross rivers, and cut through barbed-wire fences. So having chosen speed over safety, Capelli was on high alert as the ribbon of highway carried him through rolling grasslands.

And that was why he spotted both the body and the child from a half-mile away.

The sighting was enough to send Capelli off the road into a cluster of trees. A low whistle brought Rowdy in, and the dog lay panting at his side as Capelli freed his binoculars. The body that lay sprawled on the highway was clearly that of a woman. A pack was strapped to her back and a rifle lay on the pavement next to her. There were no obvious signs of injury—though that didn’t rule out a bullet wound. But why shoot her, and leave the rifle? No, an illness of some kind seemed more likely. The little girl, who Capelli judged to be three or four years old, was squatting next to the body as if waiting for it to come back to life.

It was a pitiful sight. But Capelli had seen a lot of pitiful sights and wasn’t about to move forward without a careful examination of the surrounding countryside.

However, having quartered the ground ahead, he came up empty. So with the Marksman at the ready, Capelli left the protection of the trees and returned to the highway. The sun was past its zenith by then, so his shadow pointed east, and an intermittent breeze ruffled the grass to either side of the road as Capelli approached the body.

The little girl looked scared, but also determined to remain right where she was. She had black hair worn in a bowl cut, a grimy face, and was dressed in raggedy clothes. “Is that your mother?” Capelli asked as he came to a stop.

The girl said, “Yes,” Rowdy growled, and Capelli saw motion out of the corner of his eye. He turned in that direction as a man rose from his hiding place. He was wearing a hat made out of freshly cut grass and a burlap bag to which more green stuff was attached. The apparition had already raised his weapon, and Capelli was still bringing his rifle to bear when the scarecrow fired on him.

The oncoming bolt looked like a black dot at first. Capelli was formulating a plan to duck beneath it, when the ball-tipped missile hit him in the forehead. The force of the blow knocked him off his feet and dumped him onto his back. Capelli caught a glimpse of blue sky, and felt a brief moment of pain, before the voice had its say. Hey, Capelli… What happened to rule six? “Mind your own business?” Then a tidal wave of blackness rolled him under.

Capelli was somewhere a long way off when the bucket of water hit his face. The voice sounded as if it were coming to him through a tunnel. “Get up.”

Capelli’s eyelids felt like they were glued shut. He forced them open. The face hanging over him was blurry. He blinked and it came into focus. The man’s forehead and cheeks were covered with tattoos. When he smiled, Capelli saw that his teeth had been filed down into points.

“Aha,” the man said, “there you are. There’s a bump on your forehead, but you’ll survive. Now get up.”

Capelli felt dirt under his right hand, turned, and attempted to stand. Metal rattled, something brought him up short, and he fell. The tattooed man laughed, and Capelli felt a humiliating mix of shame and fear. That was when Capelli realized that he was wearing a metal collar to which a chain was attached. And, with the exception of his clothing, his possessions were missing. Including Locke’s money belt. All taken from him so effortlessly that it was embarrassing.

“They call me Inkskin,” the man said. In addition to his face, almost every inch of the man’s bare torso was covered with tattoos. “What’s your name?”

“Capelli.”

“Well, Capelli… It’s time to get up off your ass.” Inkskin had a Bullseye Mark III, which he used as a pointer.

Capelli swore, lurched to his feet, and swayed uncertainly. His head hurt, blood pounded in his ears, and the late afternoon sun felt hot. He was standing in what looked like a gravel pit. That impression was reinforced by the presence of a downward-slanting chute, an ancient road grader, and an old shack. All of which were a fit.

What looked odd was the open-sided circus wagon parked about thirty feet away. The brightly colored paint was faded, but he could read the name “Zenda Brothers Circus” painted across the side of it, and could see the creature within. But it wasn’t a lion, tiger, or bear. It was a Steelhead!

“Meet El Diablo,” Inkskin said, “but don’t get too close. He’s hungry.”

As if to emphasize the point, the Chimera made a horrible screeching sound and rattled the bars. The Steelhead had a hairless skull, six golden eyes, and a powerful physique. It was dressed in scraps of Chimeran armor, and Capelli could smell the creature from thirty feet away.

“That’s enough gawking,” Inkskin said. “You can get acquainted with El Diablo later! Who knows? Maybe you’ll get to dance with him!”

Apparently the guard thought that was funny, because he laughed as he gave the leash a vicious jerk, and led Capelli away. The runner searched his surroundings for Rowdy, but saw no sign of him, and wondered what that meant. Had the dog been able to escape? Or had he been shot? He had no way of knowing.

Inkskin led Capelli past the wagon into a messy campsite. Boxes, trunks, and bags were scattered all around a central fire pit. The “dead” woman was seated on a camp chair, combing the little girl’s hair as Capelli walked past. Neither one of them so much as glanced his way.

A group of raggedy-looking men were seated in the shadow thrown by the shed. All wore neck collars and sat to either side of a heavy chain. Some of the prisoners were asleep, but the rest regarded Capelli with dull-eyed interest.

“Meet your new friends!” Inkskin said cheerfully, as he padlocked Capelli’s leash to a heavy chain. A second guard was watching over the prisoners. He was wearing an orange wig, white face paint, and a red nose. An inverted mouth made it appear that the clown was permanently sad. “Get some rest,” Inkskin advised, as Capelli took his place on the ground. “You’re going to need it.” The loose gravel made a crunching sound as he walked away.

“He’s right about that,” the man sitting opposite Capelli said. “My name is Escobar—but most people call me Bar.”

Bar had short black hair, brown eyes, and high cheekbones. Like the rest of the prisoners, he was unshaven. Chains rattled as they shook hands.

“My name is Capelli. What’s with the circus thing?”

Bar shrugged. “You’re looking at what remains of a family-owned circus. Back before the stinks came it employed about fifty people. They had a dozen exotic animals in those days, plus twenty vehicles, and all sorts of equipment. Now they’re down to the single wagon. Ain’t that right, Bam-Bam?”

The clown nodded. “That’s right, donkey.”

Capelli looked around. “So how do they move the wagon? With horses?”

Bar shook his head. “Hell, no… Horses are expensive. We haul the wagon. That’s why they call us donkeys.”

“And you’d better do your share,” a man sitting nearby said. He had black hair, penetrating eyes, and dark skin.

“Loomis don’t like slackers,” Bar observed. “But his bark is worse than his bite. The ugly-looking piece of work next to him is Askin. Then there’s Valova, Omata, Nix, Kilner, and Ganson…” And so it went until Bar had named twenty-two men other than himself.

“So,” the man named Omata said, “which scam did they run on you? The woman who blackjacks you in the middle of the night? The woman lying in the middle of the road? Or the woman with the sick child?”

“The woman lying in the middle of the road.”

Omata nodded soberly. “Alfonso is pretty good with that crossbow, isn’t he?”

“He’s very good,” Capelli conceded.

“And he’s a crack shot with a rifle and pistol, too,” Bar added. “The woman’s name is Leena. She’s Alfonso’s wife, and the little girl is their daughter.”

“Damn the little bitch to hell,” Nix put in bitterly.

“He fell for the sick daughter routine,” Bar explained. “Leena blackjacked me in the middle of the night. But the two of us had a very good time first. I’ll bet she didn’t mention that to Alfonso!”

“And you’d better hope she doesn’t,” Bam-Bam put in darkly. “He’d put a bullet in your head. Then we’d have to find some other idiot to replace you.”

“Which brings us to the Steelhead,” Capelli said. “How did they capture it?”

“Same way they got you,” Bar replied. “Leena was lying in the middle of the road, the stink comes strolling down the highway, and pow! Alfonso bags the sonofabitch.”

“Of course, that was before our time,” Ganson said. “All of the donkeys from back in those days are dead.”

Capelli frowned. “Two dozen men? How come the mortality rate is so high?”

Loomis glanced over at Bam-Bam and saw that the guard had stepped away to take a leak. He was careful to keep his voice down. “Malnutrition and disease. But every time Ringmaster Jack can assemble an audience, he selects one of the donkeys to fight El Diablo.”

“And El Diablo always wins,” Bar observed darkly. “That’s how the stink gets most of its meat.”

Capelli remembered Inkskin’s comment. Something about dancing with El Diablo. Now it made sense. “Has anyone ever escaped?”

Bam-Bam had returned by then. “No,” the guard said. “No one ain’t never escaped. But feel free to try if you want to. I could use the target practice.”

Bar smiled. His teeth were yellow. “Welcome to the circus.”

Three long, hard nights had passed since Capelli had been captured by members of the Zenda Brothers Circus. Ringmaster Jack, who was generally referred to as “Master Jack,” wanted to rack up at least fifteen miles per day. In order to maintain that pace it was necessary for the donkeys to work extremely hard.

Not only was the circus wagon heavy in and of itself, but Capelli figured that El Diablo, the corpulent Ringmaster, Leena, her daughter, and all the luggage tied to the wagon’s roof represented at least a ton of additional weight. All of which made it difficult to drag the wagon up even a gentle slope.

But with Master Jack wielding a long, thin whip from his seat at the front of the wagon, plus Bam-Bam the clown and Inkskin pacing along to either side, the slaves had no choice but to throw themselves against the four-man crosspieces. So each night seemed like an eternity of strenuous effort, punctuated by the sting of Master Jack’s whip and occasional blows from the guards. Cold rations were served at about one in the morning.

That was when Capelli thought about Rowdy. The big mix was dead. That was what Bam-Bam claimed, anyway. But Capelli wasn’t so sure. Some kind of dog had been nosing around the camp the previous day and Inkskin had taken a shot at it. All Capelli could do was hope. And more than that, plan. Because even if no one had ever escaped from the Zenda Brothers Circus, that didn’t mean it was impossible.

Meanwhile, as the donkeys slaved, Alfonso ranged well ahead of the wagon. He was mounted on a golden palomino and had taken to carrying Capelli’s Marksman rifle in a fancy buckskin scabbard. The sharpshooter’s job was to act as a scout and drum up business. A mostly hit-or-miss process that relied on word of mouth, posters tacked to message trees, and a certain amount of luck. Like arriving in a tiny town called Hamley, Kansas, just as a revival meeting was about to take place. Such an event could easily pull in a hundred people from the surrounding countryside, most of whom were starved for entertainment.

In order to take advantage of the opportunity, the donkeys had been forced to work through the night and well into the next afternoon. The plan was to stay in Hamley for two days, so long as the Chimera left the town alone. Something the exhausted slaves would have welcomed had it not been for the high price that one of them was going to pay. A stop meant that one of them would be forced to fight El Diablo—and everybody knew how that would turn out.

So the mood was somber as chains rattled, wood creaked, and the raggedly dressed donkeys pulled the wagon through the center of town. Master Jack was wearing a fancy black suit, Leena was practically naked, and a brightly attired Bam-Bam was working the crowd on the right side of the street. A stripped-down Inkskin had responsibility for those on the left. Both had pieces of hard candy for the wide-eyed children and were mouthing a spiel prepared by Alfonso.

“Come see us when the revival is over, folks,” Bam-Bam said. “There will be juggling and fire eating! But that’s not all. One of our brave warriors will fight El Diablo!” A pitch made all the more effective when the Steelhead rattled the bars on its cage and screeched loudly.

And so it went as the men pulled the wagon to the point where Alfonso was waiting for them. He was dressed as a cowboy, complete with a ten-gallon hat, a western-style red shirt, pearl-handled Colt revolvers, leather chaps, and high-heeled boots. His horse whinnied loudly and reared up onto its hind legs as Alfonso removed his hat and waved it at the crowd. That got cheers and applause as Capelli and the rest of the prisoners towed the wagon into the parking lot next to the feed store.

The revival tent was set up only a block away, and the locals were drifting in that direction, as Master Jack began to shout orders. First a couple of slaves had to dig a hole for the twelve-foot-long section of telephone pole that they had been forced to cut. The rest of the donkeys were split into two groups and sent out to bring back anything and everything that could be used as seats. Capelli wondered if the chore would offer a chance of escape. But all such hopes were dashed by the fact that he was chained to the other men in his work party and Inkskin was sent to accompany them.

Once the wooden benches, bales of hay, and the bleachers taken from the high school were set in place, the whole area was roped off. The idea was to herd the locals past Leena so she could collect an admission fee from each spectator. Food and ammo being the preferred medium of exchange.

Finally, when everything was ready, or as ready as it would ever be, the donkeys were chained to a telephone pole located at the edge of the roped-off area. All of the slaves were frightened, and for good reason, since there was no way to know which one of them would be forced to fight El Diablo.

They had theories, of course, such as the one that held that Bam-Bam didn’t like Loomis. But from what Capelli had been able to pick up over the last few days, there had been very little rhyme or reason to many of the previous choices that Master Jack and his performers had made. So as the paying customers began to filter into the arena, he felt a horrible emptiness invade the pit of his stomach. The others must have felt the same way, because all of the slaves were unusually quiet as they sat at the edge of the roped-off ring.

Master Jack’s booming voice could be heard far and wide as he strode into the arena, and welcomed the steadily growing crowd to what he claimed was “the biggest little show on Earth.”

Then Bam-Bam appeared. First he juggled two red-and-white-striped clubs. That was followed by four and six. The crowd started to applaud as the clown put eight clubs in the air, began to catch them behind his back, and hurried to get them airborne again. Then he missed, or that was the way it appeared, and a club fell on his head. Something at least part of the crowd thought was hilariously funny.

He shook the blow off, and still juggling, the seemingly dizzy clown walked into the thick center post and knocked himself unconscious. It was supposed to be funny but garnered only halfhearted applause as Master Jack and a scantily clad Leena came in to drag Bam-Bam away.

That was when Inkskin took over. The light had started to fade. But thanks to the fact that he was wearing nothing more than a loincloth, the audience could see all of Inkskin’s colorful tattoos. A likeness of an openmouthed Hybrid lurked in the spot between his prominent shoulder blades and appeared to glare at the audience. With a dramatic flare of light, Inkskin set afire a specially designed sword and waved the flaming weapon over his head.

But Capelli and the rest of the donkeys weren’t paying any attention to Inkskin as Alfonso appeared in front of them. “So,” the sharpshooter said, as he scanned the faces before him. “Who’s it going to be? Hmmm! I know. Let’s give the runt a shot.”

Capelli followed Alfonso’s pointing finger to a small man named Nix. He had sandy-colored hair, even features, and was known for his dead-on John Wayne impression. And as Capelli saw the look of hopelessness come over Nix’s face, he felt a sense of relief, followed by shame. Because his good fortune was at the other man’s expense.

Suddenly Bam-Bam was freeing Nix from the main chain and fastening what looked like a ten- or twelve-foot lead to the slave’s rag-padded collar. That was when Capelli realized that Inkskin’s sword-swallowing routine was over—and Master Jack was about to announce the main act as Nix was led out into the makeshift arena.

“Laaadies and gentlemen… Children of all ages… Please welcome the brave warrior who, armed with nothing more than a knife, is about to face the fearsome El Diablo in a full-bore, no-holds-barred, battle to the death. If our warrior wins, he will be freed. And should El Diablo win, he will be fed!”

The whole thing was so barbaric, Capelli expected some of the townspeople to object, if not put a stop to the one-sided battle. And a year or two earlier they probably would have. But many of those who had survived the invasion were inured to violence, had been forced to kill many times themselves, and had come to regard strangers with suspicion. And Nix was a stranger. So rather than demand that the slave be released, they applauded instead. And Capelli was shocked to see a scattering of children in the crowd.

El Diablo screeched in pain as Bam-Bam and Inkskin used pole-mounted cattle prods to force the Hybrid out of its cage, down a ramp, and into the arena. The Chimera had been fitted with a neck collar similar to Capelli’s.

The slaves came to their feet as Leena made her way out to where Nix stood, took one of his arms, and raised it above his head. The audience had grown to at least sixty people. Capelli was reminded of the stories he’d heard about Rome’s Colosseum as the crowds cheered the man who was about to die.

Then the yelling stopped, and there was a mutual inhalation of breath, as Leena took hold of the chain that was coiled near the center post and began to drag it out to El Diablo. And as she came within reach of the beast’s arms, the crowd waited for the Chimera to kill her. But it didn’t. Why?

The answer could be seen standing in the shadow next to the circus wagon. Alfonso was aiming Capelli’s Marksman at El Diablo. A safety precaution? Yes, Capelli thought so, as the chain was secured to the beast’s collar. Then Leena turned her back on the Steelhead and walked away. The act of bravado earned a burst of applause.

By then both Nix and El Diablo were chained to the center post so neither one of them could run. Capelli didn’t know Nix. Not really. But he felt sorry for him as the other slave was given a large, single-edged knife. Nix tested the edge with a thumb as he turned to face the Chimera.

But in spite of the sympathy he felt, Capelli was a survivor. So as El Diablo screeched and shambled towards Nix, he was determined to learn whatever he could from the impending slaughter.

Nix reacted the way most people would—he backed away from the Chimera. But that meant his chain was gradually wrapping itself around the thick center post. And as it became shorter, the distance between the combatants grew shorter as well. Capelli could see that eventually Nix would be forced to go one-on-one with El Diablo. At that point he would slash the Chimera a few times, and having survived dozens of such battles in the past, the Steelhead would charge the human. The end would come quickly.

Capelli wanted to shout a warning, to give Nix some advice, but knew the other slave wouldn’t be able to hear him over the crowd noise. But then, just when it appeared that the deadly dance was about to come to its inevitable conclusion, Nix did something entirely unexpected.

Nix did not keep backing away. Instead, he put the blade between his teeth, and turned towards the vertical center post. Then, with the agility of a monkey, he swarmed up it. The weight of the chain slowed Nix down, but failed to stop him, as he pulled himself up onto the flat surface above. Then, having taken control of his chain, Nix passed it over his head three times. That gave him some additional slack and a momentary advantage. The crowd reacted with a cheer.

El Diablo roared its anger, but was plenty tall enough to snatch Nix off his roost, so the human’s situation had only marginally improved. The Hybrid was shuffling forward, clearly intent on sweeping Nix off his perch, when the human launched himself into the air. Nix had extended the knife point down. He was a real threat if he could manage to drive the blade into the Steelhead’s neck.

And the plan might have worked except that as Nix landed on the Chimera, the tip of his knife hit El Diablo’s iron collar and skidded off. That was the only break the monster needed. It wrapped Nix in a stinking embrace and proceeded to crush the life out of him. Bones crackled like broken twigs, a horrible farting noise was heard, and the battle was over.

Capelli, who had been hopeful up until the last moment, uttered a groan of disappointment. It was echoed by the men around him. And it seemed as if the crowd felt the same way, because as the Hybrid began to feed, most of the people booed and got up to leave.

“Nix had balls,” Bar said admiringly, as the spectators began to file out.

“Yeah,” Capelli agreed. And sadly enough, that was the only memoriam Nix was likely to receive.