She had short gray hair, haunted eyes, and a pointed chin. It gave her an elfin look. A metal collar was buckled around her neck—and a silvery chain led off into the darkness.
“My name is Norma,” she said. “Norma Collins. I’m a fifth-grade teacher from Kokomo. You are to return to the road.”
“You can speak with them?” Myra wanted to know.
“No, of course not,” Collins answered, contempt in her voice. “No one can. But I know what they want. Now move… Or all three of us will be punished.”
As he and Myra turned toward the road, Walker caught a glimpse of what he would come to know as a Steelhead standing immediately behind Collins. The vehicle Twitch had spotted in his rearview mirror was idling below. It was a Lyon flatbed truck, and it appeared to be new—most likely it had been taken from a dealership.
A vicious-looking Hybrid snarled at Myra, who hurried over to the tailgate, where two men were waiting to pull her up. Walker was next, and he soon found himself wedged in amongst approximately twenty people, all standing, as the engine revved and the truck jerked into motion. For a moment he couldn’t see Myra, and he panicked, but then their eyes met.
At that moment the lights that illuminated them were extinguished. There was a horrible clashing of gears as the Hybrid in the driver’s seat missed second and Walker heard a voice in his right ear. “We call the stink behind the wheel Shit-for-Brains,” the man explained. “He’s still learning to drive.”
Walker couldn’t see the man’s face, but he had the impression of a big bearlike body, and a forceful personality.
“Where are we headed?” Walker inquired.
“Beats me,” came the answer. “But I’m in no hurry to get there. How ?bout you?”
Walker couldn’t help but smile ruefully.
“Point taken. But why stay aboard? We could jump off.”
“Take another look,” the man replied. “Up at the cab.” Walker turned, saw that the top half of a Hybrid was sticking up through a hole cut in the roof. The cab light was on, so the ?brid was lit from the bottom, and the weapon cradled in his arms was plain to see.
“My name’s Burl,” the man said. “Harley Burl. I can’t say it’s a pleasure to meet you, or any of these other folks for that matter, but welcome aboard. The good news is that we’re all bound for heaven. Except for Norma Collins that is… She’s going to hell.”
Time seemed to stretch after that, as the truck rumbled through the night and the prisoners sat or stood huddled together for warmth. Night gradually gave way to day, as if the darkness was reluctant to surrender its power over the land and allow another day to begin.
The sun was victorious but was little more than a dimly seen presence off to the east where a layer of thick clouds filtered the sun and kept any warmth from reaching the badly ravaged landscape. Everywhere Walker looked he saw deserted homes, wrecked vehicles, and the unmistakable signs of defeat. The truck had bypassed Chicago and was headed toward Rockford when a battlefield appeared off to the right. Just one of the many places where the Army and the Marine Corps had attempted to make a stand. Something which Walker, as the former Secretary of War, understood better than most.
Wrecked M-12 Sabertooth tanks, LU-P Lynx All-Purpose Vehicles, and shattered Chimeran Stalkers stretched away into the distance, and Walker knew that thousands of dead soldiers lay below the shroud of snow. Eventually, when spring came, a vast boneyard would be revealed. Because the Battle of Rockford, like so many other battles, had been irretrievably lost.
Then the panorama was gone. Farmhouses blipped past, and the truck began to pick up speed. Myra, who was standing directly in front of him now, turned her head.
“The road, it’s icy! We’re going too fast!”
Walker agreed with her, and others did as well, but they were powerless to do anything about the situation as Shit-for-Brains took advantage of a long straightaway to make better time. Before long the Lyon was up to fifty miles per hour as it roared down the center of the highway.
As the truck topped a slight rise and fifteen or twenty crows took to the air, Shit-for-Brains swerved radically, probably to avoid something in the road. Prisoners screamed, two wheels left the ground, and the Lyon went over. Walker fell on Myra, and she fell on someone else as a loud crash was heard and the truck slid for fifty feet or so before finally coming to a stop.
Some of the prisoners had been thrown clear, but he and Myra were still in the truck, lost in the wild tumble of arms and legs. Walker heard a chorus of moans as people sorted themselves out. As they extricated themselves from the tangle of bodies, he was pleased to discover that none of his bones were broken, and a quick examination revealed that Myra was okay as well. Both had been lucky enough to fall on others, some of whom were seriously injured in the crash.
While the injured were pulled free, Walker heard a series of gunshots and turned to look for the source. That was when he saw that one of the prisoners was making a run for it, or trying to, although the calf-deep snow forced him to lift his knees especially high and was slowing his progress. The projectiles fell short at first, but quickly caught up, and ate the man from below. There was an almost universal moan from the rest of the prisoners as he fell in a bloody heap.
“That was Fuller,” the man named Burl said bleakly. Burl had a broad forehead, dark eyebrows, and a three- day growth of beard. “Fuller said he’d run first chance he got, and he did. The man had balls,” Burl added by way of an informal eulogy, “and I’ll miss him.”
The Hybrid who was responsible for Fuller’s death turned back toward the prisoners as Shit-for-Brains led Norma Collins around the front end of the overturned truck. She had been sitting on the passenger side of the cab, and was bleeding from a cut on the forehead, which she continued to dab until the stink jerked her chain. Gathering her wits, she addressed the group. “You will line up on the road,” she said. “We’re going to walk.”
Burl muttered “bitch” under his breath, and some of the others had even worse things to say about Collins, as those who could shuffled out onto the road.
“This woman needs help!” Myra proclaimed, and she knelt next to one of the crash victims. “I think her leg is broken.”
“She’ll be taken care of,” Collins replied coldly. “Do as you were told.”
Myra was about to object when Walker took hold of his wife’s arm and pulled her to her feet.
“There’s nothing we can do, dear. I’m sorry…”
She glanced back at the injured woman, then allowed herself to be led around the truck to the road. The people gathered there couldn’t see what took place, but they heard two shots. Myra began to cry, and buried her face in her husband’s chest, as Collins appeared with Shit-for-Brains in tow. Three other Hybrids joined them.
“Start walking,” the schoolteacher said grimly, “unless you want to die here.”
As the group began to walk, Walker thought about the man named Fuller and the woman named Collins. Both seemed to demonstrate one thing: In spite of appearances to the contrary, the prisoners weren’t entirely powerless. They could die whenever they chose. And death, all things considered, was looking pretty good.
Except for one thing—the recorder still taped to the small of his back. Walker had an obligation to deliver it to Freedom First, if he could just find a way to do so.
Determined not to fail, he put his head down and felt the wind sting his cheeks as the group plodded north.
Walker chose life—but life was hell.
What remained of the day passed slowly as the prisoners were forced to march up the highway, never pausing except to get a drink of water when their captors did. Like those around him, Walker was hungry,
Finally, when darkness began to fall, the Chimera stopped in a small town. After a quick look around to see what sort of shelter was available, Collins returned and directed the prisoners into an old building. A sign that read “Antlers Hotel” hung out front, just below the impressive rack of moose antlers that had been nailed to the facade. It appeared to be the type of establishment that catered to traveling salesmen, long-haul truck drivers, and people
