Resistance: The Gathering Storm

CHAPTER SIX Home Sweet Home

Near Draper, South Dakota

Wednesday, November 21, 1951

Snowflakes continued to swirl down out of the pewter gray sky as Hale stood in front of the mass grave, and paid his last respects to his parents and their ranch hands. Then came the clang of metal on metal, which caused him to pivot toward the barn, Rossmore at the ready.

But rather than the sudden burst of gunfire he half expected, the only sounds were the gentle tinkle of the wind chimes hanging from the porch of his childhood home, the rasp of his own breathing, and the steady crunch, crunch, crunch of his footsteps as he made his way over to the barn.

There was a yawning black hole where the big doors hung open. Hale entered cautiously, shotgun at the ready, but saw nothing other than what he expected to see. His father’s office was located at the near end of the cavernous building, the workshop was next to it, and stalls lined the west wall. Stalls Hale had been responsible for mucking out each day along with all the other chores his father insisted on. He’d been resentful then, but those duties didn’t seem so bad now, and Hale would have been glad to return to that carefree time.

The north end of the barn was stacked high with bales of hay intended to get the family’s livestock through the winter.

Hale’s father had purchased sheets of steel and laid them just inside the entrance, where they would protect the wooden floor from the wide range of abuses that the entryway would otherwise have suffered. Now, as Hale took a step forward, he saw a hunting knife lying in the middle of the metal ramp.

His head went back and his eyes focused on the half-loft located directly above his father’s office. A central walkway led across the rafters to the point where the hay was stacked. All of which had been an indoor playground for Susan and himself.

Is someone up there now, concealed by the darkness? Yes, Hale thought so, and he felt certain that the knife’s owner was human. Because had any of the Chimera been present they would have attacked.

“I know you’re here!” Hale shouted. “Come on out… I won’t hurt you. My name is Hale… Lieutenant Nathan Hale. And this is my parents’ ranch.”

There was a long moment of silence, followed by a vague rustling, and the sound of footsteps somewhere over Hale’s head. Then he heard what sounded like a boy’s voice. “Don’t shoot! We’re coming down.”

Moments later the end of a rope slapped the steel ramp, and a boy in his late teens slid down, followed quickly by a younger girl. The boy hurried to retrieve the knife—leaving the girl to speak for both of them. She had big brown eyes, a slightly upturned nose, and a wide mouth.

“My name is Tina. That’s my brother, Mark… He’s the one who dropped the knife. I told him not to play with it, but he did.”

Hale saw that both youngsters were dressed in multiple layers of clothing, and both were armed. The boy had a lightweight Reaper carbine slung across his chest and carried at least half a dozen extra magazines stored in a modified Chimeran battle harness. The girl was wearing some sort of semiauto pistol in a shoulder holster and had what Hale recognized as a sawed-off .410 shotgun as well. The weapon dangled from a lanyard.

“I recognize you,” Tina added. “Except for the eyes… They look Chimeran.”

“You recognize me?” Hale inquired incredulously. “Have we met?”

Tina shook her head.

“No, Mark and I are from Pierre. We were going south when a Chimeran fighter strafed the road. Mommy and Daddy were killed, but we got away. That was four—no, wait—five weeks ago, and we’ve been on our own ever since. The house was empty when we got here, but there were pictures all over the floor. That’s how I knew you.”

Mark had brown eyes, just like his sister, and the beginnings of a fuzzy beard. Hale noticed that the teen’s right index finger was extremely close to the Reaper’s trigger as he spoke. The boy followed his gaze.

“No offense, mister,” he said skeptically, “but what about your eyes? They don’t look right.”

“All of the Chimeran forms are the work of a virus,” Hale explained. “I was infected while fighting the Chimera in England. That caused my eyes to change color. But I take shots and breathe a special aerosol mist that keeps the virus in check.”

Mark still looked skeptical but Tina’s thoughts were focused elsewhere.

“Did Susan make it out?” The question had a plaintive quality, as if Tina identified with Susan, and thought that if the older girl had been able to escape, then maybe she could, too.

“I don’t know,” Hale replied honestly. “I hope so. But we have more immediate things to worry about. I’m going back now. Will you come with me?”

Tina looked at her brother as if to get his blessing, and received a curt nod by way of a response.

“Yes,” Tina said, as her eyes swung back to make contact with Hale’s. “We’ve been stuck here for the better part of two weeks now. We made two attempts to leave, but ran into Chimeran patrols both times, and were forced to return.”

“That’s right,” Mark agreed. “We were going to head out last night when a couple of drones came sniffing around.”

“That was my fault, I’m afraid,” Hale confessed. “I was forced to kill some Chimera on the way in, and they came looking for me. But the search seems to have died down—so maybe we should head out tonight. Before the weather starts to improve.”

The youngsters looked at each other, then back again. “Maybe tomorrow,” Mark said dubiously. “But not tonight.”

“Why not?” Hale wanted to know.

“Because the zombies are coming tonight,” Tina answered soberly. “That’s what we call them anyway… They come through here every four days, and tonight is the night.”

Hale frowned. “What do they look like?”

“They look kind of human,” Mark replied cautiously. “Only they have eyes like yours. And they always arrive in large groups. They’re dangerous,” he added, “but not very smart.”

Tina nodded. “Maybe that’s why we’ve seen other types of Chimera herding them along.”

Hale guessed that what the youngsters referred to as zombies were officially classified as Grims, not that the name mattered if one of the horrors got close enough to attack. Because once a Grim sank its teeth into a victim, it was difficult—if not impossible—to escape. The grotesque, naked horrors had been seen to emerge from Spinner pods, but beyond that very little was known regarding the creatures.

That other Chimeran forms would herd the Grims from one place to another was something new, and would be of interest to Intel. Assuming, of course, that he could figure out a way to tell them without being court-martialed.

“Okay,” Hale agreed. “We’ll hole up for the night.”

He turned to look out through the open doors at the gray skies beyond. It was getting dark, and the temperature was dropping.

“I left my pack under some trees. I’ll get it and be back in half an hour.”

Mark nodded gravely. “We’ll be here.”

When Hale returned, Mark and Tina hurried out to brush the tracks away as all three of them backed into the barn.

“Do you have packs?” Hale asked. “And snowshoes? Because you’re going to need them.”

“Yes we do,” Tina answered brightly. “We found a lot of stuff up around Draper. The whole town was deserted.”

“And the Reaper?” Hale inquired mildly. “How did you get that?”

“From the Chimera,” Mark answered proudly. “We followed one of them to a clearing, saw he was getting ready to butcher a corpse, and shot him in the back. I had a bolt action hunting rifle then—and the bullet went right through him!”

“I shot him, too,” Tina added earnestly. “Six times.”

“Good for you,” Hale said, though he wondered at the enthusiasm with which she spoke. “This would be a good time to gather your things, so we’ll be ready in the morning. Just necessities, mind you,” he added sternly. “That means one change of clothes, food for three days if you have it, and all your ammo. If we run into trouble I’ll expect you to help out.” Both youngsters nodded agreeably.

“So where do you sleep? Up in the loft?”

“No,” Mark replied. “We found a better place! Come on… We’ll show you.”

He followed Mark toward the huge pile of hay, but he already knew where the youngsters had been sleeping. By removing bales of hay, and taking advantage of tunnels intended to conduct cool air into the center of the pile, Hale and his sister, Susan, had been able to create hidden rooms inside the enormous stack.

And sure enough, after following Mark up some stair-stepped bales of hay, he watched the boy drop his gear down a vertical shaft and follow it down. Tina stood off to one side and aimed a flashlight into the depths as Hale worked his way down through the chimneylike hole, then turned to crawl the length of a horizontal tunnel. The passageway delivered him into a generously sized chamber that had clearly been occupied for some time.

Mark’s flashlight provided what illumination there was. Two sleeping bags were laid out on the floor, backpacking gear was piled in one of the corners, and various odds and ends sat perched on ledges and protrusions. Thanks to the insulation provided by the surrounding hay, it was at least ten degrees warmer inside the hideaway. “We can’t use lanterns,” Mark said as Hale put his weapons down, “for obvious reasons.”

Hale nodded silently, and regarded their surroundings with some concern. As comfortable as it might be, in an emergency it would be very difficult to escape from the refuge quickly. And that could prove fatal.

“Tell me something,” he said, as Tina entered the room. “When the Grims come—that’s what we call the zombies—do they stop at the ranch, or just keep going?”

“Oh, they stop,” Tina answered quickly. “Sometimes they use the hand pump to bring up some water, and sometimes they just walk around.”

That was troubling news. Hiding in the cave had been iffy enough, but hiding in the middle of the haystack, knowing that a whole lot of Chimera were going to gather around the barn, seemed nothing short of crazy.

“This place is really nice,” Hale said tactfully, “but I think we should sleep somewhere else. Fully dressed and ready to fight, if necessary. It won’t be as comfortable, but it will be a lot safer.”

“Can I take this?” Tina inquired as she picked up a book and handed it to Hale. “It’s really good—but I’m only halfway through it.”

Hale took the book and aimed his flashight at the cover. That was when he saw the title Treasure Island, and knew it was his. “Yes,” he said kindly, “you can. And I agree. It’s a wonderful book.”

The youngsters packed up after that, and all three of them moved up to the loft, where Hale made use of his father’s brace and bit to drill a line of head-high holes in the outside wall. It wasn’t the best place to be, not in Hale’s opinion, but the light had started to fade by then and he had doubts about finding a better place to hide before darkness fell.

Dinner was cooked over Army fuel tabs in an old metal wash tub, with candles for light, and a jar of Mary Farley’s strawberry jam for dessert. Then, with all their gear packed and ready to go, it was time to take turns sleeping on a pile of horse blankets. They smelled to high heaven, but were softer than the wood floor, and provided some much needed insulation.

Hale noticed with admiration that Tina lay with her shotgun nearby, and was still wearing the pistol and shoulder holster as she slid into her bag.

Mark volunteered to take the first watch and Hale agreed, knowing that even if the trip back went flawlessly, he would need all his strength and have all his wits about him.

“They’re here.”

Hale was awake instantly.

“There’s fifty-three of them, if you include the escorts,” Mark whispered.

It should have been pitch black, but there was light coming from somewhere, and it was moving. Hale nodded, got up, and tiptoed over to the east wall.

Tina was awake as well, and sat crouched next to her pack.

Conscious of the fact that one or more of the Chimera could be directly beneath him, Hale put his right eye to one of the holes made earlier, and looked out onto a scene that made his skin crawl. There was plenty of illumination, thanks to the Chimeran battle lamps that had been placed here and there, and the shadows they threw loomed large on the snow and the house beyond.

The Grims were lined up in front of the old hand pump, which produced a squeal each time one of them worked the handle. Cold water gushed out of the spout and the Grims drank their fill. They could have eaten snow of course—Lord knows there was plenty of it—but the Chimera did lots of things he didn’t understand.

Meanwhile, as the Grims took turns at the pump, Hale turned his attention to their escorts, and was disturbed by what he saw. Because rather than regular Hybrids, a trio of Steelheads had been sent to herd the Grims along. They were larger than the Chimera Hale had killed the day before, more powerful, and armed with Augers. Weapons capable of firing through concrete walls, never mind wooden ones.

So all Hale could do was stay as quiet as possible, and hope the Grims would leave soon.

The first hint of trouble came when one of the Steel-heads raised his Auger and aimed it at the ranch house. But rather than fire at a target, the Chimera swung his weapon from left to right, as if scanning for something.

Damn.

Sensors built into each Auger could pick up the least bit of heat, even through solid walls. There was no way to know why the Chimera had chosen to scan the house—boredom, perhaps, or an abundance of caution. But whatever the reason, Hale felt adrenaline trickle into his bloodstream as the Auger swung around to point directly at him.

“Get ready,” he said grimly, as he backed away from the peephole. “They’re onto us. They could shoot through the walls, but I’m hoping they’ll come inside, so I can drop a grenade into their laps. So stay back… The key is to keep the Grims off the platform.

“Mark, you defend the walkway… Tina, you take the top of the ladder. I’ll work the gaps. And remember what the Chimera did to your parents. Shoot to kill. Understand?”

It was too dark to see their expressions, nor was there time for a reply as two Steelheads stormed into the barn and opened fire. Bolts of lethal radiation hit the wood flooring, accelerated through it, and went on to punch holes in the roof.

Having readied a hand grenade, Hale pulled the pin and tossed the explosive over the side. There was a flash of light as the grenade went off, followed by a resonant boom and at least one scream as razor-sharp shrapnel flew in every direction. A piece of metal hit the floor near Hale’s right boot, tore a hole in it, and continued on to bury itself in a rafter.

He felt certain that at least one of the Steelheads was down—but what about the others? It was risky to peer over the side, but he did so anyway, just as a Grim entered the barn holding a Chimeran battle lantern high.

Thanks to the sudden spill of light Hale could see that two Steelheads were down, but there was no time to celebrate as more Auger projectiles stuttered through the walls. Some of the bolts missed Hale by a matter of inches as he threw himself backward.

Mark and Tina were flat on the platform, but they didn’t seem to have been injured.

A follow-up shot by the remaining Steelhead outside might have been successful at that point, but more than a dozen Grims had entered the barn by then, and the Hybrid had no way to know who it was shooting at. So the incoming fire stopped.

The battle inside the barn was just getting started at that point however, as three Grims succeeded in scaling the mountain of hay bales, and began to cross the walkway that led directly to the loft. Consistent with Hale’s orders Mark was there to meet them, and as he fired short bursts from his Reaper, the first Grim staggered and crashed into the rail. It shattered, allowing the body to fall to the floor below, where more of the shambling creatures were looking for a way up.

Meanwhile, twenty feet away, there was a muted boom as a Grim made it to the top of the wooden ladder and Tina fired her shotgun. Though not as powerful as a Rossmore, the smaller-gauge .410 was deadly at close range and blew the top of the Grim’s head off. A bloody mist rained down on the creatures below as battle lanterns threw grotesque shadows onto the west wall, and the air was filled with a cacophony of inarticulate growls.

Hale was pleased to note that the youngsters were holding their own, so far at least, but then another problem presented itself. Even though they weren’t very bright, the Grims were active, and those not already on the walkway or the ladder came swarming up the walls! As with most barns, the studs and crossbeams were fully exposed on the inside, and that was all the purchase the Grims needed.

So Hale shouted, “Grenade!” and dropped another bomb onto the floor below. The explosion knocked most of the creatures loose from their handholds, then it was time to go to work with the Rossmore. The shotgun made regular boom, clack, boom sounds as double-ought buck tore into the Grims still climbing the east wall and dumped what remained of their bodies into the charnel house below.

That was when Hale heard a scream, and turned to discover that, having been unable to reload her shotgun quickly enough, Tina was in trouble. Having successfully gained the platform, one of the horrors had wrapped its scabrous arms around the girl, and lifted her off the floor. Hale couldn’t fire without hitting Tina, so he lurched forward, knowing he wouldn’t arrive in time.

The Grim opened its jaws wide.

That was when Tina surprised both the Grim and Hale as she pulled the Browning Hi-Power 9mm semi-auto pistol out of its shoulder holster and pressed the muzzle against the monster’s lumpy skull. The Browning jumped in her hand, and a long rope of bloody goo shot out from the other side of the Grim’s head and splashed the floor beyond.

Tina landed on her feet as the Chimera released her, and had the presence of mind to shoot a second Grim in the stomach. But it wasn’t enough, as even more of the blood-crazed horrors flooded onto the platform.

Hale was at Tina’s side by then, blasting the ferocious Grims to bloody bits. Empty shotgun shells arced through the air, bounced off the floor, and rolled off the platform. There was no time in which to think or feel. All Hale could do was fire, reload, and fire again, in a desperate attempt to stem the grotesque tide.

Then, as if by magic, it was over. The last of the creatures was dispatched, and the only sounds that could be heard were a liquid gurgling noise as a badly wounded Grim choked on its own blood, and the repetitive snick, snick, snick as Hale fed shells into the shotgun.

“We did it!” Mark proclaimed jubilantly, as he slid a fresh magazine into the Reaper. “We killed them all!”

“Don’t count on it,” Hale replied darkly. “There were three Steelheads, and as far as we know, one of them is still on the loose. Grab your packs… We’re getting out of here.”

Then as if to confirm Hale’s assessment, an air-fuel grenade came flying into the barn, landed ten feet away from the haystack, and went off with a loud whump! Hale and the two youngsters were outside the immediate blast zone, but the explosion set fire to the hay, and it went up quickly. Air-fuel grenades had been invented by humans, but just as humans made effective use of Chimeran weapons, the reverse was true as well. Hale theorized that the surviving Steelhead was planning to drive the humans out of the barn and silhouette them against the flames.

“Come on,” Hale said, having shouldered his pack. “Follow me.” Mark and Tina obeyed as Hale half slid down the ladder to the floor below. The fire was spreading, and the heat was intense.

Auger rounds began to probe the inside of the barn.

“Over there!” Hale shouted, as he pointed to the east wall. Having stopped by his father’s workshop long enough to snatch a sledgehammer off its hooks, Hale hurried over to where Mark and Tina were waiting. There was a loud bang as the first blow made contact with the wall. The key was to land each blow squarely between neighboring studs, and the weight of the pack, snowshoes, and Fareye made that difficult, but after three solid hits a section of siding gave way. That was progress, but not enough, as Hale put the sledgehammer down in order to kick at the loose boards.

“Mark!” Tina shouted. “Behind you!”

Hale turned and saw that one of the Grims was on fire. Whether it had been wounded previously, or was simply lurking in a corner at the moment when the air-fuel mixture detonated, didn’t really matter. What mattered was that the fiery apparition was just six feet away, and staggering forward with arms spread wide.

Mark shot the Grim repeatedly, but the monstrosity kept on coming. Hale was about to fire on it when the Steelhead who was lurking outside unknowingly put an Auger projectile into the Grim. That knocked the monster off its feet, and the fire crackled noisily as all six of its eyeballs began to boil. Its heels drummed against the floor, then stopped abruptly.

The Sentinel turned his attention back to the wall.

“There!” he exclaimed as a hole finally appeared in front of him. Peering through it, he saw no sign of the Steelhead, and judging from its last shot, Hale figured it was on the opposite side of the barn. “Tina, you first, then Mark.”

There was no need to tell the youngsters to hurry as the stack of hay collapsed, flames clawed at the walls, and the roof caught fire. The moment Mark disappeared Hale entered the hole, swore when one of his snowshoes got caught, and had to wrestle it loose.

Then they were free, as the entire barn was engulfed in flames. Thankfully, it was snowing again, which would help conceal their tracks, but Hale knew that wouldn’t prevent the Steelhead from following them. The Chimera was close, too close, and would have to be dealt with before the threesome could make their way south.

So Hale ran, breaking a trail for the others as they passed along the west side of the house and crossed the parking area beyond. There was plenty of light, thanks to the brightly burning barn and the battle lamps, which were still in place. Hale rounded the propane tank and angled up the slope beyond. Once on top of the low-lying hill he shrugged his pack off and motioned for the others to get down.

Having positioned the pack for use as a gun rest, Hale laid the Fareye across it and lowered himself into place. With his eye to the scope, Hale waited for the Steelhead to appear and it didn’t take long. Less than thirty seconds later the hulking stink rounded the northwest corner of the house and began to follow the human tracks south. That was to be expected, but what Hale wasn’t expecting were the three Grims who trailed along behind. He’d have to bag the ′brid and the Grims.

So Hale settled on a plan, smiled grimly as the Chimera crossed the parking lot, and put the Fareye’s crosshairs on the very center of his target. Then, as the Steelhead passed the propane tank, Hale fired. The high-velocity armor-piercing bullet passed through the tank and caused a spark. That was sufficient to trigger a flash of light, a rising ball of flame, and a loud explosion.

There were no bodies to be seen in the wake of the massive blast, just a large circle of blackened ground, and a cloud of hot steam.

“That was awesome!” Mark said admiringly. “What’s next?”

“One helluva long walk,” Hale answered, as he stood up. “It’s time to put your snowshoes on.”

Ten minutes later the threesome were ready to hit the trail.

The barn’s roof had collapsed by then, sending thousands of glowing sparks up into the air. Some of them fell onto the house and set it on fire as well. Hale was standing there, watching his childhood home start to burn, when Tina took his free hand.

“I’m sorry,” she said simply. “But we’re still alive—and we have you to thank for that.”

Hale turned to look down at her solemn face. “Let’s get going.”

It was pitch black once they put the house and barn behind them, and like it or not Hale and his companions were forced to use their flashlights. Thanks to the thickly falling snow they weren’t likely to be seen unless they had the bad fortune to pass within fifty feet of their pursuers.

As they slogged along, Hale assessed what lay ahead, and how to deal with it. The most pressing problem was time, because if they hadn’t reached the LZ when Purvis put the Party Girl down, the pilot would be forced to leave them behind. If that happened, could they make it all the way back to Valentine, Nebraska? Maybe, but the odds were against it.

Then there was the bridge across the White River to consider. Even more stinks would be standing guard on the span, in the wake of the first attack, and given the time constraint, Hale couldn’t afford to try one of the bridges up- or downriver. So what to do?

Bit by bit a plan came to mind. A crazy plan, but one that might catch the Chimera by surprise, and enable Hale and his charges to cross the first span.

Old Man Potter had been something of a recluse, especially after his wife’s death, which was when Hale had gotten to know him. Potter’s ten-acre spread lay just south of the Rocking F, and years earlier, while out riding his horse and searching for strays, an eighteen-year-old Nathan Hale had come across the old man lying unconscious at the bottom of a ravine, right next to the wreckage of the old Triumph motorcycle.

Potter had loved that bike.

Hale brought him around with water from his canteen, lifted him onto Blacky, and led the horse two miles east to Potter’s old farmhouse. The old man was more of a dreamer than a doer, always coming up with wild new business schemes, none of which bore fruit. His house was surrounded by the brooding remains of possibilities that had passed him by.

The collection included a rusting grader which was part of Potter Paving, a snow-shrouded drilling rig that had once been the pride and joy of the Potter Well Company, and a fifty-two-foot fishing boat the old man planned to haul cross-country to Seattle, where it would become the flagship of the Potter Fishing Company.

And the broken dreams were still there, sleeping under a blanket of snow, as Hale and his two companions approached the ramshackle house. It was growing lighter by then, the snowfall had slowed, and it felt significantly warmer. All bad signs insofar as they were concerned, but what was—was, so all Hale could do was keep a sharp eye out for tracks in the snow, and hope for the best.

“Potter’s Junkyard,” as the locals called it, wasn’t harboring any Chimera, not unless you counted the five skulls arranged directly in front of the house, each sitting atop its own carefully planted pole. Each trophy wore a cap of white and an extra eye socket, where a bullet had passed through—tributes to Potter’s stalking skills and his prowess with the Mauser bolt action rifle he treasured so highly. It was a weapon that employed the high-powered 6.5 X 68mm Von Hofe Express cartridges favored by German hunters in the Alps.

“Wow,” Mark said, as he examined the skulls. “That was good shooting.”

“Yes,” Hale agreed soberly, “it was. Even though it was my dad who taught me how to shoot, Mr. Potter took my education to the next level. He didn’t believe in scopes, he thought semiautos were for sissies, and when he went deer hunting he took one bullet with him.”

“So where is he?” Tina inquired pragmatically, as she looked around.

“I have no idea,” Hale replied. “Dead most likely. He was like my parents, like a lot of folks around here, which is to say stubborn. So when the Chimera came, chances are he fought them. Five lives for one… That isn’t bad.”

“So what are we going to do?” Mark wanted to know. “Hide here?”

Hale shook his head.

“No, we have a plane to catch, and about eight hours to reach the landing zone. What we’re looking for is a ride.” He glanced around, then turned toward them again. “Wait here and keep your eyes peeled. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Hale’s boots produced a hollow sound as he made his way up onto the porch, opened the door, and entered Potter’s living room. And that’s where the old man was, rifle across his lap, sitting in a rocking chair. He was dead of course, and had been for weeks, judging from the condition of his mummy like corpse. A few hanks of white hair still hung from his leathery scalp, his eyes were gone, and his tobacco-stained teeth were bared in a permanent grin. Potter’s bib overalls were intact however, as were his lace-up boots, which could be seen below a length of bright bone. Surprisingly there were no signs of violence, leading Hale to suppose that Potter had died of natural causes, while sitting in his shabby parlor waiting for the Chimera to come. Hale nodded respectfully as he circled the chair and went back to the 1920s-style kitchen. The homemade key rack was hanging right next to the back door. Would the vehicle Hale had in mind start? There was no way to know for sure, but he took the keys to the Lyon dump truck, and passed out through the living room.

Out front, Mark and Tina were eating oatmeal patties they had fried up the evening before.

“Come on,” Hale said, “let’s see if we’re going to walk or ride.”

It had been years since Hale had been back to visit Potter, but he wasn’t surprised to find the truck where he’d last seen it, parked next to the old man’s rickety workshop. The outlines of the vehicle were plain to see in spite of the snow, including the Lyon’s considerable bulk, the flat two-panel windshield, the softly rounded cab, and the chromed lion that stood on the hood with one paw lifted as if in mid-step.

Would the engine start? Although Potter wasn’t much of a housekeeper, he had always been meticulous as far as his machines were concerned, even going so far as to fire up the fishing boat’s diesel on a regular basis. So there was reason to hope as Hale circled the snow-encrusted rig and confirmed that all of the truck’s six tires were inflated.

With that established he put a foot on the driver’s-side running board, opened the door, and climbed into the cab. The flat bench-style seat squeaked under his weight as he pushed the clutch all the way to the floor, checked to make sure the stick shift was in neutral, and turned the key.

The starter produced a weak ur-ur-ur sound, but nothing happened. The battery was low, the engine was cold, and Hale could feel his hopes starting to slip away.

“Come on, baby,” he muttered. “Do it for Mr. Potter.”

The starter produced the same ur-ur-ur sound, followed by a loud bang that caused Hale to jump. Then came a friendly rattle as all six cylinders began to fire.

“That’s right!” Hale said exultantly, as he revved the engine. “I knew you could do it.”

The fuel gauge was down to a quarter-tank, so the next fifteen minutes were spent searching for gas, and then pouring it in. Hale let the engine run throughout the process fearing that the Lyon would refuse to start a second time.

The cab was far too small for three people and their gear, so they put most of their equipment in back, and kept only weapons and ammo up front. Hale placed both the Fareye and the Rossmore in the bed of the truck and used some cord to tie everything down.

Finally with the sawed-off .410 shotgun lying across his lap, Tina sitting astride the gear shift, and Mark on the passenger side, they were ready to go. He shifted into low, let the clutch out, and stepped on the gas. The engine roared, ugly black smoke belched out of the Lyon’s twin stacks, and the dump truck began to roll.

Heat was pouring into the cab by that time and the snow had stopped. Frank Sinatra was singing “April in Paris” as Mark turned the AM radio on, and a familiar voice was heard as the song came to an end.

“Hello, fellow citizens, this is Jack Peavy, welcoming you to the Jack Peavy News Hour.” The announcer’s voice was deep and resonant, and he spoke with the authority of a man who knew things other people didn’t.

“Contrary to information put out by the so-called Freedom First party,” Peavy said, “we have reports that the Army is battling the Chimera in South Dakota, and has recently won a major engagement near Rapid City. Once the hard-fought battle was over, thousands of enemy bodies lay on the bloodied snow…”

“That’s bullshit!” Mark exclaimed, as he clicked the broadcast off. “Do you see any god-damned soldiers here?”

“Lieutenant Hale is here,” Tina replied tartly, “and Mom doesn’t like it when you swear.”

“Mom’s dead,” Mark replied bleakly. “Hell, just about everybody’s dead, so far as I can tell, and Peavy is lying.”

Peavy was lying, or that’s how it appeared to Hale, as he downshifted and caressed the brake, careful not to put the truck into a skid. The main road lay just ahead, and judging from the way it looked, it was heavily used. With his heart beating faster, he made a right-hand turn onto the pavement. They were committed at that point, because the bridge was only two miles away, and there was nowhere else to go.

He upshifted, put his foot down, and upshifted again. Within minutes the truck was doing its top speed of sixty and rattling like a can full of marbles as it charged down the middle of the road and threw waves of slush to both sides.

They were approaching the bridge when a Chimeran Stalker lurched out onto the road ahead of him, repositioned its turretlike body, and fired on the truck. Hale was familiar with the big crablike machines, having piloted one in the past. So he knew how dangerous they could be.

His eyes narrowed as a steady stream of machine gun projectiles kicked up geysers of dirt and snow. Fortunately, the gunner hadn’t latched on to them yet, as Tina covered both eyes. Was there enough room? Yes, Hale thought there was, and proceeded to bet all their lives as he swerved to the right, then left again.

The Chimeran pilot attempted to respond, but the dump truck was more agile than it was, and managed to swerve around the mech, before it could be repositioned. Machine gun bullets followed the truck south, but the pilot couldn’t fire missiles without hitting the bridge and the guards that had been positioned to defend it.

Metal barriers had been erected at the north end of the span and two automatic weapons were half-hidden behind piles of sandbags on both sides of the road. The gun on the left began to fire, quickly followed by the one on the right, as the truck barreled toward them.

“Pull the pin!” Hale ordered, and Mark obeyed. The passenger-side window was already down, so all the teenager had to do was keep a firm grip on the safety lever, or “spoon,” while waiting for the right moment.

Projectiles made a persistent pinging noise as they hit the truck, the windshields shattered—front and back—as a projectile passed between Hale and Tina, and the Lyon hesitated slightly as it hit the barricade and smashed it aside. That was when Mark stuck his arm through the window and let go of the grenade. It hit the ground, bounced high into the air, and exploded. Shrapnel cut down one of the stinks as it sought to swivel its machine gun around.

The truck itself slammed into another Hybrid and killed it instantly. Hale heard a soft thump and knew that at least one Chimera had dropped from the superstructure above to land on the roof. Seconds later a skeletal hand shot through the already shattered rear window and caught hold of Tina’s hair. She screamed and tried to pull away. That was Hale’s cue to reach forward and pull on the red knob that protruded from the dashboard.

The Hybrid let go of Tina’s hair when the dump box began to tilt upward, thereby exposing it to fire from behind. The stink’s body jerked spastically as it took multiple hits before being dumped out onto the bridge deck where it rolled away.

With the box in the raised position, the cab was protected from behind. Bullets ricocheted away as they hit solid steel. One of the rear duals was flat by then, but with five tires left there was no stopping the truck as it began to close with the barrier at the south end of the bridge.

The disadvantage of having the box raised was that the truck’s speed was cut in half, and Hale was busy downshifting when a stink jumped up onto the driver’s-side running board. The Chimera roared angrily as it tried to stick its head in through the open window. Hale could taste the creature’s foul breath as he let out the clutch, stomped on the gas, and brought the .410 level with the window.

There was a satisfying boom as the tightly focused cone of birdshot blew half of the Hybrid’s face away. The three eyes on the other half registered what might have been surprise as the horror fell away, hit one of the upright supports, and broke in two.

Tina accepted the shotgun and hurried to reload it as Mark fired the Reaper out the passenger-side window. A ′brid standing on the other side of the barricade fell, and the big bumper hit the metal obstruction and sent pieces of steel flying through the air. That cut even more Chimera down.

Hale knew it was going to be necessary to abandon the truck and hike cross-country, so he wanted to reduce the number of Chimera who could follow them. With that in mind he braked, shifted into reverse, and backed onto the bridge again, killing two more stinks in the process.

He shifted into low, lowered the box, and drove forward until it was time to stop the Lyon and bail out. Missiles were landing all around. The Stalker was too large to cross the span from the north, but the pilot still could lob missiles over the bridge.

As columns of dirty snow shot into the air and pattered down all around them, the trio went around to the back of the truck and scrambled up into the dump box. At least half of the gear had fallen out during the crossing, including both Hale’s pack and the Fareye. Fortunately the Rossmore and all three sets of snowshoes were still lashed to the bottom of the box. “Grab your snowshoes,” Hale shouted as another missile hit nearby, “and follow me!”

Having secured the shotgun and his snowshoes, Hale led the others up the hillside toward the jumble of now familiar rocks. Once they passed over the crest, they were out of range and there was nothing the Stalker could do but pace back and forth and lob rockets at the truck. The Lyon took a direct hit, exploded into a ball of flame, and sent a pillar of black smoke up toward the gray sky.

Ten minutes later Hale and his companions had their snowshoes on and were slip-sliding cross-country in a desperate attempt to reach the landing zone in time. The detour to the Potter homestead had consumed valuable time, and now they were paying for it.

The warmer temperature was causing the snow to melt, but it was still too deep to abandon the snowshoes. Despite the hard going, Hale was suddenly grateful for the snow, when they paused on a rise to look back. Three Hybrids, summoned from Lord knows where, could be seen half a mile back, but lacking showshoes, the stinks were struggling.

One of the ′brids paused to fire an ineffectual shot from his assault rifle, causing Hale to yearn for the missing Fareye. All three of the Chimera would have been easy meat for it. “Come on,” he said grimly. “We’ll out-walk the bastards.”

But as the next couple of hours came off the clock, the youngsters began to slow, and the Hybrids were catching up. That meant it was no longer a choice of whether to fight, but of where to fight, and Hale tried to remember a pile of rocks, a cluster of trees, or a ravine where they could lie in wait for the pursuers.

It was no good. That section of the gently rolling prairie was almost featureless. Or so it seemed until Hale spotted a dark smudge in the distance.

“We’re going to ambush the stinks,” Hale announced confidently. “Come on, Mark… Let’s help Tina. We need to hurry.”

The lead Hybrid paused at the top of a slight rise, saw the snow-frosted corpse laid out on the ground ahead, and wondered who or what had been able to bring the big form down. But it was a passing thought, because like all ′brids the Chimera lived in the eternal now, it being left to higher forms to contemplate the past and plan for the future. His task was to catch up with the humans, kill them, and eat his fill.

The tracks led past the Titan and over the next rise, indicating that the humans were still on the move, but they were slowing. It wouldn’t be long before he and his fellows would be able to savor the coppery taste of human blood. So he waved the others forward, and led them past the horribly ravaged corpse, confident that the chase was about to end.

“Now!” Hale yelled. He and Mark burst from within the hollowed-out corpse already firing, Hale with the Rossmore and Mark with the Reaper. The stinks never had a chance.

Tina had gone ahead, thereby creating a fresh set of tracks that led over the next rise, where she had strict orders to stay out of sight.

The stinks tried to turn, tried to defend themselves, but a hail of close-range projectiles tore them apart. Blood sprayed the snow beyond the Hybrids as they jerked this way and that before collapsing in heaps.

Hale started to reload, discovered that he was out of shotgun ammo, and scrambled up and out of the Titan’s abdomen. A Bullseye lay next to its previous owner.

“Come on,” he said cheerfully as he bent to retrieve the weapon. “We’re almost there.” They moved to rejoin Tina.

And forty-five minutes later they were there when the drone of engines was heard, and the Party Girl settled into the soft snow. Two minutes later Hale lifted Tina up into the cargo compartment, climbed in beside her, and turned to give Mark a helping hand.

“Congratulations,” he said as the hatch began to close. “And welcome to what’s left of the United States of America.”

Having convinced Purvis to drop the three of them outside Valentine, Nebraska, Hale was determined to make sure that Mark and Tina would have a place to stay before returning to the SRPA base. The so-called Protection Camps were somewhat controversial because, even though hundreds of thousands of people had decided to enter them, an equal number of people had refused on philosophical grounds, or because they didn’t want to subject themselves to the strict, almost military-like discipline required of the internees.

Like all members of the military, Hale was used to strict discipline, and thought of the Freedom First people as whiners. Still, as the delivery truck paused a quarter-mile short of the main gate to let them jump down, he had to admit that the razor wire fences, and the evenly spaced watchtowers, looked a lot like the prisons he’d seen.

Nevertheless there was a long line of people waiting to get in, some pushing wheelbarrows stacked high with belongings, while others wore packs or carried suitcases. Unfortunately many of those in line had nothing more than the clothes on their backs. Babies cried, dogs barked, and old folks looked grim as they waited for the queue to jerk forward.

Eventually, after an hour or so, Hale and his companions drew even with a uniformed guard who confiscated the children’s weapons, and would have taken Hale’s as well, if the Sentinel hadn’t opened his parka to reveal his uniform.

Mark hated to part company with the Reaper but there was nothing he could do about it.

There was a good deal of wailing at the next checkpoint, where people were forced to surrender their pets, all of which were taken away to be euthanized.

Finally, having been allowed to enter the camp’s processing center, Hale, Mark, and Tina were shunted into another line intended for orphans. And there were hundreds of them, most of whom were unaccompanied, and trying to help one another as best they could.

The sight of it brought a lump to the back of Hale’s throat as a matronly-looking woman welcomed Mark and Tina to the facility, gave them prepacked bags filled with toiletries, and took down their information. She smiled brightly in spite of the fact that the people standing in front of her smelled to high heaven.

“Don’t worry, Lieutenant… they’ll be well cared for. They’ll have to be separated, of course, since we can’t have boys and girls living in the same dormitory, but I can assure you that they will receive three square meals a day, good medical care, and be back in school on Monday!”

Neither of the teens looked very happy, but there was nothing any of them could do, so Hale shook hands with Mark and gave Tina an awkward hug. His smile was forced.

“Take care of yourselves, you two…”

Mark gave a jerky nod, and Tina wiped a tear away. Then they watched Hale leave.

Once outside the processing center he saw a square that was obviously used for ceremonial purposes, and beyond that some of the hundreds of identical six-story wooden buildings, all thrown up over the last year or so. Everything was neat as a pin, but there was something depressing about the place, as Hale followed a neatly kept path toward the main gate. A guard nodded politely. “Good afternoon, Lieutenant… Have a nice day.”

It was too late for that, but as Hale exited the camp, the sun appeared. The warmth felt good on his face—and there was a hot shower to look forward to. And, all things considered, that was as much as Hale could reasonably hope for.

Now if only he could stay out of prison.