“There!” he exclaimed as a hole finally appeared in front of him. Peering through it, he saw no sign of the Steelhead, and judging from its last shot, Hale figured it was on the opposite side of the barn. “Tina, you first, then Mark.”
There was no need to tell the youngsters to hurry as the stack of hay collapsed, flames clawed at the walls, and the roof caught fire. The moment Mark disappeared Hale entered the hole, swore when one of his snowshoes got caught, and had to wrestle it loose.
Then they were free, as the entire barn was engulfed in flames. Thankfully, it was snowing again, which would help conceal their tracks, but Hale knew that wouldn’t prevent the Steelhead from following them. The Chimera was close,
So Hale ran, breaking a trail for the others as they passed along the west side of the house and crossed the parking area beyond. There was plenty of light, thanks to the brightly burning barn and the battle lamps, which were still in place. Hale rounded the propane tank and angled up the slope beyond. Once on top of the low-lying hill he shrugged his pack off and motioned for the others to get down.
Having positioned the pack for use as a gun rest, Hale laid the Fareye across it and lowered himself into place. With his eye to the scope, Hale waited for the Steelhead to appear and it didn’t take long. Less than thirty seconds later the hulking stink rounded the northwest corner of the house and began to follow the human tracks south. That was to be expected, but what Hale
So Hale settled on a plan, smiled grimly as the Chimera crossed the parking lot, and put the Fareye’s crosshairs on the very center of his target. Then, as the Steelhead passed the propane tank, Hale fired. The high- velocity armor-piercing bullet passed through the tank and caused a spark. That was sufficient to trigger a flash of light, a rising ball of flame, and a loud explosion.
There were no bodies to be seen in the wake of the massive blast, just a large circle of blackened ground, and a cloud of hot steam.
“That was awesome!” Mark said admiringly. “What’s next?”
“One helluva long walk,” Hale answered, as he stood up. “It’s time to put your snowshoes on.”
Ten minutes later the threesome were ready to hit the trail.
The barn’s roof had collapsed by then, sending thousands of glowing sparks up into the air. Some of them fell onto the house and set it on fire as well. Hale was standing there, watching his childhood home start to burn, when Tina took his free hand.
“I’m sorry,” she said simply. “But we’re still alive—and we have you to thank for that.”
Hale turned to look down at her solemn face. “Let’s get going.”
It was pitch black once they put the house and barn behind them, and like it or not Hale and his companions were forced to use their flashlights. Thanks to the thickly falling snow they weren’t likely to be seen unless they had the bad fortune to pass within fifty feet of their pursuers.
As they slogged along, Hale assessed what lay ahead, and how to deal with it. The most pressing problem was time, because if they hadn’t reached the LZ when Purvis put the
Then there was the bridge across the White River to consider. Even more stinks would be standing guard on the span, in the wake of the first attack, and given the time constraint, Hale couldn’t afford to try one of the bridges up- or downriver. So what to do?
Bit by bit a plan came to mind. A
Old Man Potter had been something of a recluse, especially after his wife’s death, which was when Hale had gotten to know him. Potter’s ten-acre spread lay just south of the Rocking F, and years earlier, while out riding his horse and searching for strays, an eighteen-year-old Nathan Hale had come across the old man lying unconscious at the bottom of a ravine, right next to the wreckage of the old Triumph motorcycle.
Potter had loved that bike.
Hale brought him around with water from his canteen, lifted him onto Blacky, and led the horse two miles east to Potter’s old farmhouse. The old man was more of a dreamer than a doer, always coming up with wild new business schemes, none of which bore fruit. His house was surrounded by the brooding remains of possibilities that had passed him by.
The collection included a rusting grader which was part of Potter Paving, a snow-shrouded drilling rig that had once been the pride and joy of the Potter Well Company, and a fifty-two-foot fishing boat the old man planned to haul cross-country to Seattle, where it would become the flagship of the Potter Fishing Company.
And the broken dreams were still there, sleeping under a blanket of snow, as Hale and his two companions approached the ramshackle house. It was growing lighter by then, the snowfall had slowed, and it felt significantly warmer. All bad signs insofar as they were concerned, but what was—
“Potter’s Junkyard,” as the locals called it, wasn’t harboring any Chimera, not unless you counted the five skulls arranged directly in front of the house, each sitting atop its own carefully planted pole. Each trophy wore a cap of white and an extra eye socket, where a bullet had passed through—tributes to Potter’s stalking skills and his prowess with the Mauser bolt action rifle he treasured so highly. It was a weapon that employed the high-powered 6.5 X 68mm Von Hofe Express cartridges favored by German hunters in the Alps.
“Wow,” Mark said, as he examined the skulls. “That was good shooting.”
“Yes,” Hale agreed soberly, “it was. Even though it was my dad who taught me how to shoot, Mr. Potter took my education to the next level. He didn’t believe in scopes, he thought semiautos were for sissies, and when he went deer hunting he took
“So where is he?” Tina inquired pragmatically, as she looked around.
“I have no idea,” Hale replied. “Dead most likely. He was like my parents, like a lot of folks around here, which is to say stubborn. So when the Chimera came, chances are he fought them. Five lives for one… That isn’t bad.”
“So what are we going to do?” Mark wanted to know. “Hide here?”
Hale shook his head.
“No, we have a plane to catch, and about eight hours to reach the landing zone. What we’re looking for is a ride.” He glanced around, then turned toward them again. “Wait here and keep your eyes peeled. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Hale’s boots produced a hollow sound as he made his way up onto the porch, opened the door, and entered Potter’s living room. And that’s where the old man was, rifle across his lap, sitting in a rocking chair. He was dead of course, and had been for weeks, judging from the condition of his mummy like corpse. A few hanks of white hair still hung from his leathery scalp, his eyes were gone, and his tobacco-stained teeth were bared in a permanent grin. Potter’s bib overalls were intact however, as were his lace-up boots, which could be seen below a length of bright bone. Surprisingly there were no signs of violence, leading Hale to suppose that Potter had died of natural causes, while sitting in his shabby parlor waiting for the Chimera to come. Hale nodded respectfully as he circled the chair and went back to the 1920s-style kitchen. The homemade key rack was hanging right next to the back door. Would the vehicle Hale had in mind start? There was no way to know for sure, but he took the keys to the Lyon dump truck, and passed out through the living room.
Out front, Mark and Tina were eating oatmeal patties they had fried up the evening before.
“Come on,” Hale said, “let’s see if we’re going to walk or ride.”
It had been years since Hale had been back to visit Potter, but he wasn’t surprised to find the truck where he’d last seen it, parked next to the old man’s rickety workshop. The outlines of the vehicle were plain to see in spite of the snow, including the Lyon’s considerable bulk, the flat two-panel windshield, the softly rounded cab, and the chromed lion that stood on the hood with one paw lifted as if in mid-step.
Would the engine start? Although Potter wasn’t much of a housekeeper, he had always been meticulous as far as his machines were concerned, even going so far as to fire up the fishing boat’s diesel on a regular basis. So
