Eric shook his head impatiently at the sudden surge of emotions, laid the rifle butt against his cheek, and sighted in on the fallen pine tree.
Chapter 2
The first man to the tree was tall and angular. As he took off his orange helmet, Eric could see that his thinning hair was plastered to his head with sweat. Unfortunately, he had stopped sooner than Eric expected, leaving only the lead vehicle in sight and the rest of the column hidden in the trees.
As two other men moved up to join him, the leader’s voice carried clearly up to where Eric lay concealed. “Look at this. This tree didn’t just fall across the road. It’s been cut, and in the last day or two.”
So at least they are Americans. Eric could detect no trace of accent, and that relieved him somewhat. Each man was clad in orange and blue and had what appeared to be a weapon strapped to his hip. And yet from this distance it was difficult to tell exactly what kind of weapon. It looked too long for a pistol, and yet too short for a rifle.
“It looks like it was done deliberately to block the highway.”
“Well, if it was, they chose their spot well.” The leader gestured to one of the men. “Bring up one of the trucks. We can use a winch to move it. It’s not worth getting the tractor off.”
“I wouldn’t do that, not just yet.”
It was comical in a way. Had the fallen tree instantly righted itself, it could not have created a more stunned reaction. All three men visibly jumped at the sound of Cliff’s voice and whirled to stare at the figure that had appeared from nowhere.
The leader was the first to recover. “Hello,” he called nervously, starting toward Cliff.
The muzzle of Cliffs Winchester 30.06 raised slightly. “Just stand easy,” he drawled, “until we get a little better acquainted. Who are you, and where do you come from?”
The tall man stopped, but if he was deterred by Cliff’s coolness, Eric couldn’t detect it in his voice. “My name is Bruce Byers. I am the commander of the First Corps of Guardians.” He waved toward the unseen column. “We’re from the city of Shalev.”
“Never heard of it,” Cliff said.
“That’s not too surprising. It’s up north, where Kalispell, Montana, used to be. The name comes from the Hebrew word meaning peaceful.”
“You’re a long ways from home.”
“Yes, about five hundred miles.”
“What brings you this far south?”
“We heard there were people living in a valley south of here.”
The surprise in Cliff’s voice made Eric smile. “Oh, really? Whereabouts?”
The leader shook his head. “We’re not exactly sure. That’s assuming there is a village.” It was evident he was fishing.
Cliff rejected the bait. “And if you find them?”
“We’re hoping they might be pleased to hear others have survived, that there are cities and civilization. We’d like them to join us, help us rebuild America.”
“Cities?”
“Yes. Shalev has nearly seventy thousand people—it’s the largest. There are four main cities in the Alliance, and numerous smaller towns and villages.”
“Seventy thousand?”
“Right. Close to a quarter million of us, altogether.”
“That’s incredible! We had no idea any groups that large had survived. Especially anywhere close to us.”
“Yes, and while we don’t have everything like it was before Termination, we have a very comfortable life. Electricity, schools, automobiles. We even have a university and a symphony orchestra.”
“Termination,” Cliff mused softly, making Eric strain to hear his words. “An appropriate title. We simply refer to it as before or after.” He lowered his rifle and stepped forward, extending his hand. “I’m Dr. Clifford Cameron, from the village you’re looking for.”
“Wonderful! Dr. Cameron, we’re delighted to find you.” The man gave a small laugh. “Or rather to have you find us.”
“Yes. I apologize for the initial wariness, but—”
“I understand,” the other said quickly. “We have to watch some of those wandering around the country too. Well, if you’d care to join us, we’ll get this tree out of the way and push on to your village.” He looked up at the late afternoon sky. “If we hurry, we can be there before nightfall.”
Eric could hear the edge in Cliffs voice as he stepped back suddenly. “By nightfall?”
“Yes. Not that we can’t travel after dark, but…”
“I thought you didn’t know where the village was,” Cliff said slowly.
“Oh,” the other man said, his voice tinged with nervousness. “We don’t. I was just assuming it must be fairly close. I mean—well, you’re here, and I just thought…” His voice trailed off, and it was obvious even he knew how flimsy his words sounded.
Eric was suddenly wary. The man was lying, and poorly at that, though he wasn’t exactly sure why. He jerked the rifle up again and notched back the safety. Cliff laughed softly. “Oh, I see. Well, you’re right. It isn’t really that far from here. In fact, I have my horse up in the trees. Why don’t I just cut over the mountain and tell the village the good news. Just follow this old highway. We’ll meet you where the highway crosses the river about five miles further on. It’s the first bridge. You can’t miss it. Then we can show you the way into the valley.”
“But, Dr. Cameron, it would be so much better if you’d help us find the way.”
Cliff shook his head, then raised his hand in farewell and started moving away. “Really, you’ll be fine. Just stay on this highway. I’ll be there before you. I’m much too excited to wait. The people will be so surprised.”
“Dr. Cameron,” the leader said sharply. All three men in the bright orange suits pulled their weapons up. “I’m afraid I really must insist.”
Eric squeezed the trigger, and his first shot caught the tall leader high in the shoulder, jerking him around violently. One of the other men evidently fired, though later Eric realized there had been no sound of a shot. Cliffs low grunt was audible even at this distance as he spun around with a jerk, then jackknifed forward into the grass.
Eric snapped off another shot, but the two men dove for cover, and he saw a puff of dust as the bullet tore into dry ground. As excited shouts for help filled the air, Eric grabbed the binoculars and focused them quickly on Cliffs still figure. For a long moment, Eric stared at the motionless figure, the shock hammering at his reason. Savagely he jammed the glasses back into their case and snatched up the rifle again. He squeezed off a shot at a quick flash of orange below him and grunted in satisfaction at the sharp cry of pain and the crash of a heavy body in the brush.
“He’s up on the ridge!”
“Stay down! Stay down!”
“Circle around him.”
“Stay low!”
Eric was aware of the voices below, but with cool precision, he brought the rifle stock firmly against his cheek and began methodically emptying the magazine at the biggest target in the clearing. His first shot ricocheted with an angry whine off the orange vehicle’s bubble, so he lowered the sights a fraction of an inch. First one tire exploded, then another. The remaining four shots stitched a neat pattern in the orange and blue hood.
With one last anguished glance at Cliffs inert form, he slithered backwards over the crest of the hill, then leaped to his feet and burst into a hard run toward the horses.
Eric tethered the horses in a thick clump of cottonwoods near the river, took the rifle out of its scabbard, and shouldered the saddle bags, which he had stuffed with hand-wrapped sticks of dynamite yesterday afternoon. Numbing shock hardened into a tight fist in his stomach whenever he thought of Cliff. He turned and trotted swiftly through the trees, pushing away a hunger for revenge so strong it was almost like acid on his tongue. His only task now was to stop that column long enough to give the village time to prepare their defenses.
The mountain air was still, filled with the heavy aroma of pine, and the heat of the afternoon
was now at its fullest. As he came out of the trees and onto the old highway, a blue jay burst out at him, furious that he had startled it without warning. But if Eric heard it, he gave no sign, for he had a fury of his own driving him.
He jogged about two hundred yards up the road, then stopped to survey the scene. Sometime in the two decades since the Wyoming Highway Department had ceased to exist, the floodwaters of the Salt River had risen high enough to chew away at the base of what had once been U.S. Highway 89. Most of the outside lane had collapsed into the hungry waters. Given enough time, Eric could have planted his explosives in such a way as to drop the rest of the pavement into the river and block any hope of passage. But he didn’t have that time. Even allowing for the fact that the intruders had to move the tree before they could continue, he couldn’t have gained much time on them.
It could have been better, but the river’s work would suffice for his purposes. The vehicles could still squeeze through, but they would have to slow down to a crawl. Eric strode over to a heavy clump of brush clinging to the steep hillside at the edge of where the gaping slash in the pavement began. The crunch of tires and treads suddenly amplified, and he dove behind the bush, pushing into the heavy tangle of branches. Peering out, he saw the first vehicle round the bend and come into sight. The last rays of the sun caught the bright orange metal and turned it into flaming gold. He huddled deeper into the protecting foliage, grateful that his dark brown shirt and pants blended into the deep shadows of the oak brush.
As he stared at the approaching line of vehicles, Eric felt grimly satisfied. There was only one car now instead of two.
Not unexpectedly, the lead vehicle stopped at the edge of the pavement that had been ripped away by the flood waters. Eric heard the door open, then the crunch of footsteps coming toward him. He tensed, raising the muzzle of his rifle slightly.
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know.” The steps moved closer. “It looks solid enough.” Again Eric felt a brief flash of satisfaction. Neither voice belonged to the tall, hollow-cheeked man who had shaken hands with Cliff. Cliff was dead, but he hadn’t gone totally unavenged.
“The bank isn’t undercut at all. I think we’ll be okay. Just tell the others to stay as far to the right as they can.”
“Right.” The footsteps moved back quickly. The low hum of the motor increased in intensity, and even before the doors were shut, the car began to creep forward.
Eric opened the flap of the saddle bag and quickly pulled the friction fuse out. It was simple enough—two patches of sulphur, like match heads, in which the fuse had been imbedded. He pushed the leaves of his hiding place aside gently and watched as the car passed slowly across the narrow strip of pavement; then he turned back to gauge the speed of the first truck. With a quick slap he grated the two sulphur heads together, and as they flared into life, catching the fuse, he started to count.
One. Two. Three. He grasped the root of the oak brush firmly and swung out.
Four. Five. The clump of brush kept him hidden from the driver of his target, but as he started the arching, upward swing of the saddle bags, the sudden movement caught the attention of the driver in the second truck. Eric knew that once the charge blew, he was going to have to get out and get out fast.
Six. Seven. Eric heaved the twenty pounds of explosives up over the edge of the pavement and under the truck, then frantically dove back under the bush and dug his face into the graveled hillside, throwing his free arm over his head.
The blast was deafening. Though the major part of the concussion was deflected off the pavement and went over Eric’s head, he felt as if he were lying prone on the back of a bucking horse. He bounced once, half turning as he tried to hold on, but his fingers tore free, and he slid two or three feet down the steep embankment. As he dug in his fingers to halt his plunge, he instinctively looked up.
The explosion had caught the truck almost exactly under the midsection and bounced it around a quarter turn to the right, leaving the left back wheels hanging precariously over the edge of the pavement. Even as his brain registered the wild scene—tumbling orange bodies, the screams of men, the sharp pain in his ears, the raw agony of clawing into gravel—it also registered his danger. In just a few seconds an angry swarm of blue and orange hornets would be zooming in on him.
He grabbed his rifle and leaped out, plunging down the slope, his boots leaving deep gouges in the soft gravel and dirt.
“There he goes!” he heard someone shout. “Get him!”
But Eric was already into the trees and running hard for the horses.
Chapter 3
As Eric came around the bend and the weed-strewn highway straightened out again, he pulled up on the reins, bringing the horses to a sliding halt. About fifty yards ahead of him, directly in front of the concrete bridge that spanned the turbulent river below, a huge barricade of trees and logs and earth had been erected. It completely blocked the highway, cutting all access to the bridge.
Before he had gone ten feet more, he heard a cry off to his right. Suddenly men sprung up everywhere, swarming out at him from behind the barricade, out from the trees, and up from the steep riverbank.
“It’s Ricky,” someone shouted. When he saw the tall figure of his father among those at the barricade, he kicked the horses into a trot.
“Ken,” Eric said, as he swung down and thrust the reins at the nearest man, “can you cool these horses down and then water them? I’ve pushed them pretty hard.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned to face his father.
“Where’s Cliff?”
Eric looked down and his shoulders sagged. “He’s dead.”
Karl Lloyd flinched, as though slapped across the face.
“They shot him down without warning.”
His father’s face, normally a deep tan, turned the color of wet clay, and his lips tightened into a tight line. “Marauders?”
“No. You and Cliff were right about the lights. There are cars and trucks. It’s a regular army. Over a hundred men.” That brought renewed exclamations from the villagers. Eric went on quickly. “Cliff went down to talk to them. At first they seemed friendly. They know about the village and are looking for us. Cliff got suspicious and tried to disengage, and they opened fire.”
“We heard shooting and an explosion,” one of the men said.
Eric shook his head, still dazed by the searing reality of seeing Cliff go down. “Their weapons don’t make a sound. It was really strange. I was up on the ridge and opened fire, but it—” His voice caught in his throat, and he went on angrily. “Cliff made me stay out of sight. There was no way I could get to him. I—it all happened so fast.”
Karl Lloyd laid his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Where are they now? How far behind you?”
“I dynamited one of their trucks three or four miles back and blocked the road. But it won’t take them long to clear that up. At most they’re probably an hour behind me. Maybe less.”
His father swung around to face the men. “All right, we’d better get ready. We know now that they don’t come in peace.” He took one of the men next to him by the elbow. “Fred, get Eric a fresh mount, and—”
Eric jerked up. “What?”
“I want you to go back to the village, start the—”
“No, Dad! We’ve got to stop them here. You need me here!”
Karl shook his head, his eyes resolute. “We’ll try to stop them here, but if we can’t, they’ll roll right on into the valley. I want you and Travis to take the rest of the dynamite, mine every bridge, every culvert along the road to the village. Anything that will delay them.”
“Travis is at the village,” Eric pleaded. “Send someone to tell him what’s happening. I want to be here when they come.”
“Travis doesn’t know how to work with dynamite. Besides, he’s only been with us a month. He’s a good man, but not proven. Not in this kind of a conflict. I will feel much better with you there.”
“The village needs
you, Ricky.” That came from a man near the back.
“He’s right, Eric,” Karl said soberly. “We need you here, but the village needs you more. If you see them enter the valley, let Travis light the charges. You get the people up Dead Rock Canyon and into the high country.”
Eric suddenly surrendered, remembering his useless protest with Cliff, feeling the same sick feeling he had felt then.
Fred Carlyle trotted up, a large dun quarter horse in tow. “Your rifle is in the scabbard, Ricky,” he said, handing him the reins.
Eric looked quickly around the circle of tight-lipped, grimfaced men. The only sound was the soft rushing of the river off to their left. These were the men with whom he had grown up, played, hunted, worked, worshipped. The sick feeling became a heavy dread pressing down on him. Finally his gaze met his father’s.
“We’ll have a few surprises for them here,” his father said quietly. “Maybe we can turn them back, but we can’t take that chance. Take care of your mother and sisters.”
Eric nodded numbly, then swung up into the saddle.
“The Lord be with you.” It was Karl Lloyd’s standard farewell when anyone left the village for any length of time, but now it pierced Eric like the thrust of a knife.
He took a deep breath. “And with you,” he answered softly. Then with a savage jab of his heels, he sent the dun exploding into a hard lope around the barricade and across the bridge toward the valley road.
Travis Oakes had evidently been watching down the valley, for he came trotting down the main street, rifle in hand, and met Eric just beyond the first houses of the village. “Eric,” he called, “what are you doing here? Where are the others?”
“At the river bridge,” Eric answered as he pulled up the horse and swung down. He gave the lathered animal a quick slap on the rump, as he pulled the rifle out of the scabbard and turned to face Travis. “Come on, we’ve got big trouble.” He started up the street, leaving Travis staring at him.
Travis broke into three quick steps to join Eric. He was an inch or two shorter than Eric’s six-foot height and of a stockier build, with a dark handsomeness and a quick smile that had sent every unmarried female over twelve years of age into flights of hopeful, tittering anticipation. But he had quickly proven to be a valuable addition to the village and had been accepted as one of them. As he caught up and matched strides with Eric, he asked, “What is it? What’s wrong?”
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