Resistance (11 page)

Something which, ironically enough, would have been almost impossible to accomplish in government-controlled areas.

So Myra knew that what her husband proposed to do verged on suicidal, but she also knew it was important as well, and she smiled bravely.

“Yes, Henry, of course I agree. All of the preparations have been made. I can be ready in an hour.”

He stood and took Myra's hand as she came to her feet.

“I love you,” he said.

“Yes,” Myra answered softly, as his lips met hers. “I know.”

As Walker and his wife left the house they knew they had about eight hours—twelve at most—before they would be missed. Although the couple normally made use of a chauffeur, they had been careful to take outings on their own as well, so the servants would think nothing of it as their employers drove away.

Later, once the truth was known, each staff member would receive a full month's severance pay.

Walker took the wheel of the black Bromley and guided the car out into traffic. Their destination was in the southeast quadrant of the city, but rather than head there directly, he chose a meandering route which provided him the opportunity to make sure they weren't being followed. Not so much by the police, but by members of the Domestic Security Agency, the increasingly aggressive arm of government tasked with identifying dissidents and taking them off the street.

When he was confident that no one was following
them, Walker drove the car to a working-class district where they parked behind a church, then walked the last three blocks to a small one-bedroom apartment that had been rented under a false name. That was where two suitcases were waiting, along with a selection of equipment, all of which would come in handy once they made it to Chicago.

An hour later, with the recorder in one coat pocket and an Army-issue Colt .45 semiautomatic in the other, Walker was ready to go. Myra was right behind him as he carried both suitcases down three flights of shabby stairs and out to the street, where it was still raining. A battered station wagon was parked at the curb. Having loaded the suitcases into the back, Walker opened the passenger-side door, waited for Myra to get in, and circled around to get behind the wheel.

The engine caught on the third try, the wipers slapped from side to side, and a siren could be heard off in the distance. No one was present to see them off, other than the local postman—and he was busy delivering the mail.

After years spent living in a city which neither one of them enjoyed, it felt good to be free. Even if their next home was likely to be a good deal less pleasant.

The car pulled away.

Snowflakes continued to swirl down out of the pewter gray sky as Hale stood in front of the mass grave, and paid his last respects to his parents and their ranch hands. Then came the
clang
of metal on metal, which caused him to pivot toward the barn, Rossmore at the ready.

But rather than the sudden burst of gunfire he half expected, the only sounds were the gentle tinkle of the wind chimes hanging from the porch of his childhood home, the rasp of his own breathing, and the steady
crunch, crunch, crunch
of his footsteps as he made his way over to the barn.

There was a yawning black hole where the big doors hung open. Hale entered cautiously, shotgun at the ready, but saw nothing other than what he expected to see. His father's office was located at the near end of the cavernous building, the workshop was next to it, and stalls lined the west wall. Stalls Hale had been responsible for mucking out each day along with all the other chores his father insisted on. He'd been resentful then, but those duties didn't seem so bad now, and Hale would have been glad to return to that carefree time.

The north end of the barn was stacked high with bales
of hay intended to get the family's livestock through the winter.

Hale's father had purchased sheets of steel and laid them just inside the entrance, where they would protect the wooden floor from the wide range of abuses that the entryway would otherwise have suffered. Now, as Hale took a step forward, he saw a hunting knife lying in the middle of the metal ramp.

His head went back and his eyes focused on the half-loft located directly above his father's office. A central walkway led across the rafters to the point where the hay was stacked. All of which had been an indoor playground for Susan and himself.

Is someone up there now, concealed by the darkness?
Yes, Hale thought so, and he felt certain that the knife's owner was human. Because had any of the Chimera been present they would have attacked.

“I know you're here!” Hale shouted. “Come on out … I won't hurt you. My name is Hale … Lieutenant Nathan Hale. And this is my parents' ranch.”

There was a long moment of silence, followed by a vague rustling, and the sound of footsteps somewhere over Hale's head. Then he heard what sounded like a boy's voice. “Don't shoot! We're coming down.”

Moments later the end of a rope slapped the steel ramp, and a boy in his late teens slid down, followed quickly by a younger girl. The boy hurried to retrieve the knife—leaving the girl to speak for both of them. She had big brown eyes, a slightly upturned nose, and a wide mouth.

“My name is Tina. That's my brother, Mark … He's the one who dropped the knife. I told him not to play with it, but he did.”

Hale saw that both youngsters were dressed in multiple layers of clothing, and both were armed. The boy
had a lightweight Reaper carbine slung across his chest and carried at least half a dozen extra magazines stored in a modified Chimeran battle harness. The girl was wearing some sort of semiauto pistol in a shoulder holster and had what Hale recognized as a sawed-off .410 shotgun as well. The weapon dangled from a lanyard.

“I recognize you,” Tina added. “Except for the eyes … They look Chimeran.”

“You
recognize
me?” Hale inquired incredulously. “Have we met?”

Tina shook her head.

“No, Mark and I are from Pierre. We were going south when a Chimeran fighter strafed the road. Mommy and Daddy were killed, but we got away. That was four—no, wait—five weeks ago, and we've been on our own ever since. The house was empty when we got here, but there were pictures all over the floor. That's how I knew you.”

Mark had brown eyes, just like his sister, and the beginnings of a fuzzy beard. Hale noticed that the teen's right index finger was extremely close to the Reaper's trigger as he spoke. The boy followed his gaze.

“No offense, mister,” he said skeptically, “but what about your eyes? They don't look right.”

“All of the Chimeran forms are the work of a virus,” Hale explained. “I was infected while fighting the Chimera in England. That caused my eyes to change color. But I take shots and breathe a special aerosol mist that keeps the virus in check.”

Mark still looked skeptical but Tina's thoughts were focused elsewhere.

“Did Susan make it out?” The question had a plaintive quality, as if Tina identified with Susan, and thought that if the older girl had been able to escape, then maybe she could, too.

“I don't know,” Hale replied honestly. “I hope so. But we have more immediate things to worry about. I'm going back now. Will you come with me?”

Tina looked at her brother as if to get his blessing, and received a curt nod by way of a response.

“Yes,” Tina said, as her eyes swung back to make contact with Hale's. “We've been stuck here for the better part of two weeks now. We made two attempts to leave, but ran into Chimeran patrols both times, and were forced to return.”

“That's right,” Mark agreed. “We were going to head out last night when a couple of drones came sniffing around.”

“That was my fault, I'm afraid,” Hale confessed. “I was forced to kill some Chimera on the way in, and they came looking for me. But the search seems to have died down—so maybe we should head out tonight. Before the weather starts to improve.”

The youngsters looked at each other, then back again. “Maybe tomorrow,” Mark said dubiously. “But not tonight.”

“Why not?” Hale wanted to know.

“Because the zombies are coming tonight,” Tina answered soberly. “That's what we call them anyway … They come through here every four days, and tonight is the night.”

Hale frowned. “What do they look like?”

“They look kind of human,” Mark replied cautiously. “Only they have eyes like yours. And they always arrive in large groups. They're dangerous,” he added, “but not very smart.”

Tina nodded. “Maybe that's why we've seen other types of Chimera herding them along.”

Hale guessed that what the youngsters referred to as zombies were officially classified as Grims, not that the
name mattered if one of the horrors got close enough to attack. Because once a Grim sank its teeth into a victim, it was difficult—if not impossible—to escape. The grotesque, naked horrors had been seen to emerge from Spinner pods, but beyond that very little was known regarding the creatures.

That other Chimeran forms would herd the Grims from one place to another was something new, and would be of interest to Intel. Assuming, of course, that he could figure out a way to tell them without being court-martialed.

“Okay,” Hale agreed. “We'll hole up for the night.”

He turned to look out through the open doors at the gray skies beyond. It was getting dark, and the temperature was dropping.

“I left my pack under some trees. I'll get it and be back in half an hour.”

Mark nodded gravely. “We'll be here.”

When Hale returned, Mark and Tina hurried out to brush the tracks away as all three of them backed into the barn.

“Do you have packs?” Hale asked. “And snowshoes? Because you're going to need them.”

“Yes we do,” Tina answered brightly. “We found a lot of stuff up around Draper. The whole town was deserted.”

“And the Reaper?” Hale inquired mildly. “How did you get that?”

“From the Chimera,” Mark answered proudly. “We followed one of them to a clearing, saw he was getting ready to butcher a corpse, and shot him in the back. I had a bolt action hunting rifle then—and the bullet went right through him!”

“I shot him, too,” Tina added earnestly. “Six times.”

“Good for you,” Hale said, though he wondered at the enthusiasm with which she spoke. “This would be a good time to gather your things, so we'll be ready in the morning. Just necessities, mind you,” he added sternly. “That means one change of clothes, food for three days if you have it, and all your ammo. If we run into trouble I'll expect you to help out.” Both youngsters nodded agreeably.

“So where do you sleep? Up in the loft?”

“No,” Mark replied. “We found a better place! Come on … We'll show you.”

He followed Mark toward the huge pile of hay, but he already knew where the youngsters had been sleeping. By removing bales of hay, and taking advantage of tunnels intended to conduct cool air into the center of the pile, Hale and his sister, Susan, had been able to create hidden rooms inside the enormous stack.

And sure enough, after following Mark up some stair-stepped bales of hay, he watched the boy drop his gear down a vertical shaft and follow it down. Tina stood off to one side and aimed a flashlight into the depths as Hale worked his way down through the chimneylike hole, then turned to crawl the length of a horizontal tunnel. The passageway delivered him into a generously sized chamber that had clearly been occupied for some time.

Mark's flashlight provided what illumination there was. Two sleeping bags were laid out on the floor, backpacking gear was piled in one of the corners, and various odds and ends sat perched on ledges and protrusions. Thanks to the insulation provided by the surrounding hay, it was at least ten degrees warmer inside the hideaway. “We can't use lanterns,” Mark said as Hale put his weapons down, “for obvious reasons.”

Hale nodded silently, and regarded their surroundings
with some concern. As comfortable as it might be, in an emergency it would be very difficult to escape from the refuge quickly. And that could prove fatal.

“Tell me something,” he said, as Tina entered the room. “When the Grims come—that's what we call the zombies—do they stop at the ranch, or just keep going?”

“Oh, they stop,” Tina answered quickly. “Sometimes they use the hand pump to bring up some water, and sometimes they just walk around.”

That was troubling news. Hiding in the cave had been iffy enough, but hiding in the middle of the haystack, knowing that a whole lot of Chimera were going to gather around the barn, seemed nothing short of crazy.

“This place is really nice,” Hale said tactfully, “but I think we should sleep somewhere else. Fully dressed and ready to fight, if necessary. It won't be as comfortable, but it will be a lot safer.”

“Can I take this?” Tina inquired as she picked up a book and handed it to Hale. “It's really good—but I'm only halfway through it.”

Hale took the book and aimed his flashight at the cover. That was when he saw the title
Treasure Island
, and knew it was his. “Yes,” he said kindly, “you can. And I agree. It's a wonderful book.”

The youngsters packed up after that, and all three of them moved up to the loft, where Hale made use of his father's brace and bit to drill a line of head-high holes in the outside wall. It wasn't the best place to be, not in Hale's opinion, but the light had started to fade by then and he had doubts about finding a better place to hide before darkness fell.

Dinner was cooked over Army fuel tabs in an old metal wash tub, with candles for light, and a jar of Mary Farley's strawberry jam for dessert. Then, with all their
gear packed and ready to go, it was time to take turns sleeping on a pile of horse blankets. They smelled to high heaven, but were softer than the wood floor, and provided some much needed insulation.

Hale noticed with admiration that Tina lay with her shotgun nearby, and was still wearing the pistol and shoulder holster as she slid into her bag.

Mark volunteered to take the first watch and Hale agreed, knowing that even if the trip back went flawlessly, he would need all his strength and have all his wits about him.