Yankee Slugger cab had disappeared.
He was half way up the ladder when he heard somebody shout, “Who’s out there? This is private property! I got a gun and I’ll use it, pod-nuh. I’m comin’ out there.” The voice was raw, raspy, and vaguely familiar. The smoker upstairs? The red-eye? Most likely.
He was coming through the open field along the side of the building. He had a light too, a powerful beam that was sweeping the ground in front of him in great looping arcs. In about two seconds he was going to figure out somebody must be in the junkyard.
Homer was about to shout, “Police! Drop your weapon!” but he was in an awkward position hanging on the ladder and besides he had the feeling this guy was the type to shoot first and ask questions later. Or, not ask any questions, ever. Just bury the evidence out here in the yard.
He could jump down and confront the guy but something told him that was a really bad idea. No. Homer had nowhere to go but up. He stuck his boot in the bottom rung, reached for the highest rung he could, and quickly pulled himself up. He got to the top of the ladder just before the light caught him.
“Stop! Hold it right there! You move and you’re dead.”
Homer swiveled his head around but all he could see was the blinding white light.
“I ain’t moving. I’m the law. Put your weapon down.”
There was a loud pop and a round whistled past Homer’s ear.
“The next one doesn’t miss,” the man’s scratchy voice said. “Throw down that gun and we’ll have us a little talk about what happens to trespassers here in Gunbarrel.”
Homer put his right hand to his sidearm. He wished he could see the man’s face. Judge his intent.
The next round caught him in the upper left arm and almost spun him right off the ladder. It felt like somebody had slugged him hard as they could with a two-by-four, but he managed to keep his footing and hold the ladder tight with his right hand as he climbed the last rung. He could remain on the ladder and wait for the next bullet. He could leap to the ground but he couldn’t outrun that beam of light.
He knew he had to go up, up and over. Inside the truck. Now, while he still could.
In that split second, up on the top rung, he saw why there had been so much moonlight streaming down inside the trailer. The top had rusted almost completely away. And shoot, the truck bed was halfway full up to the top with something. Kind of whitish blue in the starlight, the stuff looked like a load of dried out timber and rocks. Sticks and stones, maybe.
Another bullet whistled a hot tune over his head.
He pitched forward and fell inside.
He landed on top of the pile of rattling baseball bats and tried to scramble to his feet. Except the truck wasn’t full of dried timber at all, Homer saw when he picked one up in his hand.
Hell no, it wasn’t sticks and stones.
It was bones.
43
MADRE DE DIOS, BRAZIL
C an it see us?” Saladin said from the bushes. Harry and Hassan were hiding, watching the battle robot’s steady approach across the bridge.
“God, I hope not. Stay the fuck down,” Harry said, trying to make himself invisible. “Stop moving around! It’s looking for movement!”
“I’m looking for Caparina, damn you,” Saladin said, reluctantly crouching down.
“Right. If she made it across and is still alive, we’ll get her out. How’s the leg?”
“Hurts like hell.”
“Bullets are painful things.”
The approaching Troll was nearing the end of the bridge. Having no targets, it had stopped firing. Harry studied the tall, hooded periscope camera, whipping back and forth, looking for something to kill. Something distinctly alien about this machine, Harry thought. Spooky. It reminded him of the creatures in War of the Worlds. The way they chased fleeing humans around the countryside.
“Let the damn tank roll right by us,” Harry said, “On the count of three, you run jump up on the rear.”
“That tank’s going the wrong way, Harry.”
“Trust me. Here it comes.”
The one-eyed Troll rumbled closer, ten feet away now.
“Wait until it goes by you, goddamnit! Ready? Okay, here we go. One…two…three! Go, go, go!”
Saladin took three or four long strides, grabbed one of the grab-rails, and scrambled aboard.
“You have a plan, Harry?” Saladin said.
“Let me get out in front of the bastard, okay? Let the evil eye see me. Good peripheral vision on this little shit. As soon as the camera starts to swivel, and lock on me, cup your hand over the lens.”
“We’re going the wrong way,” Saladin reminded Harry as he ran along beside the tank. The thing was still moving at five miles an hour, in search mode, so it was easy for him to keep up the pace. Dodging plant life was the tough part.
“We’ll improvise,” Harry said, grinning.
“Meaning?”
“I think it’ll stop when it can’t see,” Harry said, not even breathing hard, pulling dead even with Saladin.
“What makes you think that?”
“What else is it going to do?”
“Good point.”
“Why are you whispering?”
“What if it can hear us?”
“Little late for that thought, buddy!”
Harry was pretty sure whoever was controlling this thing back at the ranch couldn’t hear what was going on aboard the tank or anywhere else. The technology was advanced, but not that advanced. Harry figured, if the thing could hear? They’d be dead.
He gave Saladin the thumbs-up, then sprinted out ahead. On the tank, Saladin got ready. He pulled himself up and forward enough to be able to reach up and cover the lens with his hand.
“Ready?” Harry said, over his shoulder. He was way out in front now, weaving back and forth on the muddy trail.
“Okay,” Saladin shouted, hand poised near the lens. “I’m ready to do this if you are.”
Harry checked up suddenly on the right side of the trail. Both men waited for the lens to start its slow arc back towards where he waited.
The guns started spitting lead about a half-second before the lens got to him. Good information, Harry thought. It meant the fish-eye lens had even wider peripheral vision than Harry thought. Helpful to know.
The firing continued, but Harry had already ducked and started moving in a right-to-left direction as the lens and synchronized guns swept over and past him moving left to right. Bullets were chewing up the thick vegetation on the right, turning it to smoking shreds. Harry dove into the underbrush on the opposite side of the trail just as Saladin wrapped a big hand around the lens, temporarily blinding the robot.
The twin guns ceased fire immediately, just as Harry had anticipated or at least prayed they would. But the tank kept creeping ahead.
“It’s not going to stop, Harry,” Saladin said as the Troll rumbled past Brock. He was getting to his feet and smiling.
He said, “It will.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Should stop any second.”
“Yes, well—”
The robot suddenly ground to a halt, forward progress causing it to slip and slide, the treads smothered in
