There was too much open territory and too much chaos. The roads couldn’t be kept completely safe against clever and determined foes.
Then, at Ironwood and Jefferson, David spotted a large group of enemies already holding that key intersection. Dead defenders littered the street, and a huge gozog in armor, ten feet tall, commanded the center with a guard of several huge mor-kahls, dozens of ka-torgs, and about a hundred torgs, half of them archers.
“Take that intersection!” David shouted. “Archers, pour it at them! Let up when we charge in. Spears and lances to the front. Rip through them! Swords and hand weapons follow on and cut them down. Everyone focus on those big bastards. Fill their guts full of steel!”
The militia shouted.
David helped lead the first massed bicycle attack in human history. They used the speed of the bikes to add to the ferocity of their attack. David and the spears went in first, even while the other archers peppered the intersection with one last volley of missile fire.
But the enemy lifted their shields and held tough, even though some of them went down.
They all knew how important that intersection was. The monster sortie made a determined stand there.
The spears broke through the front line and blasted through the torgs and ka-torgs in their way. They rammed into the mor-kahls like hitting a brick wall. Fierce hand-to-hand fighting with the big armored monsters erupted.
Three of the huge creatures went down, but the others struck havoc among the militia, snapping off spears, flinging bikes and riders forty feet away to either side.
The intersection choked with mangled dead and wounded.
“Fling your bikes to either side and charge in!” David said. That’s what he did, his spear already lost in a mor-kahl chest. He rushed in from the left, switching his longsword into his left hand and drawing a tomahawk from his belt.
It whizzed through the air from his hand and smacked another one of the seven-foot-plus mor-kahls square in the face. The thing roared in agony and fell back, its broad face split open.
He switched his sword back, drew his second tomahawk in his left hand, and charged with the other heavily armored militia fighters who rushed in on either side of him.
They fought together in a chaotic mass of shifting friends and foes.
David cut down three torgs, and bashed a charging ka-torg in the face with his tomahawk.
David swung his sword in fierce, whirling arcs, chopping and bashing with his ’hawk. He and the other fighters buzzed through the horde of lesser monsters hurled against them.
Black blood exploded and gushed in torrents. Severed parts of monsters flew in several directions. David used every ounce of skill he possessed, and slew the foe by instinct, cutting through them two and three at a time with each stroke. He killed in his very own Zen-like flow of battle without thought–without hesitation or mercy.
A sharp pain suddenly stabbed him in the back of his right leg. He whirled, and saw no foes. But he reached back and yanked out a human target arrow from the outer flesh of his calf.
“Sorry, man!” an embarrassed militia archer shouted.
Great. Some unstoppable hero he was–shot by his own people from behind. The wound was annoying, but not serious.
The big armored gozog up ahead wielded a massive tree club and a big sledgehammer. Nobody could get near him. The enemy rallied around him and surged forward. He smashed humans to mush left and right and flung their mashed bodies aside.
“Take them down!” David yelled. The militia around him roared into battle. Fresh troops charged up from behind.
By then archers pincushioned the gozog with arrows and crossbow bolts. But the creature was so big and well armored that none of the missiles struck a vital spot.
The missiles only served to piss him off.
Once more, the fat, giant pincushion swatted militia troops every which way, roaring and screaming.
A half-dozen troops, men and women with swords and axes, dragged down one of the mor-kahls and cut it to pieces, even while it raged and struck at them. David saw his opening and leaped forward. He sprang on top of another mor-kahl’s broad, thorny back as it reared up. Many weapons pierced the creature, finally killing it.
David used the force of the thrashing monster’s fall to propel himself forward. It fell back and flung him through the air right at the gozog. He rammed his longsword up to the hilt under the stinking thing’s boiled leather armor and full into its chest.
Boy, did that thing smell.
The gozog ducked and tried to brush him off with its massive club, even as it dropped back. David twisted his blade in the monster’s chest and rode the huge creature down. It smashed into the ground and dropped its hammer. With his tomahawk and his long fighting dagger David chopped and stabbed repeatedly at the monster’s face, neck, and throat.
That big bastard was going down, no matter what.
A spurt of black blood gushed from the gozog’s throat like a geyser, coating David. The creature roared and shuddered. Humans boiled over it, stabbing and cutting it with their weapons.
With a final heave, it rolled to one side and swatted David into the darkness with a massive hand. A blow like a brick wall slammed into him. He soared through the darkness and crashed into the branches of a tree.
He toppled to the ground with a cold splash, momentarily stunned and winded. He rolled onto his back and lay gasping and alone in a small, frigid pool of glowing water in the tall grass.
Then the water flashed blue-violet, glowing even more intensely all around him.
Oh crap. Not one of those damn pools.
David felt his spirit wrenched free from his body. He tried to gasp, but he couldn’t breathe. Completely weightless, he floated above his stricken body, still lying in the pool below.
What the hell happened? Was he dead?
18
Mason and Blondie ate a quick, cold breakfast and made ready to travel within the second hour after dawn. They intentionally brought a lot of rations with them so that they would not need to bother cooking.
Once or twice each day, they would also canter their horses in the fields on good terrain and even make them run for a spell. They didn’t just walk and mosey down the trail. Good horses such as theirs needed exercise, and were glad to get it.
If they got into trouble, which Mason guessed was only a matter of time, having their mounts in good shape might mean the difference between life and death for them all.
But there always seemed to be more refugees on the road. They came in waves of human misery, drifting in one direction or another. There was no avoiding them.
At least, in a grim way, it was better to see living refugees rather than dead bodies all over the place.
Mason put on a baseball cap instead of his outlaw hat. “If I don’t wear the Pistolero hat and keep my guns out of sight, maybe we won’t get hassled so much.”
Blondie grinned, putting aside his cavalry hat and tucking his long hair under a red bandana. “I don’t know, Mace. Our outlaw look also keeps people from messing with us. Our horses and saddles are suddenly going to be worth a lot these days. Some folks might just decide to try to take them from us, if they think we’re just a couple of regular guys.”
Mason grinned. “Then they will quickly learn the error of their ways. We still have your saber at your side and your crossbow on your back to discourage petty thugs and horse thieves. I have a short sword…somewhere that I can sling on my saddle. That’s enough of a display. I just don’t want to get stoned again or have people throwing garbage at us.”
“It’s up to you, Mace. I’ll follow your lead.”
“Let’s try this for now.” He concealed his Pistolero hat away with his gear on the pack horse. “This way, we can travel incognito and gather some news from the refugees.”
Another good thing that made horses better than bikes was that they could go cross country a lot easier at any time, when the roads were cut off by the weird new patches of forest.
They learned right away that rumors quickly multiplied and exploded on the open road. They heard everything possible, from South Bend wasn’t attacked at all to the city was completely destroyed, all of the survivors were fleeing, and the monsters had taken control of everything.
Mason and Blondie guessed that the actual truth was probably somewhere in between those two extremes. And as they got more than a day or two away, who knew what else they would hear?
But it did appear that the refugees continued to steadily move away from South Bend, and into Mishawaka, Osceola, and toward Elkhart. They had yet to meet any refugees coming from Elkhart, but they didn’t know yet if that was a good or a bad sign. Yet it was strange.
At least wearing the baseball hat worked, more or less. No one called them out. Although some people still gave them dirty looks. Blondie kept wearing his bandana, and then a straw hat he traded for, to avoid sunburn. Mason introduced him to sunblock.
Blondie was right about one thing. Their horses did attract a lot of attention. They had numerous offers to buy them–even with gold coins–but they wisely refused. Whenever anyone dangerous started to follow them, that was when they decided to exercise their horses and go off on their own for a while.
Most people were too scared to leave the relative safety of the roads and the crowds.
It was just after they had ridden off into the woods that the refugees behind them were waylaid by a large team of bandits who swooped in.
The banditos were about fifty or sixty in number from what could be seen through binoculars. They rode horses and bicycles, and had even acquired what looked to be a couple of Amish-style buggies and wagons, some with obvious bloodstains still smeared on them. Many of the horses looked badly cared for, even from a distance.
The bandits stolen them, but weren’t used to caring for horses. Not everyone was.
Suddenly Mason felt guilty for being more angry about the way these goons treated their horses than what they were about to do to the refugees.
Mason spotted lots of bows and crossbows, swords, spears, axes, and knives. These bandits were well-armed and making a definite show of force to intimidate the refugees. The leaders even seemed to have crossbow pistols. They encircled the batch of refugees from all directions and hemmed them in. A couple of hundred refugees in all.
The bandit leaders shouted over megaphones they must have made out of what looked like bright orange traffic cones with the bases sliced off.
“Don’t resist or we’ll kill you,” one of the leaders warned the civilians. “Now, listen up and listen good. We are going to take whatever the hell we want. Anyone who protests is going to take a beating. Anyone who hurts one of us is going to die. Don’t provoke us, and we’ll be on our way soon enough.”
The bandit archers and crossbowmen formed a gauntlet for the people to pass through, keeping their weapons trained on everyone.
Other bandits lined the gauntlet with sacks and plastic tubs. They quickly searched and stripped the refugees of any weapons or food or drink that they had on them–anything the bandits wanted to take.
Not only that–they separated three teen-to college age-girls–all of them very attractive. They tied their hands, and blindfolded, and gagged them, despite the women crying and screaming. There were a few females among the bandits, but most of them looked to be male, and eyed the three women with obvious bad intent.
The few people who tried to protest the women being taken were quickly beaten down, kicked, and clubbed into submission, as promised. The bandits left them bleeding in the road.
A few people tried to break loose and flee during the commotion, but archers cut most of them down and left them dead or screaming. Only one person, a young terrified girl, managed to get away out of range, fleeing into the trees. Some of the bandits retrieved their arrows, even from those hit by them. And they weren’t gentle about doing so.
Mason retrieved his Pistolero hat, but kept it hidden for the moment. “We gotta put a stop to this,” he said.
“Think about this,” Blondie told him. “There’s nearly threescore of them and they’re too spread out. That’s too many, even for you. A couple of lucky arrows hits on their part and we’re both dead.”
“Both of us know what they’re going to do to those three young women. That’s enough reason by itself.”
“Is it worth dying for, Mace? Are you prepared to kill every one of them?”
A thought occurred to him. Any one of those girls could have been Tori.
Mason nodded. “If need be. I’m making this my fight. Trust me. They’re a bunch of newly minted thugs, robbers, and killers, preying on the weak and the helpless. Only a few of them have any guts. The rest are followers and gutless cowards.”
“You’re hoping that’s the case. They could be hardened criminals already, for all we know. None of this makes them cowards or weaklings, and there are still nearly sixty of them.”
“Either way, let’s see if we can throw a scare into them. If we do this right, we can run them off. We might not need to fight them at all.”
“Yes, I’m sure all will be well, despite the fact that we could slip away right now or just wait for them to finish up their business and leave. What are any of these people to us? I thought you wanted to get to Elkhart so badly and find Tori?”
“I do, but if I can put a stop to this, I feel obligated to try. That’s who I am now, my friend. Mount up if you’re with me, or stay behind and watch.”
Blondie scowled, climbing up on Patton and readying his weapons. “All right, Mace. I’m with you, damn it.”
“Good. Thanks. Follow my lead. We’ll try to fool them first with an offer to trade–just to get in close.”
Mason was getting much better at managing his fear. Being angry helped a lot. Pissed off was even better. The trick seemed to be to make the energy of your emotions work for you, not against you.
Together, the two of them got back on the road and started cantering straight toward the bandit leaders at the head of the line.
Mason called out boldly. “Who’s your leader? Get him up here. Wahoo! Boy, have we got some deals for you!”
A pocket of goons pulled closer and shuffled nervously toward the incoming riders. But from what the bandits could see, it was only two riders. One had baseball cap on, and the other a straw hat. The bandits appeared a bit startled at first, but none too worried, overall.
Two of the thugs stepped out a bit further in front of the lead wagons. They appeared to be the biggest and the baddest thugs of the bunch.
Mason guessed, from the looks on their faces, that their curiosity had gotten the better of them.
Several bandit archers still turned and waited with arrows on the string, while their friends behind them kept processing the refugees without stopping.
Mason and Blondie both smiled, grinning and waving. “We’ve come to trade. We’ve got treasures to barter with. Something you folks can’t live without these days.”
The tallest of the two was in his late thirties, with black whiskers and eyes, and a broken nose. He smelled like booze, even in the morning. “And what would that be?” he snarled. “This better not be a trick, you punks. What could you possibly have that we couldn’t live without?”
The second man was shorter, but broader, almost forty, with slightly graying hair. He finally spoke up. Neither of them smiled. “I see three more horses and gear we could sure use.”
Mason kept grinning and nodding as he dismounted and waved them both back toward the pack horse, continuing to distract them. “Just wait until we show you what we’ve got.”
He could tell by their faces that they had taken the bait, and focused eagerly on the gear on the pack horse.
“Excuse me while I put my trading hat on,” Mason said. He hung his ball cap on one of the pack carriers, and then pulled his Pistolero hat out and popped it on.
“What is this?” Tallboy said.
“What are you selling?” Stocky added.
Quick as
vipers, Mason’s hands flashed full of steel.
He jammed his pistols right into their faces before they could catch their breath and held the bandit leaders off.
His hammers were cocked.
“Life insurance,” Mason said. “I’m selling life insurance–against death. Order your goons off, clear out right now, and no one has to die–especially you two right off.”
Both men swallowed hard.
“Both of you are dead,” Tallboy muttered. He had a wild look in his eyes.
Stocky looked cold. “You’re bluffing. Everyone knows guns don’t work.”
Mason smiled and shoved the barrels in their faces. “Is that a fact? Well, mine still do. In fact, they work better than ever. Perhaps you’ve heard tell of me? Maybe you recognize my faithful compadre, Blondie. Wave to the not-nice men, Blondie.”
They glanced over with their eyes.
Blondie had his straw hat on his back. He took his bandanna off and shook his long blond hair loose like a shampoo model. “Hey.”
Tallboy still didn’t believe. “You’re full of–”
Mason looked him in the eyes and snapped off a quick shot, mowing down a swath of the dark trees in a wide blast of exploding flames without even looking.
That got everyone’s instant attention. Everybody flinched.
Quick as winking, Mason recocked and brought his hot, smoking pistol barrel back in front of Tallboy’s face.
Both bandits turned even paler and their eyes got very wide. They continued to swallow hard as if their throats were dry.
“Just think of what they’ll do to your heads if my trigger fingers slip–everything from your chest up will just vanish in a flash. Gone. Just like that. What’s left of you will flop and twitch in the mud like a bloody fish.”
“It’s the Pistolero!” Stocky shouted for all to hear, including the other bandits. “Nobody try anything!”
Blondie sat on his horse and yawned. No one else dared to move.
“That’s right. I’m the Pistolero,” Mason yelled. “Nobody get crazy, or you can all start dying, real fast. I’ll cut you all down–I don’t give a damn. You’ve heard and seen what my guns can do. You don’t want to experience them firsthand.”
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