That was what she had learned at the Freedom First training facility near Custer, Montana, during the run-up to the assassination attempt on President Grace. The crime for which she had been arrested, tried, and sentenced to a federal penitentiary. Except that facility had been overrun by the stinks—causing the government to send her to Canon City, and then to the mine. So unlike the other inmates, even those convicted of murder, Susan was a trained killer. And that could make an important difference.
Taking Brewster out wouldn’t be easy, however; she knew that, and what felt like a lead weight was riding in the pit of her stomach as Cooper waited for her to step off the elevator. Susan was received quite differently now that she had been selected to serve as Brewster’s companion. There were no lewd comments, and no unnecessary physical contact, as Cooper rode the elevator down and Susan was subjected to a perfunctory search.
“Okay,” Pardo said, gesturing towards the tunnel. “It’s time to go to work.”
“Yeah,” Olson agreed. “We’re counting on you to keep the warden real happy!”
The guards were still chuckling as Susan walked the length of the passageway. She pushed one of the shower curtains aside and entered the cavern beyond. Brewster was seated at his desk, oiling the Colt .45. He put the pistol down on a rag next to a handful of gleaming bullets. “Not bad,” he said admiringly. “Not bad at all. And I hear the rescue was a success.”
Susan came to a stop in front of the desk. Her eyes took everything in. That included Brewster, the Colt, and each object on the desk. She spotted a variety of weapons to choose from besides the pistol. An ivory letter opener. A pair of scissors. Even the ruler had some potential. “Yes, sir,” Susan replied woodenly.
“ ‘Sir’ might be a bit too formal,” Brewster said, as he stood. “I have a first name, you know. It’s Hiram.”
“Yes, sir. I mean Hiram.”
“That’s better,” Brewster said, as he circled the desk. “I like your style. No attitude, no games, no silliness.”
Susan turned to face him so that he couldn’t get between her and the desk. She forced herself to maintain eye contact with Brewster as he ran a knuckle down the curve of her cheek. She shivered. “Are you afraid of me?”
“Yes,” Susan answered honestly, as she turned a couple of degrees to the left.
“Good. If you do what I say, and behave yourself, life could be very comfortable.”
Susan knew that Brewster was going to kiss her, and as their lips met, she forced herself to kiss him back. She even went so far as to open her mouth for him as she completed the half-turn and felt his hands begin to explore her body. The desk was directly behind her now and at least two feet away.
Brewster was kissing Susan’s neck by then—and chuckled as he felt her fingers fumble with his belt buckle. “You are a hot little minx! No messing about! I like that.”
And he was telling the truth, which became quite apparent as Susan pushed his pants down and cupped his genitals. “I want to do something special for you,” she whispered huskily. “Are you ready?”
Brewster grinned. “I was born ready!”
“Really?” Susan inquired sweetly, as she closed a callused hand around his testicles. “Let’s see if you’re ready for this.”
Brewster screamed, and his hands went to his groin as he fell over backwards. That was Susan’s cue to turn and snatch the Colt off the desk. First she had to thumb the loading gate open. Then she had to insert the cartridges while rotating the cylinder. But it was child’s play, really, since she had been taught to fire her father’s .45 at age fourteen, and mastered the weapon shortly thereafter.
Meanwhile, Susan could hear Brewster swearing as he battled to regain his feet and hoist his pants up. Did she have time to load four of the six chambers? Or only three? It was a life-and-death decision. Because Brewster was a lot bigger and stronger than she was. And if he got his hands on her, the fight would be over very quickly indeed.
Susan chose to close the gate after inserting three rounds. She turned just in time. Brewster shouted something incoherent and charged. Susan squeezed the trigger and heard an impotent click as the hammer fell on an empty chamber. It was a single-action revolver. So before she could fire the weapon a second time she had to pull the hammer back again. Was there enough time? Or was she about to die?
Brewster was only inches away when the pistol went off. The lead slug punched a hole through his intestines and blew a bloody divot out of his back. He swayed drunkenly, looked down at his belly, and was still trying to inspect the damage when he keeled over backwards.
Susan brought the Colt up and was holding it with both hands as Pardo and Olson charged into the cavern. The men were heavily armed and with only two bullets left, each shot would have to count. Pardo took a slug in the chest, stumbled, and took a nosedive.
Olson fired, missed, and paid the price when a well-aimed bullet smashed through his forehead. His boots left the floor, and he seemed to float briefly, before landing with arms spread. Dust exploded up out of the carpet.
Susan stood there for a moment as gun smoke swirled around her head. Then, conscious of how vulnerable she was, she circled around behind the desk. Less than a minute later, the pistol was reloaded and ready in her hand as she crossed the room to where the green Hudson’s Bay blanket hung.
After slipping through the doorway, she followed a short tunnel to a wooden ladder. A patch of gray sky was visible above. Brewster had been careful to provide himself with a back door and Susan planned to use it. But not until she returned to the cavern and collected at least some of what she would need in order to survive outside.
She had just reentered the cave, and was about to visit the weapons rack, when Brewster uttered a heart-rending groan. “I’ll bet that smarts,” Susan said unsympathetically. Then she shot him in the head. “Have a nice trip to hell.”
CHAPTER FOUR
BAD COMPANY
Friday, September 25, 1953
The Badlands
The sky was blue, the highway was gray, and Capelli was running. With each stride, his sixty-pound pack parted company with his sweat-slicked back and hit him. He could just drop it, of course. But what then? How long would he last without food or backup ammo? Although that would be a moot point if the stinks caught up with him. At least a dozen of the creatures were closing in on them including a squad of Hybrids, a couple of Steelheads, and a hulking Ravager. None of which was of any concern to Rowdy, who was loping along at Capelli’s side with his mouth open and his tongue flapping in the breeze.
Capelli glanced back over his shoulder, only to see that Locke had lost even more ground. He knew it was just a matter of time before the stinks caught up with the businessman.
Capelli felt the ground start to rise as he passed a black Ford, a yellow Buick, and a work-worn John Deere tractor. The machine was hooked to a trailer that had been looted of everything except a rotting couch. But the combination of the incline and the presence of some abandoned vehicles gave Capelli an idea. A desperate one to be sure, but anything was better than letting the stinks gnaw on his bones, so he began to scan the cars ahead. Their batteries were dead, and had been for a long time, but maybe, just maybe, he could start one of the vehicles by compression. All he needed was a downhill slope, a key that had been left in the ignition, and tires that weren’t flat. And some gas. Enough to get them five miles down the highway.
Laughter echoed in his head. Sure, the voice said mockingly. That would be wonderful. By why stop there? How ’bout a VTOL, complete with a beautiful stewardess, and a well-stocked bar?
Capelli wasn’t about to be baited. The top of the rise was just ahead. The pack slapped him on the back as he ran, his lungs were on fire, and his feet felt as if they were made of lead. Then, just when it seemed as if the torture would never end, he was there. The burgundy Oldsmobile was riddled with holes, and bones spilled out onto the highway when he opened the door. They rattled as they hit the ground.
A skull
grinned at Capelli from the passenger seat as he eyed the floor and saw two pedals. No clutch, so the 88 had an automatic transmission. And Capelli knew it was damned near impossible to push-start one of those, so he slammed the door and looked back.
Locke was struggling. What had been a clumsy running motion had deteriorated into an awkward shamble. And farther back, partially concealed by the shimmering heat, the Chimera could be seen. And if they were tired, there was no evidence of it.
Capelli swore, turned back towards the top of the rise, and forced himself to run. He passed a truck, but it was blackened by fire. The first vehicle on the reverse side of the slope was sitting atop three good tires, but the fourth was flat. It wasn’t perfect, but it was worth investigating.
Capelli uttered a silent prayer as he approached the 1949 Nash Airflyte and opened the door. What he saw was sufficient to elicit a whoop of joy. The Nash had a stick shift! But his spirits fell when he realized that the ignition key was missing.
Then Capelli remembered that the trunk had been left open. A quick inspection revealed that a set of keys was dangling from the trunk lock. And while everything else was gone, the spare was right where it was supposed to be. As was a jack.
“What-you-got?” Locke inquired as he coasted to a stop and stood with chest heaving.
“A way to outrun the stinks,” Capelli answered, dumping his pack onto the ground. “How are you at changing tires?”
“I was a car dealer, remember?” Locke replied, as he shrugged his pack off.
“Good. Put the spare on as quickly as you can. Then, when the car is ready to roll, give me a holler. We’ll start it on compression.”
Locke pulled the jack out of the trunk and turned to meet Capelli’s gaze. “What if this baby is out of gas?”
“Then all of our troubles will be over,” Capelli predicted grimly.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to slow ’em down,” Capelli answered. “Or try to. Don’t forget to throw our packs into the car. Rowdy. Stay.” Then he was gone.
Rather than go over the rise, and lose visual contact with Locke, Capelli knelt next to the burned-out truck’s half-melted rear tires. As he brought the rifle to bear on the Chimera, he was shocked to see how much closer the aliens were. But that put them within range, which meant an opportunity to slow them down.
Capelli panned from left to right as a variety of heads bobbed up and down within the circle of his telescopic sight. But the one he wanted most towered above all the rest. Because if he could nail the largest and most powerful stink, it would not only reduce the overall threat but cause the lesser forms to advance more slowly.
But he had to bag the monster with a single head shot. Because if he didn’t, the Ravager would activate a shield so powerful his rifle wouldn’t be able to punch through it. And that would submarine his plan.
The stinks were at the bottom of the slope. It took all the nerve Capelli could muster to focus on the Ravager and capture the rhythm of the creature’s movements. Up-down, up-down, up-blam!
Capelli felt the rifle kick his shoulder, saw the spray of blood, and had the satisfaction of seeing the Chimera fall. The rest of the stinks immediately went to ground in the wake of the Ravager’s death. And that was just fine, since it meant they were stationary for the moment.
Capelli turned to look back over his shoulder and saw that Locke had removed the flat and was about to mount the spare. Rowdy was lifting a leg over one of the good tires. The whole thing was going to be close. Very close.
The truck shook as a blast from an Auger ripped through it and a hail of Bullseye projectiles pinged all around. Capelli knew the Chimera could “see” his heat signature, and was forced to back away, in hopes that the top of the rise would offer additional cover. That was dangerous, of course, because the moment he stopped firing, the stinks would advance.
Rather than allow the aliens to climb the slope unopposed, Capelli took the opportunity to switch from the Marksman’s primary to secondary firing mode. He felt the recoil and heard the report as a semiautonomous Drone took off and cruised downslope.
It was only a matter of seconds before the airborne turret “sensed” the presence of living targets and opened fire. There was quite a commotion as Hybrids fell, the Drone took fire from below, and Locke yelled, “Hey, Capelli! It’s ready.”
Capelli turned and ran as lethal Auger bolts flashed through dirt and thick concrete before stuttering off into the distance. The spare was on, the jack was lying where Locke had left it, and the big man had the driver’s-side door open so he could push and steer at the same time. “Come on!” he shouted. “Let’s get out of here.”
Capelli slipped the sling over his head and let the Marksman hang across his back as he caught up with the Nash from behind. With both men pushing as hard as they could, the bathtub-shaped sedan began to roll. Slowly at first, due to its considerable weight, but faster as it gained momentum.
When Locke thought the speed was sufficient he jumped behind the wheel. The transmission was in neutral. So he put the clutch in and pulled the shifter down into first gear. The Nash jerked as he lifted his foot, but nothing happened. So Capelli continued to push.
Was the car out of gas? It was starting to look that way as the sedan gathered speed once again and Locke popped the clutch for the second time. This time there was a loud bang when the engine backfired, coughed, and finally caught.
Locke gunned it as Capelli ran to catch up, pulled the back door open, and dived inside. The rear window exploded and showered the men with safety glass as the surviving stinks topped the rise and opened fire.
But the engine had steadied by then, Locke had up-shifted into second gear, and the sedan was gaining speed. Thirty seconds later they were out of range—and the stinks were dwindling in the rearview mirror. The race had been won. But for how long?
Capelli worked his way out of the sling, pulled himself forward so he could look over the other man’s shoulder, and eyed the gas gauge. It appeared that they had a little less than a quarter of a tank to work with. “Not bad, huh?” Locke remarked cheerfully, as the needle on the speedometer continued to climb. “I’m a Ford man myself! But I have to admit that this thing is roomy.”
Rowdy was sitting in the front passenger seat with his head out the window and tongue flapping as Capelli allowed himself to fall back into the seat. The last few hours had been exhausting, and now as the shadows began to lengthen, he was tired. The engine hummed, the slipstream roared, and miles melted away. The situation wasn’t perfect. Nothing ever was. But right then, in that moment, Capelli was happy.
East of Goodland, Kansas
Capelli and Locke were standing at a crossroads about half a mile off the highway when the first drops of rain fell. There was a gas station, a general store, and a forlorn-looking post office. None of the buildings appeared to be occupied. The sky was increasingly dark, the occasional bolt of lightning could be seen to the north, and the threesome had been looking for a place to hole up when they happened across the dead body. Rowdy, for reasons known only to him, was busy barking at it. Capelli told Rowdy to shut up, and he did.
Two days had passed since the Nash had run out of gas, thereby forcing them to abandon it. They had been walking ever since, and the trip had been wonderfully uneventful until now.
Locke stepped forward to inspect the corpse. It was roped to a telephone pole. He grabbed a handful of greasy hair and jerked the man’s head up. Lightning strobed, a loud crack was heard, and Capelli saw that the man’s face was badly swollen. It appeared as though he had been beaten to death. That was too bad, but dead is dead, and there was nothing they could do about it. “Come on. It isn’t safe out here. We need some cover.”
That was when the rain fell harder, hitting the man’s face and reviving him. His eyes popped open.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Locke remarked. “The sonofabitch is alive.”
“Cut him loose,” Capelli instructed, as another bo
lt of lightning zigzagged across the sky. It was closer now and the bang came quickly. “Let’s try the post office. Maybe we can take shelter there.”
By sandwiching the man between them, and half-carrying, half-dragging him across the empty street, Capelli and Locke were able to help him into the post office. Like everything else in the state of Kansas, it had been looted.
Locke lowered the man onto the floor as Capelli activated the light on his shotgun. He knew from experience that the building could be home to just about anything. That included pods, Grims, and Leapers. So it was necessary to check the place out before taking up residence. As Capelli’s light played across the floor he saw dozens of unopened envelopes, many of which were stamped with dirty boot prints. Rowdy’s claws made clicking noises as he nosed along, pausing only to sniff an oak bench, before continuing his investigation.
Capelli figured the walls were pretty much as they had been before the area was overrun. A red, white, and blue Uncle Sam stared out at him from a recruiting poster. The old man’s gaunt-looking face was stern and his right index finger was pointed at Capelli’s chest. “Uncle Sam needs you!” the caption read.
Uncle Sam kicked your ass out of the Army, the voice put in. And for good reason.
Laughter that only Capelli could hear followed him through a door and into the postmaster’s office. There was a counter that faced out onto the main room, plus shutters that could be closed in order to seal the space off from the public area beyond. A potbellied stove occupied a corner and the south wall consisted of nothing but niches, many of which contained undelivered letters.
It was 2:36 according to the clock mounted on the back wall. The timepiece was flanked by Wanted posters on one side and copies of postal regulations on the other. All of them were held in place by red thumbtacks.
Then, turning back to face the door, Capelli saw that most of the north wall was taken up by a glass-covered American flag. It had been punctured more than once and, according to the plaque below, had been carried into the battle of Seicheprey in 1918 by local troops.
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