We’re leaving the highway. We could throw the bad tread and that would be the end of us.
Yes.
“Have you ever fought from a horse?” asked the Old Man.
The Boy looked away across the grassy plains.
If only his friend, Horse, would appear now. They might ride once more, one last time together, into battle.
“I have,” he said. But his words were lost beneath the spooling turbine of the terrible engine as the Old Man throttled up to power.
Madness.
“Poppa?” she said, worried.
“Just stay down and hang on. Everything will be all right.”
“Are you sure, Poppa?”
He nodded and tried to say something, but felt his dry throat constrict with dust.
I am in over my head, my friend. What do we do?
Sometimes you can do nothing other than hold the line and hope the fish will tire, my friend. That your strength will outlast his will to live.
The Old Man pivoted the tank and left the highway, descending down a ditch and into the tall grass of the plain.
What if he falls off?
He won’t, my friend.
The tank picked up speed as the ground leveled out, and the Boy hooked his arm with the manhole cover shield around the barrel and leaned back against the turret.
From midway up the conical hill, white puffs of smoke erupted almost in unison.
What is that?
You know the answer, my friend; you’re just not ready to accept it, but now you must.
I can almost see the cannon rounds moving through the air, between us and them, like the rumor of a shadow.
The ground between the tank and the hill sprang upward in a series of dirt fountains. Earth showered the charging tank, and a moment later they passed through the rising smoke of the impacts.
They have artillery.
Ahead, the slavers were breaking off into two groups. The whip wielders drove their prisoners forward, their whips arching high across the sky like dark strands of a girl’s hair dancing in the wind. Others on horseback turned to face the oncoming tank, drawing their weapons.
The Boy pushed himself away from the turret, his legs bending, as if he were riding the tank, his manhole cover shield rising to protect his chest and body. His powerful right arm began to draw the weight bar with the bowling ball at the tip in huge slow circles about his head.
The horsemen thundered straight on toward the tank.
The Old Man could see the sweat running down their grim, ash-covered faces. He could see broken teeth jutting up through their red gums as they began to shout and whoop.
Their horses frothed, eyes wide with terror.
The Boy leaned outward and far to the right, still swinging the great mace in a wide circle.
Spears jutted forward from some of the horsemen, while machetes danced wildly about the heads of others.
‘This is madness,’ thought the Old Man again.
A moment later, they met.
Six riders.
One went down beneath the tank.
Forget that sound. The sound that man and horse make when that happens. Never think of that sound again in all your life, my friend.
Yes, I won’t ever if I can help it.
And in the next moment, the Old Man forgot as the Boy lowered his powerful arm and swept the club past the Old Man’s head and straight into the chest of the nearest oncoming rider.
In one moment, the man changed direction from charging atop a terrified horse, to flying backward and alone, almost keeping pace with the tank for the merest second before he disappeared beneath the tread.
The Boy pivoted and watched the riders wheel their horses about.
They’ll catch us if I don’t go faster.
But the tread?
The Boy nodded toward the main body of prisoners, telling the Old Man to continue forward.
The ground all around and behind them exploded again as the Old Man looked up to see smoke drifting away from the mouths of the cannons that rested midway up the hill behind a low bric-a-brac wall.
Ahead, the slavers were throwing down their weapons and outrunning Ted’s people who also continued to run forward in terror.
Turning back to the Old Man as if to tell him something, the Boy suddenly raised his shield. A spear shattered against it, emitting a small metallic note.
The Boy climbed back to the Old Man and uttered a breathless, “Keep moving forward!”
The Old Man turned to see the riders closing up the distance on the tank’s sides. The Boy whirled his club quicker than the Old Man thought possible and brought it down onto the head of one of the nearest horsemen who crumpled instantly.
Ted’s people were huddled together now, bloody, screaming, crying, protecting each other. The Old Man swerved wide to completely avoid them.
Halfway up the conical hill, ashen-faced warriors waving spears and machetes surged out from behind the bric-a-brac wall.
Once more, the Old Man saw the cannons belch forth with their sudden puffs of white smoke.
Duck!
A moment later he felt a jarring impact slam into the side of the tank.
His granddaughter screamed.
“Poppa!”
The Old Man’s ears were ringing.
“It’s okay!” he yelled down into the dark. “Are you all right?”
Please don’t let this be a worse nightmare. Please don’t let this be the nightmare too terrible to imagine. The one in which she is hurt.
Can you let go?
Stop! I cannot because too much depends on me and I am not enough.
A shot had fallen amid the prisoners. Bloodied bodies were being dragged back within their huddle in the midst of the battlefield.
“I’m okay, Poppa.” But he could hear her fear.
We’ve got to protect those people.
But how?
And…
Where is the Boy?
I can’t see him!
The Old Man gunned the tank and pivoted hard, throwing up giant clods of dirt and torn grass.
Be careful of the tread!
There is too much to worry about.
The Old Man drove the tank between the prisoners and the cannon on the hill.
Leaning down, he beckoned Ted’s people toward the side of the tank.
“Get close to the sides, you’ll be safer here!” he yelled above the roar of the engine.
Where is the Boy?
“Poppa, what’s going on up there?”
