Resistance (13 page)

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—
was
, so all Hale could do was keep a sharp eye out for tracks in the snow, and hope for the best.

“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
one
bullet with him.”

“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 there was reason to hope as Hale circled the snow-encrusted rig and confirmed that all of the truck's six tires were inflated.

With that established he put a foot on the driver's-side running board, opened the door, and climbed into the cab. The flat bench-style seat squeaked under his weight as he pushed the clutch all the way to the floor, checked to make sure the stick shift was in neutral, and turned the key.

The starter produced a weak
ur-ur-ur
sound, but nothing happened. The battery was low, the engine was cold, and Hale could feel his hopes starting to slip away.

“Come on, baby,” he muttered. “Do it for Mr. Potter.”

The starter produced the same
ur-ur-ur
sound, followed by a loud
bang
that caused Hale to jump. Then came a friendly rattle as all six cylinders began to fire.

“That's right!” Hale said exultantly, as he revved the engine. “I
knew
you could do it.”

The fuel gauge was down to a quarter-tank, so the next fifteen minutes were spent searching for gas, and then pouring it in. Hale let the engine run throughout the process fearing that the Lyon would refuse to start a second time.

The cab was far too small for three people and their gear, so they put most of their equipment in back, and kept only weapons and ammo up front. Hale placed both the Fareye and the Rossmore in the bed of the truck and used some cord to tie everything down.

Finally with the sawed-off .410 shotgun lying across his lap, Tina sitting astride the gear shift, and Mark on the passenger side, they were ready to go. He shifted into low, let the clutch out, and stepped on the gas. The
engine roared, ugly black smoke belched out of the Lyon's twin stacks, and the dump truck began to roll.

Heat was pouring into the cab by that time and the snow had stopped. Frank Sinatra was singing “April in Paris” as Mark turned the AM radio on, and a familiar voice was heard as the song came to an end.

“Hello, fellow citizens, this is Jack Peavy, welcoming you to the
Jack Peavy News Hour.”
The announcer's voice was deep and resonant, and he spoke with the authority of a man who knew things other people didn't.

“Contrary to information put out by the so-called Freedom First party,” Peavy said, “we have reports that the Army is battling the Chimera in South Dakota, and has recently won a major engagement near Rapid City. Once the hard-fought battle was over, thousands of enemy bodies lay on the bloodied snow …”

“That's bullshit!” Mark exclaimed, as he clicked the broadcast off. “Do you see any god-damned soldiers here?”

“Lieutenant Hale is here,” Tina replied tartly, “and Mom doesn't like it when you swear.”

“Mom's dead,” Mark replied bleakly. “Hell, just about everybody's dead, so far as I can tell, and Peavy is lying.”

Peavy
was
lying, or that's how it appeared to Hale, as he downshifted and caressed the brake, careful not to put the truck into a skid. The main road lay just ahead, and judging from the way it looked, it was heavily used. With his heart beating faster, he made a right-hand turn onto the pavement. They were committed at that point, because the bridge was only two miles away, and there was nowhere else to go.

He upshifted, put his foot down, and upshifted again. Within minutes the truck was doing its top speed of sixty and rattling like a can full of marbles as it charged
down the middle of the road and threw waves of slush to both sides.

They were approaching the bridge when a Chimeran Stalker lurched out onto the road ahead of him, repositioned its turretlike body, and fired on the truck. Hale was familiar with the big crablike machines, having piloted one in the past. So he knew how dangerous they could be.

His eyes narrowed as a steady stream of machine gun projectiles kicked up geysers of dirt and snow. Fortunately, the gunner hadn't latched on to them yet, as Tina covered both eyes. Was there enough room? Yes, Hale thought there was, and proceeded to bet all their lives as he swerved to the right, then left again.

The Chimeran pilot attempted to respond, but the dump truck was more agile than it was, and managed to swerve around the mech, before it could be repositioned. Machine gun bullets followed the truck south, but the pilot couldn't fire missiles without hitting the bridge
and
the guards that had been positioned to defend it.

Metal barriers had been erected at the north end of the span and two automatic weapons were half-hidden behind piles of sandbags on both sides of the road. The gun on the left began to fire, quickly followed by the one on the right, as the truck barreled toward them.

“Pull the pin!” Hale ordered, and Mark obeyed. The passenger-side window was already down, so all the teenager had to do was keep a firm grip on the safety lever, or “spoon,” while waiting for the right moment.

Projectiles made a persistent
pinging
noise as they hit the truck, the windshields shattered—front and back—as a projectile passed between Hale and Tina, and the Lyon hesitated slightly as it hit the barricade and smashed it aside. That was when Mark stuck his arm through the
window and let go of the grenade. It hit the ground, bounced high into the air, and exploded. Shrapnel cut down one of the stinks as it sought to swivel its machine gun around.

The truck itself slammed into another Hybrid and killed it instantly. Hale heard a soft
thump
and knew that at least one Chimera had dropped from the superstructure above to land on the roof. Seconds later a skeletal hand shot through the already shattered rear window and caught hold of Tina's hair. She screamed and tried to pull away. That was Hale's cue to reach forward and pull on the red knob that protruded from the dashboard.

The Hybrid let go of Tina's hair when the dump box began to tilt upward, thereby exposing it to fire from behind. The stink's body jerked spastically as it took multiple hits before being dumped out onto the bridge deck where it rolled away.

With the box in the raised position, the cab was protected from behind. Bullets ricocheted away as they hit solid steel. One of the rear duals was flat by then, but with five tires left there was no stopping the truck as it began to close with the barrier at the south end of the bridge.

The disadvantage of having the box raised was that the truck's speed was cut in half, and Hale was busy downshifting when a stink jumped up onto the driver's-side running board. The Chimera roared angrily as it tried to stick its head in through the open window. Hale could taste the creature's foul breath as he let out the clutch, stomped on the gas, and brought the .410 level with the window.

There was a satisfying
boom
as the tightly focused cone of birdshot blew half of the Hybrid's face away. The three eyes on the other half registered what might
have been surprise as the horror fell away, hit one of the upright supports, and broke in two.

Tina accepted the shotgun and hurried to reload it as Mark fired the Reaper out the passenger-side window. A ′brid standing on the other side of the barricade fell, and the big bumper hit the metal obstruction and sent pieces of steel flying through the air. That cut even more Chimera down.

Hale knew it was going to be necessary to abandon the truck and hike cross-country, so he wanted to reduce the number of Chimera who could follow them. With that in mind he braked, shifted into reverse, and backed onto the bridge again, killing two more stinks in the process.

He shifted into low, lowered the box, and drove forward until it was time to stop the Lyon and bail out. Missiles were landing all around. The Stalker was too large to cross the span from the north, but the pilot still could lob missiles over the bridge.

As columns of dirty snow shot into the air and pattered down all around them, the trio went around to the back of the truck and scrambled up into the dump box. At least half of the gear had fallen out during the crossing, including both Hale's pack and the Fareye. Fortunately the Rossmore and all three sets of snowshoes were still lashed to the bottom of the box. “Grab your snowshoes,” Hale shouted as another missile hit nearby, “and follow me!”

Having secured the shotgun and his snowshoes, Hale led the others up the hillside toward the jumble of now familiar rocks. Once they passed over the crest, they were out of range and there was nothing the Stalker could do but pace back and forth and lob rockets at the truck. The Lyon took a direct hit, exploded into a ball of
flame, and sent a pillar of black smoke up toward the gray sky.

Ten minutes later Hale and his companions had their snowshoes on and were slip-sliding cross-country in a desperate attempt to reach the landing zone in time. The detour to the Potter homestead had consumed valuable time, and now they were paying for it.

The warmer temperature was causing the snow to melt, but it was still too deep to abandon the snowshoes. Despite the hard going, Hale was suddenly grateful for the snow, when they paused on a rise to look back. Three Hybrids, summoned from Lord knows where, could be seen half a mile back, but lacking showshoes, the stinks were struggling.

One of the ′brids paused to fire an ineffectual shot from his assault rifle, causing Hale to yearn for the missing Fareye. All three of the Chimera would have been easy meat for it. “Come on,” he said grimly. “We'll out-walk the bastards.”

But as the next couple of hours came off the clock, the youngsters began to slow, and the Hybrids were catching up. That meant it was no longer a choice of whether to fight, but of
where
to fight, and Hale tried to remember a pile of rocks, a cluster of trees, or a ravine where they could lie in wait for the pursuers.

It was no good. That section of the gently rolling prairie was almost featureless. Or so it seemed until Hale spotted a dark smudge in the distance.

“We're going to ambush the stinks,” Hale announced confidently. “Come on, Mark … Let's help Tina. We need to hurry.”

The lead Hybrid paused at the top of a slight rise, saw the snow-frosted corpse laid out on the ground ahead,
and wondered who or what had been able to bring the big form down. But it was a passing thought, because like all ′brids the Chimera lived in the eternal now, it being left to higher forms to contemplate the past and plan for the future. His task was to catch up with the humans, kill them, and eat his fill.