Resistance (23 page)

And why should they? Anything that couldn't hurt them was irrelevant.

As Walker squinted his eyes against the bright light the torch came up to light the woman's face from below. 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,
very
hungry, but all entreaties to Norma Collins fell on deaf ears. Probably because she was as helpless to do anything about the situation as the rest of them were.

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 with car trouble.

Collins led a Hybrid and the prisoners through a shabby lobby, into a dingy dining room, and down a short flight of stairs into a candlelit kitchen.

“I thought you'd like some light,” Collins said, as if she was doing everyone a favor. “Make yourselves at home.”

And with that she and the Hybrid left the group to its own devices. Once the door at the top of the stairs clicked closed the search for a second exit, weapons, and food began. Unfortunately there was no other way out. Cutlery—if there had been any—had been removed by Collins and their Chimeran captors, and the shelves were empty.

But there were lots of nooks and crannies, the looters had been in a hurry, and it wasn't long before the prisoners
came up with a jar of red beets, another jar filled with pickles, and the best prize of all—an unopened container of peanut butter!

Burl took charge, and thanks to his size, no one argued as he portioned the precious stuff out. Everyone received two servings, plus a length of pickle, and a piece of beet. Each person also got a sip of beet juice or pickle juice to wash down their meager feast.

And that's what they were doing when Walker heard the door open at the top of the stairs. Collins appeared a few moments after, still on her leash, with two Hybrids following along behind. The stinks stood with weapons at the ready as their slave surveyed the room. Her eyes were like chips of coal.

“The hotel is a mess,” she announced, “and the Chimera need someone to clean out a room they can sleep in.

“You!” Collins said assertively, as she pointed a finger at a woman in her early twenties. “Get upstairs.”

The young woman's name was Betty. All of the color drained from her face as she stood, and her mother, a woman of forty or so, started to sob.

“Please!” the woman said. “Let me do it instead.”

“There's no need to be concerned,” Collins said woodenly. “Your daughter will be back soon.”

All of them hoped it was true. But as Betty climbed the stairs, followed by Collins and the two Hybrids, they found it impossible to believe. There was no insulation between the floor and the ceiling, so it was easy to hear footsteps as the four arrived in the dining room above. Then came scuffling sounds, followed by a series of short screams, and a solid
thump
.

Betty's mother uttered a forlorn wail, and Myra put an arm around her shoulders in an attempt to comfort her.

“They're going to eat her,” Burl said darkly, as he whispered into Walker's ear. “The bastards are going to eat her. With help from Collins. And who knows?” Burl mused out loud. “Maybe Collins will get some table scraps. I wouldn't be surprised.”

There wasn't anything the captives could do except find spots to sleep and get what rest they could, knowing that the next day would be just as hard as the one before. Eventually Myra went to sleep, huddled in his arms for warmth, but Walker couldn't. Because even though the candlelight was dim, he was sure he could see the dark stain that was spreading across the ceiling above, and he knew it was red.

When morning came the prisoners were forced up the stairs, through the blood-splattered dining room, and out through the lobby into the cold light of day. Betty's mother had retreated to a place deep within herself by then, leaving her eyes empty and her face blank. If she saw the blood, or understood who it belonged to, she gave no sign.

The day was cold but clear, and as the column made its way northward, Walker saw three white contrails claw the blue sky. Sabre Jets most likely, flying at about 25,000 feet, and entirely unaware of the captives below. Not that the pilots could have done anything for the group other than put them out of their misery.

Fortunately for the Walkers they had been permitted to keep their winter clothing and sturdy hiking boots when they were captured, but not all of their fellow captives were so lucky. Some of the prisoners wore relatively light clothing and had been forced to supplement it with whatever they could lay their hands on. There were blankets that they wrapped around themselves, and rags which were bound around their feet in order to
combat frostbite. So it was a scraggly-looking group that followed the highway past houses that stared unseeingly at the road, mangled cars that had been destroyed from above, and crow-pecked bodies clothed in suits of glittering frost.

An hour passed, then two, before the column arrived at a major intersection where another group of prisoners stood waiting. Walker took notice of a sign, and realized they had crossed into Wisconsin, having bypassed Rock-ford.

There was a momentary pause as the Hybrids communicated with one another via stink-speech, followed by new orders from Collins, who seemed eager to assert her dubious authority over the newcomers.

“Form a column, keep your mouths shut, and start walking.”

They weren't supposed to talk to each other, but it was easy to get away with, so long as Collins was out of earshot. So Walker fell into step next to Burl and kept his voice low. “So what's your theory, Harley? Where are the stinks taking us? And why?”

“I don't know,” Burl admitted. “But you're the Secretary of War, so you tell
me.”

Walker was silent for a moment. They had been careful to maintain their false identities, fearing that if the stinks knew who they had, they might try to take advantage somehow. But given how many times Henry's face had been in the papers, he supposed the deception couldn't last forever. He glanced at Burl. “How long have you known?”

“Since last night,” the other man answered. “Back in the hotel. A newspaper was lying on a counter. It was more than a month old—and you were on page two. The reporter quoted you as saying that everything is
under control and we're going to win.” Burl offered a sly grin. “Would you like to revise that?”