Choice of the Cat

by E. E. Knight

  In the time it took the guard's rifle to smack into the wet dirt twenty feet below, Valentine emptied his two pistols into the other Quislings at the gate. The three Wolves dived for the roadside ditch, splashing into puddled rainwater. Valentine abandoned the empty revolver and slipped a fresh magazine into the automatic, sliding the action to chamber the first round. A shot fired from the northern tower whizzed overhead.

  Alpin slithered along the ditch as Valentine popped his gun arm and one eye over the crest of the depression, gun following his gaze as he checked the door and windows of the old guardhouse. An unlatched metal screen door with the word welcome worked into the decor squeaked in the gusty breeze. Valentine rolled back into the ditch.

  "Should I make a try at the gate, sir?" Baker asked, muddy water dripping from his face.

  Valentine shook his head. "Stay put, and wait for the sarge."

  Farther down the ditch, Alpin popped up to swap shots with the northern tower.

  "Alpin, stay down!" Valentine yelled.

  The Wolf brought his gun up again, and a bullet burrowed into the ground right in front of his face. Dirt flew, and with a pained cry, Alpin dropped his gun and covered his right eye. Valentine crawled toward the youth, swearing through clenched teeth, when he heard a wet smack followed by the report of the shot. Alpin toppled backwards into the ditch. Valentine risked a dash to his trooper, whose one good eye fluttered open and shut next to the bloody ruin of the other.

  The challenging wail of a hand-cranked siren sounded through the camp as he pulled Alpin along the ditch, seeking to put the gatehouse between them and the rifleman. Stafford had the platoon attacking the northern fence. Valentine heard a shot and the sound of breaking glass, where his other gunman was shooting at God-knows-what in the guardhouse.

  Valentine found the wound in Alpin's arm and pressed hard to stop the bleeding. Thankfully, the sticky flow welled up underneath his palm in a steady stream rather than short arterial bursts. He called the other Wolf over.

  "Baker! Alpin's hit!"

  "Someone came to a window there.... I missed," Baker gabbled.

  "Keep your head down. C'mere and help me put a dressing on," Valentine barked.

  Baker scuttled over, but seemed at a loss as soon as he looked at Alpin. First-aid training always took place in a quiet meadow, not stretched out in a wet ditch with no elbow room.

  Valentine blew out an exasperated breath. "Never mind. Just put pressure right here," Valentine said, placing Baker's hand on the underside of Alpin's arm, just below the armpit. "Press hard. Don't worry—he's in shock. He doesn't feel anything."

  Valentine popped his head up again—still no sign of the other Wolves, although no more shots came from the direction of the northern tower. The guard had either run or been shot. Baker seemed to catch on, and he took control of keeping tension on the tourniquet.

  "Mister, mister!" someone yelled from the guardhouse. "We surrender.... I surrender, I mean. I'm coming out, no gun. I got a woman with me."

  "I'm just a housekeeper. I ain't one of the Territorials!" a woman's voice added.

  He cautiously looked out of the ditch. "Come on out, then!" Valentine called. "Hands up in the air!"

  The welcome door opened, and a young man in camouflage fatigues emerged, followed by a woman in a simple smock. Valentine aimed the pistol at the Territorial. "You in the uniform—facedown on the ground—now!"

  The Territorial complied. No more shots came from the other side of the compound, but Valentine could see Okla-homans running from the barracks toward the north fence. The Wolves must have reached the compound.

  "Open the gate, please." The woman rushed to comply. The unlocked gate swung easily on its hinges, and Valentine entered the camp. He walked up to the Territorial, still on the ground, face turned sideways and fearfully eyeing Valentine.

  "Terri, you better tell me who's in the house, unless you want to piss off the man with the gun aimed at your head."

  "Mister, it's four Skulls, and some administrator guy out of Tulsa. And I ain't really a Territorial, I just wear the uniform because I'm in the transports. I drive trucks. I just drive trucks, I swear."

  "Did you drive a tanker in here today?"

  "Yes, sir... that was me. They got a pump for the road vehicles and tractor. I'm s'posed to spend the night here at the Rigyard, then—"

  "I found the lieutenant," a voice called. A Wolf pointed his gun around the corner of the guardhouse, covering the door.

  "Sarge, Lieutenant Valentine's here. He's okay," another added.

  "Keep an eye on these two," Valentine ordered. "Sanchez, help Baker carry Alpin in." Baker's head and shoulders popped up like a curious prairie dog. Wolves rushed to help him with their wounded comrade.

  Chaos in the compound. Oklahoman civvies, mostly women and children, milled everywhere, shouting and crying with excitement. Wolves had taken up positions around the two-story house, pointing their rifles at it from cover, but no one was eager to get any closer than absolutely necessary. A pair of Wolves had grabbed a horse, interposing it between themselves and the house while they cut down the four figures hanging from the old T-shaped metal clothesline. Sergeant Stafford directed this last among a cluster of riflemen with barrels trained on the back door of the house.

  Valentine waved over a corporal. "Get some men in that south tower. I want to know if anything shows on the road." He glanced at the horizon—with the thick clouds, it would be dark in less than an hour. He had to work fast. If he even had the hour: should the Reapers feel sufficiently threatened, they would simply bolt. He doubted he could stop four from getting away. And once night returned, bringing the Reapers back to full use of their senses, the triumphant Wolves might become tempting sheep. The Rigyard could turn into a death trap.

  Valentine watched the rescue of the four bound victims, and then he trotted back to his truck-driving prisoner. A pair of Wolves stood above him, forcing him to squat, face to the wall, with fingers laced behind his head. Valentine waved them off and lowered himself to his haunches, facing the man.

  "Here's the deal, friend. Usually when we catch a man wearing the enemy uniform, we take care of it with a bullet, or a rope—time permitting. Do you know what the Ozark Free Territory is?"

  "Yes, sir. It's you folks in the hills there in Southern Missouri and Arkansas."

  "I can arrange to take you there," Valentine said.

  The young man's eyes widened. "What, to hang?"

  "No, as a free man. I just need you to drive your truck one more time."

  "Let me guess: a suicide mission?"

  Valentine grinned. "Maybe. But I'll be riding shotgun."

  The engine started with a growling, mechanical grrrrrr grrrrrr grrrrrrrrrrrrr. The brakes lifted with a hydraulic shriek; the tractor and its trailer pulled out of the barnlike garage.

  As the vehicle accelerated, a Wolf gave the drop hose beneath the tanker a final twist of the cap. Valentine watched gasoline spray as his man jumped out of the way of the truck. The tanker moved across the compound, leaving a rainbow-catching trail.

  Jouncing in the cabin of the tractor, with a pump-action shotgun ready to keep the Reapers off, Valentine glanced at the driver. The trucker wore a smile that was more than half snarl. "What's your name, anyway?" Valentine asked, raising his voice over the unmuffled engine.

  "Pete Ostlander. Always dreamed of plowing this rig into someming. Yours?"

  "David Valentine."

  Ostlander angled for the spacious front porch of the house. "Brace yourself, Valentine!" he shouted, changing gears. The truck shuddered and picked up speed, churning the wet turf of the lawn. Valentine put his feet against the dashboard and pushed himself tightly into the seat back.

  The ancient hauler barreled onto the porch, taking out decking, supports, and roof. The aged wood collapsed like cardboard under the force of the truck's impact. The side of the house caved in, and Valentine could see me homey furnishings through the driver's-side window.

&nb
sp; As the truck ground to a halt, Valentine opened his door and launched himself out of the cab, holding the shotgun with his finger across the trigger guard. He tumbled, turned it into a bone-jarring shoulder roll, and came to his feet running for the cinder-block gatehouse. Valentine glanced over his shoulder and saw Ostlander struggling with his seat-belt hook, which had caught on his boot. The driver freed himself and slid to the passenger side.

  "Light it! Light it!" Valentine shouted.

  Back at the garage, a Wolf touched flame to the gasoline trail. Fire raced across the pooled gasoline. By the guardhouse, three more Wolves waited with grenades ready in case the fuel failed to ignite the tanker. They yelled and pointed behind Valentine, who read the alarm in their expressions. One fired his gun. Valentine turned around, body twisting and following his gun barrel like a sidewinder coiling to strike.

  Ostlander jumped from the tanker. Death knelt on the top of the truck, long monk like hood covering its head. The black-caped figure lashed down and grabbed Ostlander by the neck. The driver gave a spasmodic jerk—Valentine's ears caught to snick of vertebrae separating—then sagged with his head flopping forward. Shots from the covering Wolves tore into black robes. The Reaper ignored them; the heavy cloth dampened their kinetic energy, and the Reaper's tough frame did the rest.

  The Reaper probably heard the approaching flames, rather than seeing them. It dropped the dying Ostlander and sprang up and over the roof of the house in a gravity-defying jump. When Valentine saw his Wolves fling themselves to the earth, he followed suit. He dropped to the ground with hands at the sides of his head, covering his ears with his thumbs and closing his nose with his pinkies. The tanker exploded with a whump. Valentine felt a hot blast of air lick across his back before the concussion knocked him senseless.

  He awoke, with vague memories of a delightful dream. The drifting, blissful feeling bled away as his eyes focused on Corporal Holloway, the junior NCO.

  "Good news, Holloway," Valentine murmured, still half-awake. "I like the way you handle yourself and the men— I'm recommending you to the captain for promotion to lance. Want the job?"

  Holloway started to smile; then his brows furrowed. "Tell the sarge the lieutenant's awake, Gregg. He's kinda groggy-"

  Grogs? Danger! Valentine returned to Oklahoma with a rush, a long slide back into reality. He smelled burning tires and charred flesh and realized he lay in the cold confines of the gatehouse. He looked around at the rough, bare furniture and sat up, feeling nauseated.

  "Okay, Holloway ... better now. Water, please," croaked a voice that he had to convince himself was his.

  Holloway handed him a tin cup, and Valentine gulped it down. "How long was I out?"

  "About fifteen minutes, sir. Closer to twenty now."

  "The Reapers?"

  "Better let the sarge explain, sir. But I don't think there'; anything to worry about right now."

  Stafford bounced in, a relieved smile on his face. "It’s getting dark, sir. No sign of the work details or their guards They probably saw the smoke and put two and two together. I've got everyone set to pull out. There are a couple high-clearance pickups we can use. I put Alpin in one. Big Jeff volunteered to drive it.. We could get you out in the other. Holloway's good behind a wheel."

  Valentine stood up, the dizziness fading. "No ambulance required, Staff. Anyone else hurt?"

  "Not a one, sir."

  "The Hoods?"

  "Only one made it out of the house, the one that jumped over the roof. He was on fire, took off like a scalded cat We chased him down, but the light was fading. Looked like he fell over—his robe was still burning. We put about twenty rounds into it and threw a couple of grenades Turned out it was just his robe. He must have dropped it and scuttled off flat-assed. My guess is he probably can's see—he plowed right into the wire and had to claw through it. We shouldn't have to worry about him."

  Valentine thought for a moment. "What about the dependents?"

  "That's your decision, sir. We're feeding those poor bastards that were tied up outside the house. They're in pretty poor shape. Some of the women were asking me, but 1 played dumb. Gave them the keys to the storeroom, though, They're emptying it now."

  "Okay, I'll talk to them. We're going to head for the Pensacola Dam. Put the prisoners in one of the pickups, and find a driver. I'm putting you in charge of the vehicles. Make sure you got food, water, and fuel, spare tires if you can find'em. Drive slowly with your lights off; you'll make it. Cross country where you can, especially after the old expressway."

  "Beats walking, sir."

  "Get rolling before the Territorials can organize themselves."

  Stafford nodded and started calling men to him. Valentine turned to a level-eyed NCO with a single stripe on his tunic. "Corporal Yamashiro, you're in charge of getting the men ready for a march. Pass out the weapons to the Oklahomans. Wreck any machinery except the two pickups. Were there any more Territorial prisoners?"

  Yamashiro coughed meaningfully. "We found two more in uniform hiding in the garage, sir. They say they're just mechanics."

  "I'll let the women decide what to do with them. We'll give them guns—they're welcome to shoot them."

  "Yes, sir."

  Valentine offered his hand. "Good luck, Staff. See you at the dam."

  Stafford shook it, his face grave.

  Night crept over the compound, the ramshackle barracks now illuminated by a bonfire of the flaming wreckage of the house. Valentine watched preparations on the two pickup trucks for a moment. Both trucks seemed well maintained, with heavy-duty tires and plenty of ground clearance. He nodded to Big Jeff, who was already behind the wheel of one and gunning the engine, listening to its harsh roar like a concerned doctor with a wheezy patient.

  Valentine walked over to the barracks, where Wolves were handing out weapons. A grizzled oldster selected a rifle and pocketed two boxes of ammunition. He examined the sights, opened the receiver, and peered down the barrel. The man knew weapons. Valentine caught his eye and beckoned him over.

  "Sorry we can't do more for you folks just now, sir. We have to move fast," Valentine explained.

  The man worked the action on the rifle. "Don't give it another thought, feller. Best thing to happen around here in years, you taking a poke at the bastards."

  "What are you and the others going to do?"

  "Well, that ain't been decided yet. Most will sit tight — the women want their men around. Even if something bad happens, they want it to happen to them together. I expect them Territorials'll move back in. A couple of the younger ones have already run for it, heading for your parts east, I expect."

  "And that rifle in your hands?"

  "I'm sixty-six. I just do odd jobs around the camp. I could feel my time coming. In fact, I bet I was on the menu for them Skulls you burnt out, if'n they were to hang around much longer. I've got a little spot picked out in the old junk pile back of the garage. Real nice view from there of the whole place. There's a certain sergeant in the Territorials stationed here. I'm hoping for a chance to get him in the sights of this here repeater. And one or two others after him, mebbe. I gotta thank you, Lieutenant. It'll be a good death. I'll go now with the biggest damn smile."

  Valentine opened his mouth to argue, but read something in the hard set of the wrinkles around the man's eyes that closed off debate.

  "Right." Valentine groped for words. It seemed inappropriate to wish him luck. "Shoot straight."

  "Don't worry on my account, sonny." With a nod, the man slung his rifle, picked up a shotgun, and moved off into the shadows of the open garage, whistling. Valentine heard the tune long after the figure disappeared.

  A woman tugged at his sleeve. "Sir, sir!" she implored.

  Valentine turned.

  She thrust a diapered baby into his arms, cocooned in a plaid blanket. "His name's Ryan. Ryan Werth. He's only eleven months. Just mash any old thing up real good, and he'll eat it," she said, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Valentine
tried to give the baby back to her. "Sorry, ma'am ... but..."

  The woman refused to take back the child. She put her palms over her eyes and fled into the crowd.

  "Mrs. Werth! Mrs. Werth, I'm sorry, but we can't do this," Valentine called, going after her. He looked down at the baby, which was now squalling lustily. He could understand the mother's motives. The Kurians might do anything in the camp as a reprisal if they thought the inhabitants had cooperated.

  He looked around for someone, anyone in the camp to hand the baby to, but they'd disappeared. He couldn't just set it down. Feeling more than a little ridiculous, Valentine returned to the pickups, trying to comfort the child. Perhaps Stafford had room for a bawling baby.

  "Lieutenant Valentine, sir?" A young Wolf named Poulos stepped forward, saluting smartly. Poulos was a thick-muscled, good-looking young man who tended to keep to himself. He was one of the few survivors of the old Foxtrot Company, and wasn't going out of his way to bond with the new recruits, or else he'd have been promoted by now. Valentine understood his reasons.

  "Yes, Poulos. What is it? I've got my hands rather full at the moment."

  Poulos smothered the beginnings of a smile. "Sir, I have to ask your permission to take a dependent with us. Corporal Holloway told me to ask you, sir." Poulos stepped aside to reveal a beautiful girl in her late teens, wrapped up in a long coat with a bag over her shoulder. "Sir, this is Linda Meyer. She wants to come with us. Her ma was one of the ones tied up behind the house. I'll feed her off my rations. She'll keep up, she's healthy, and she can run, sir."

  Valentine shook his head. "A girl already, Poulos? How many hours have we been here? I'd have thought with the Hoods afoot and the perimeter being secured, you'd have other things to do."

  "She was showing me where the Terris hid the supplies, and we started—"

  "Never mind the story. You know that's against regulations. Dangerous for her to be seen talking to us." Bad for discipline for soldiers to go sniffing around for companionship in the KZ, Valentine added to himself silently. Then there was the chance that she could be a plant. Two years ago, his first command in the KZ was almost destroyed by a boy leaving notes to the Reapers.