E. E. Knight - Vampire Earth 2 - Choice Of The Cat

CHOICE OF THE CAT

THE VAMPIRE EARTH 2

E.E. KNIGHT

One

The Great Plains Gulag, March of the forty-fifth year of the Kurian Order: Only the bones of a

civilization remain, monuments to mankind's apogee. Nature and time gnaw away the rest. Derricks still

stand in this corner of oil country, giant iron insects surveying the countryside. Beneath them, the pumps

rust, scattered in the long yellowish grass like metal herbivores, snouts thrust into the earth. The former

wheat fields, fallow for generations and returned to native forest or prairie, feed longhorns, deer, and

canny wild pigs. It is a land of receding horizons, a stopped watch, timeless.

The soil under cultivation bears the turned over, trampled look of spring plowing. The tools and methods

used on the stretches of farmland would make a twentieth-century resident either stare in wonder or spit

in disgust. Horse-drawn plows, some with just a single blade, sit at the edges of the fields, where they

were abandoned at quitting time, plots fertilized only by what comes out of the back end of an animal.

The agricultural settlements at the center of the remaining fields, always near a road or rail line, look

more like chain-gang camps than family farms. Surrounded by barbed wire and watchtowers, the

clapboard barracks that house the workers and their families cry out for a coat of paint and a new roof to

replace the flapping plastic tarps covering assorted holes. Trash heaps and pit toilets decorate the

compounds among pitiful vegetable gardens. The children playing amid the tight-packed buildings flirt

with nudity, so worn away are their clothes.

Near the gate of these camps a more substantial building usually stands at a respectful distance from the

barracks, avoiding contact like a visitor to a leper colony. Often a sturdy pre-22 brick construct; the

windows hold glass behind bars or shutters, and curtains behind the glass.

A few miles north of Oologah Lake along old State Route 60, one of these collective farms, known to its

residents as the Rigyard, is nestled between gently rolling hills. Two rows of tall wire fencing encircle the

camp. Barracks laid out foursquare sit in the shadow of two watchtowers, dwarfed in turn by two

cavernous garages like enormous Quonset huts. The garages are patchworks of earthen wall, structural

iron, and corrugated aluminum. On the other side of them, in a commanding position near the gate, an

L-shaped cinder-block building dating to the 1950s folds itself protectively around a set of gasoline

pumps. A water tower—a recent addition, judging from the new shine to the steel—leans slightly askew

above, adding a jaunty top hat to the guardhouse. Behind the cinder-block building, a fine two-story

house stands in splendid isolation at the farthest point upwind from the barracks, circled first by a porch

and then a set of razor-wire fencing with padlocked gate.

Each watchtower contains a single sentinel dressed in green-brown-mottle camouflage fatigues and

black leather hunting cap. The sentry to the south is the more alert; he occasionally crosses his little

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crow's nest to glance up and down the highway bordering the camp's southern fence. The one to the

north chews a series of toothpicks in appropriately beaverish front teeth. He watches a trio of

smock-clad women wash clothing in the community sink set between the barracks.

Were the other guard equipped with an excellent pair of binoculars (unlikely, but possible), perfect

eyesight (still less likely, as guarding farmers and mechanics is reserved for older members of the

Territorials), and intelligent initiative in carrying out his duty (the phrase "cold day in hell" springs to mind)

he would have paid attention to the gully winding up the hill that shelters the Rigyard from the prevailing

winds. The wooded cut in the hill offers ample concealment and a commanding view, whether for simple

observation or an organized attack.

A figure possessing all those qualities lies on that hill, surrounded by the white and yellow and red

wildflowers of an Oklahoma spring. He is a muscular, long-limbed young man with coppery skin and

wary brown eyes. Dressed not so differently from his ancestors on the Sioux side of his family, he wears

a uniform of buckskin, save for a thicker cowhide equipment belt and boots. Lustrous black hair is drawn

back from his face into a pony tail, giving him the illusion of closely cropped hair from every direction but

behind, where it dangles to his shoulders. He wears an intent expression as he examines the camp. A

young cheetah watching a watering hole might exhibit such wariness, unsure whether the vegetation

contains game or a lion ready to pounce. His eyes wander from point to point in the camp with the aid of

a pair of black binoculars, lingering here and there while his forearm acts as a monopod. Like the

bucktoothed guard in the southern tower, his mouth is also working, thoughtfully nibbling on the tender

end of a blade of seed-topped grass.

His gaze returns to the wire-enclosed yard of the two-story house. In the grassy back lawn of the house,

two T-shaped metal posts face each other, missing the clothesline that once joined them. Instead of wash

drying in the afternoon sun, three men and a woman are painfully attached to the improvised gibbet. Their

wrists are clasped behind them and tied to the metal crossbeam above, tight enough to dislocate a

shoulder if they slump in their bonds.

He knows that death awaits the four—not from pained exhaustion or exposure—but from something

quicker, more horrible, and as sure as the setting sun.

The senior lieutenant of Foxtrot Company set down his binoculars and focused his eyes a few feet in

front of him on a flowering coral bean, its delicate red spindles inclining toward the sun. The diversion

failed; though they were a good kilometer away, he could still see me agonized figures in me yard. His

shoulders throbbed with sympathetic pain.

After four years' service to the Cause, his sensitivity to suffering had grown more acute, rather than less.

Lt. David Valentine looked back down into the gully. His platoon, numbering thirty-five in all, rested with

backs up against leafing trees, using their packs to keep their backsides off the rain-soaked earth. They

had covered a lot of ground since skirting the northern edge of Lake Oologah that morning, moving at a

steady, mile-eating run. Rifles rested ready in their laps. They wore leather uniforms frilled in variegated

styles to taste. Some still wore their winter beards, and no two hats matched. The only accoutrement his

three squads shared were their short, broad-bladed machetes, known as parangs—though some wore

them on their belts, some across their chests, and some sheathed them in their moccasin-leather puttees.

They didn't look like mixture of legend and alien science, part of a elite caste known as the Hunters.

Valentine signaled with two fingers to the men waiting in the gully, and Sergeant Stafford climbed up the

wash to join him in the damp bracken. His platoon sergeant, known as Gator off-duty because of his

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leathery skin and wide, toothy grin, worked slowly to Valentine's overlook. Wordlessly, the lieutenant

passed Stafford his binoculars. Stafford examined the compound as Valentine chewed another inch off

the grass stalk clamped in his teeth.

"Looks like that last sprint was for nothing," Valentine said. "The tractor trailer pulled in here. We

wouldn't have intercepted anyway—this must be a pretty good stretch of road."

"How do you figure that, sir?" Stafford said, searching the compound in vain for any sign of the tanker

truck they'd spotted crawling through the rain that morning. The platoon dashed cross-country in order to

ambush the tempting target. Thanks to the state of the roads in this part of the Kurian Zone, the rig

couldn't move much faster than the Wolves could run.

"Look at the ruts by the gate, turning off the road. They've got to have been made by an

eighteen-wheeler," Valentine said.

"Could have been from yesterday—even the day before, Lieutenant."

Valentine raised an eyebrow. "No puddles. Rain would have filled in something that deep. Those were

made since the shower ended—what?—a half hour ago?"

"Err... okay, yeah ... so the truck's in one of those big garages getting worked on. We get in touch with

the captain, the rest of the company is here in a day or two, and we burn the compound. I figure fifteen

or twenty guarding this place at most. Ten's more likely."

"I'd like nothing better, Staff. Time's a problem, though."

"Val, I know food's short, but what else is new? There's enough game and forage in these woods—"

"Sorry, Gator," Valentine said, taking the binoculars back. "I misspoke. I should have said time's running

short for them."

Stafford's eyebrows arched in surprise. "What, mose four tied up down there? Okay, it's ugly, but since

when have we gotten dead over the punishments handed out by these little Territorial commandants?"

"I don't think it's just punishment," Valentine said, his eyes now on the two-story house.

"Hell, sir, you know these collaborator creeps. . . . They'll flog a woman for not getting the skid marks

out of their skivvies. These four probably were last out of the barracks for roll call or something. God

knows."

Valentine waited for a moment, wondering whether to give voice to a feeling. "I think they're breakfast.

There's a Reaper in that house, maybe more than one."

Sgt. Tom Stafford blanched. "H-how d-do you figure that, sir?"

Valentine read the sergeant's fear with a species of relief. He wanted a subordinate in mortal fear of the

Reapers. Any man who did not tremble at the thought of facing a couple of Hoods was either a fool or

inexperienced, and there were far too many inexperienced Wolves in Foxtrot Company. Whemer or not

the whole lot, officers included, were fools was a question Valentine sometimes debated with himself on

long winter nights.

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"Look at the first story of the house, Sergeant," Valentine said, passing the binoculars back. "It's a nice

day. Someone is letting in the spring air. But that second story now ... shuttered. I think I even see a

blanket stuffed in between the slats. And that little stovepipe coming out of the wall— that's got to be for

a bedroom, not the kitchen. See the vapor? Someone has a fire going."

"Dark and warm. Hoods like it like that," Stafford agreed.

"My guess is that after the sun's down, the visitor will rise and go about its business. It won't feed till

almost morning. It wouldn't risk taking them before it could sleep safe again—you know how dopey they

get after feeding."

"Okay, sir, then that's the time to hit'em. Tomorrow morning." Stafford couldn't keep the excitement out

of his voice. "Maybe the captain could even get here by then. That refinery he's scouting can't be more

than thirty miles away. They feed, dawn comes, and they button up in that house. We burn them out,

even if it rains again, and have enough guns to knock'em down, and keep'em down till we can get in with

the blades."

"That would be my plan exactly, Sergeant," Valentine agreed. "Except for one thing."

"What, you think that house won't burn if it rains again? Those phosphorous candles, I've seen them burn

through tin, sir. They'll get the job done."

"You missed my point, Staff," he said, spitting out the thoroughly chewed blade of grass. "I'm not going

to let the Hoods get their tongues into those poor bastards."

Valentine knew the word incredulous was probably not in his platoon sergeant's vocabulary, but

Stafford's expression neatly illustrated the meaning of the word. "Errr... sir, I feel for them, too, but hell,

it's too much of a risk."

"Having thirty Wolves within a mile of the Reapers is a risk, too. Even if we all concentrate on lowering

lifesign, they still might pick up on us. Then we'd be faced with Reapers coming at us in the dark."

Stafford's left eye gave a twitch. The Reapers hunted not by sight or scent, but by sensing an energy

created by living beings. Energy the Reapers' Masters desired.

"The sun isn't waiting," Valentine continued. "We're going to hit them now, while most of the guards are

off in the fields. Keep an eye on things from up here—whistie if anything happens."

The lieutenant returned to his platoon, scooting backwards on his belly until he reached the cut in the

hillside. He gathered his three squads around him.

"Heads up, Second Platoon. The captain detached us with orders to raise a little hell if we get the

chance, and we just got it. There's a pretty big civvie compound on the other side of this hill. Looks like

farmworkers and maybe some mechanics—there's a couple of big garages behind the wire. Two guard

towers with a man in each. I figure most of the able-bodied are out in the fields to the north, and the

garrison is keeping an eye on them. Chances are, there are only a few left in the compound, counting the

two in the towers. Looks like there could be Hoods in there, too."

Valentine gave them a moment to digest this. Newer Wolves composed the majority of Foxtrot

Company, rebuilt after being bled white in action east of Hazlett, Missouri, in the summer of '65. Each of

his three squads had only one or two reliable veterans; most of the experienced men were with the

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captain or leading smaller patrols on this scouting foray into the Gulag lands north of Tulsa. While all had

gone through the arduous training of Southern Command, the gulf between training and experience had

been crossed by only a handful of his men. But the newbies were eager to prove themselves as true

Wolves, and ail had reason to hate the Reapers and the Quislings assisting them.

Valentine's eyes searched the expectant eyes for a pair of almost cherubic young faces. "Jenkins and

Oliver, take a map and head south. Sergeant Stafford will show you where the captain's headquarters is

supposed to be. If he's not there, go back to summer camp south of the Pensacola Dam and report. If

you do find him, tell him we're about to hit some Reapers. I expect the Territorials'll react, and there'll be

columns from all over converging on this spot. Maybe he can bushwhack one. We're going to run east

and wait at camp. Got it?"

Marion Oliver held up her hand. "Sir, can't we be in on the attack, then go find the captain?"

Valentine shook his head. "Oliver, I could sure use you, but just in case this goes to hell, the captain

would want to know what we found, where we were when we found it, and what we were going to do

about it.

"Now when it was raining earlier, I saw a few of you with those new rain ponchos you lifted outta that

storehouse we broke into a couple days ago. I need to borrow three of them, and two volunteers...."

An hour later, Valentine walked down the empty road toward the camp, watching clouds build up again

to the southwest. He hoped for more rain overnight. It would slow pursuit.

He wore a green rain slicker—an oily-smelling poncho borrowed from one of his men. Two of his best

snap-shooters trailed just behind, brisk and bold in the open daylight, also wearing the rain gear stolen

from the Quisling Territorials. Valentine had his sleeves tucked together to hide his hands—and what was

in his hands.

As the trio approached the camp, the guard in the south tower near the road waved lazily and called

something down to the cinder-block guardhouse below. Valentine smelled concentrated humanity ahead,

along with the odors of gasoline and oil.

Like all Wolves, he possessed sharpened senses of hearing and smell and a mule's endurance, gifts from

the Lifeweavers, humanity's allies in the battle against their fallen brothers from the planet Kur. Valentine

made use of that hearing as he approached the camp, concentrating on the two guards walking up to the

gate.

"Guy in front looks Injun, if you ask me," one uniformed figure commented to his associate. Valentine,

still a hundred yards away, heard every word as if from ten feet. "Mebbe he's Osage or something."

"Didn't ask you, Gomez," the older of the two replied, scratching the stubble on his chin in thought.

"Better go tell the looie, strangers comin' to the gate on foot."

"Franks is having a beer with that truck driver. They've been through six by now, prolly."

"You'd better tell him, or he'll have you stripped. He's jumpy what with the Visitors."

Valentine worked the safety on the pistol in his left hand. The gun in his right hand was a revolver; he

covered the hammer with his thumb so it would not catch when he pulled it from the baggy coat sleeves.

The seconds stretched as the Wolves approached the gate. The Territorial named Gomez returned with a

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tall thin man, who threw away a cigarette as he exited the gatehouse.

"Shit, four at the gate ...," Alpin, the young Wolf behind him muttered.

"Stick to the plan. I just want you two to get the guy in the tower," Valentine said, quickening his step.

"Hi, there," he called. "I'm supposed to see a Lieutenant Franks. He's here, right? I got a message for

him."

The bored guard at the southern tower leaned over to hear the exchange below, rifle held ready but

pointed skyward. Valentine took a final glance around the compound. Back toward the barracks, a few

women and children squatted on the steps or peered out of tiny windows at the visitors.

The tall lieutenant stepped forward and eyed Valentine through the wire, hand on his stiff canvas holster.

"I don't know you, kid. Where's the message, and who sent you?"

"It's verbal, Lieutenant," Valentine answered. "Let me think.... It goes like this: You're a shit-eating,

traitorous, murderous disgrace to the human race. That's about it."

The guards inside the gate froze.

"Uuh?" Franks grunted. Franks's hand seized his sidearm, the Velcro on the clasp making a tiny tearing

sound, but Valentine had the two pistols out before the

Quisling's hand even got around the grip. Valentine squeezed off two shots from the automatic and one

from the revolver into the lieutenant's chest, the officer's limbs jerking with the false nerve signals

generated by the impacting bullets as he fell.

Behind him, the two Wolves raised their carbines. One had some trouble with his poncho, delaying him

for a second, but Alpin put a bullet through the guard's chin while the sentry was still shouldering his rifle.

The other Wolf got his gun clear in time to put another shot into the lurching figure even as the

magazine-fed battle rifle fell out of the tower.

In the time it took the guard's rifle to smack into the wet dirt twenty feet below, Valentine emptied his

two pistols into the other Quislings at the gate. The three Wolves dived for the roadside ditch, splashing

into puddled rainwater. Valentine abandoned the empty revolver and slipped a fresh magazine into the

automatic, sliding the action to chamber the first round. A shot fired from the northern tower whizzed

overhead.

Alpin slithered along the ditch as Valentine popped his gun arm and one eye over the crest of the

depression, gun following his gaze as he checked the door and windows of the old guardhouse. An

unlatched metal screen door with the word welcome worked into the decor squeaked in the gusty

breeze. Valentine rolled back into the ditch.

"Should I make a try at the gate, sir?" Baker asked, muddy water dripping from his face.

Valentine shook his head. "Stay put, and wait for the sarge."

Farther down the ditch, Alpin popped up to swap shots with the northern tower.

"Alpin, stay down!" Valentine yelled.

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The Wolf brought his gun up again, and a bullet burrowed into the ground right in front of his face. Dirt

flew, and with a pained cry, Alpin dropped his gun and covered his right eye. Valentine crawled toward

the youth, swearing through clenched teeth, when he heard a wet smack followed by the report of the

shot. Alpin toppled backwards into the ditch. Valentine risked a dash to his trooper, whose one good

eye fluttered open and shut next to the bloody ruin of the other.

The challenging wail of a hand-cranked siren sounded through the camp as he pulled Alpin along the

ditch, seeking to put the gatehouse between them and the rifleman. Stafford had the platoon attacking the

northern fence. Valentine heard a shot and the sound of breaking glass, where his other gunman was

shooting at God-knows-what in the guardhouse.

Valentine found the wound in Alpin's arm and pressed hard to stop the bleeding. Thankfully, the sticky

flow welled up underneath his palm in a steady stream rather than short arterial bursts. He called the

other Wolf over.

"Baker! Alpin's hit!"

"Someone came to a window there.... I missed," Baker gabbled.

"Keep your head down. C'mere and help me put a dressing on," Valentine barked.

Baker scuttled over, but seemed at a loss as soon as he looked at Alpin. First-aid training always took

place in a quiet meadow, not stretched out in a wet ditch with no elbow room.

Valentine blew out an exasperated breath. "Never mind. Just put pressure right here," Valentine said,

placing Baker's hand on the underside of Alpin's arm, just below the armpit. "Press hard. Don't

worry—he's in shock. He doesn't feel anything."

Valentine popped his head up again—still no sign of the other Wolves, although no more shots came

from the direction of the northern tower. The guard had either run or been shot. Baker seemed to catch

on, and he took control of keeping tension on the tourniquet.

"Mister, mister!" someone yelled from the guardhouse. "We surrender.... I surrender, I mean. I'm coming

out, no gun. I got a woman with me."

"I'm just a housekeeper. I ain't one of the Territorials!" a woman's voice added.

He cautiously looked out of the ditch. "Come on out, then!" Valentine called. "Hands up in the air!"

The welcome door opened, and a young man in camouflage fatigues emerged, followed by a woman in a

simple smock. Valentine aimed the pistol at the Territorial. "You in the uniform—facedown on the

ground—now!"

The Territorial complied. No more shots came from the other side of the compound, but Valentine could

see Okla-homans running from the barracks toward the north fence. The Wolves must have reached the

compound.

"Open the gate, please." The woman rushed to comply. The unlocked gate swung easily on its hinges,

and Valentine entered the camp. He walked up to the Territorial, still on the ground, face turned

sideways and fearfully eyeing Valentine.

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"Terri, you better tell me who's in the house, unless you want to piss off the man with the gun aimed at

your head."

"Mister, it's four Skulls, and some administrator guy out of Tulsa. And I ain't really a Territorial, I just

wear the uniform because I'm in the transports. I drive trucks. I just drive trucks, I swear."

"Did you drive a tanker in here today?"

"Yes, sir... that was me. They got a pump for the road vehicles and tractor. I'm s'posed to spend the

night here at the Rigyard, then—"

"I found the lieutenant," a voice called. A Wolf pointed his gun around the corner of the guardhouse,

covering the door.

"Sarge, Lieutenant Valentine's here. He's okay," another added.

"Keep an eye on these two," Valentine ordered. "Sanchez, help Baker carry Alpin in." Baker's head and

shoulders popped up like a curious prairie dog. Wolves rushed to help him with their wounded comrade.

Chaos in the compound. Oklahoman civvies, mostly women and children, milled everywhere, shouting

and crying with excitement. Wolves had taken up positions around the two-story house, pointing their

rifles at it from cover, but no one was eager to get any closer than absolutely necessary. A pair of

Wolves had grabbed a horse, interposing it between themselves and the house while they cut down the

four figures hanging from the old T-shaped metal clothesline. Sergeant Stafford directed this last among a

cluster of riflemen with barrels trained on the back door of the house.

Valentine waved over a corporal. "Get some men in that south tower. I want to know if anything shows

on the road." He glanced at the horizon—with the thick clouds, it would be dark in less than an hour. He

had to work fast. If he even had the hour: should the Reapers feel sufficiently threatened, they would

simply bolt. He doubted he could stop four from getting away. And once night returned, bringing the

Reapers back to full use of their senses, the triumphant Wolves might become tempting sheep. The

Rigyard could turn into a death trap.

Valentine watched the rescue of the four bound victims, and then he trotted back to his truck-driving

prisoner. A pair of Wolves stood above him, forcing him to squat, face to the wall, with fingers laced

behind his head. Valentine waved them off and lowered himself to his haunches, facing the man.

"Here's the deal, friend. Usually when we catch a man wearing the enemy uniform, we take care of it

with a bullet, or a rope—time permitting. Do you know what the Ozark Free Territory is?"

"Yes, sir. It's you folks in the hills there in Southern Missouri and Arkansas."

"I can arrange to take you there," Valentine said.

The young man's eyes widened. "What, to hang?"

"No, as a free man. I just need you to drive your truck one more time."

"Let me guess: a suicide mission?"

Valentine grinned. "Maybe. But I'll be riding shotgun."

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The engine started with a growling, mechanical grrrrrr grrrrrr grrrrrrrrrrrrr. The brakes lifted with a

hydraulic shriek; the tractor and its trailer pulled out of the barnlike garage.

As the vehicle accelerated, a Wolf gave the drop hose beneath the tanker a final twist of the cap.

Valentine watched gasoline spray as his man jumped out of the way of the truck. The tanker moved

across the compound, leaving a rainbow-catching trail.

Jouncing in the cabin of the tractor, with a pump-action shotgun ready to keep the Reapers off,

Valentine glanced at the driver. The trucker wore a smile that was more than half snarl. "What's your

name, anyway?" Valentine asked, raising his voice over the unmuffled engine.

"Pete Ostlander. Always dreamed of plowing this rig into someming. Yours?"

"David Valentine."

Ostlander angled for the spacious front porch of the house. "Brace yourself, Valentine!" he shouted,

changing gears. The truck shuddered and picked up speed, churning the wet turf of the lawn. Valentine

put his feet against the dashboard and pushed himself tightly into the seat back.

The ancient hauler barreled onto the porch, taking out decking, supports, and roof. The aged wood

collapsed like cardboard under the force of the truck's impact. The side of the house caved in, and

Valentine could see me homey furnishings through the driver's-side window.

As the truck ground to a halt, Valentine opened his door and launched himself out of the cab, holding the

shotgun with his finger across the trigger guard. He tumbled, turned it into a bone-jarring shoulder roll,

and came to his feet running for the cinder-block gatehouse. Valentine glanced over his shoulder and saw

Ostlander struggling with his seat-belt hook, which had caught on his boot. The driver freed himself and

slid to the passenger side.

"Light it! Light it!" Valentine shouted.

Back at the garage, a Wolf touched flame to the gasoline trail. Fire raced across the pooled gasoline. By

the guardhouse, three more Wolves waited with grenades ready in case the fuel failed to ignite the tanker.

They yelled and pointed behind Valentine, who read the alarm in their expressions. One fired his gun.

Valentine turned around, body twisting and following his gun barrel like a sidewinder coiling to strike.

Ostlander jumped from the tanker. Death knelt on the top of the truck, long monklike hood covering its

head. The black-caped figure lashed down and grabbed Ostlander by the neck. The driver gave a

spasmodic jerk—Valentine's ears caught to snick of vertebrae separating—then sagged with his head

flopping forward. Shots from the covering Wolves tore into black robes. The Reaper ignored them; the

heavy cloth dampened their kinetic energy, and the Reaper's tough frame did the rest.

The Reaper probably heard the approaching flames, rather than seeing them. It dropped the dying

Ostlander and sprang up and over the roof of the house in a gravity-defying jump. When Valentine saw

his Wolves fling themselves to the earth, he followed suit. He dropped to the ground with hands at the

sides of his head, covering his ears with his thumbs and closing his nose with his pinkies. The tanker

exploded with a whump. Valentine felt a hot blast of air lick across his back before the concussion

knocked him senseless.

He awoke, with vague memories of a delightful dream. The drifting, blissful feeling bled away as his eyes

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focused on Corporal Holloway, the junior NCO.

"Good news, Holloway," Valentine murmured, still half-awake. "I like the way you handle yourself and

the men— I'm recommending you to the captain for promotion to lance. Want the job?"

Holloway started to smile; then his brows furrowed. "Tell the sarge the lieutenant's awake, Gregg. He's

kinda groggy-"

Grogs? Danger! Valentine returned to Oklahoma with a rush, a long slide back into reality. He smelled

burning tires and charred flesh and realized he lay in the cold confines of the gatehouse. He looked

around at the rough, bare furniture and sat up, feeling nauseated.

"Okay, Holloway ... better now. Water, please," croaked a voice that he had to convince himself was

his.

Holloway handed him a tin cup, and Valentine gulped it down. "How long was I out?"

"About fifteen minutes, sir. Closer to twenty now."

"The Reapers?"

"Better let the sarge explain, sir. But I don't think there'; anything to worry about right now."

Stafford bounced in, a relieved smile on his face. "It'i getting dark, sir. No sign of the work details or

their guards They probably saw the smoke and put two and two to gether. I've got everyone set to pull

out. There are a couplf high-clearance pickups we can use. I put Alpin in one. Bi; Jeff volunteered to

drive it. We could get you out in th( other. Holloway's good behind a wheel."

Valentine stood up, the dizziness fading. "No ambulance required, Staff. Anyone else hurt?"

"Not a one, sir."

"The Hoods?"

"Only one made it out of the house, the one that jumpec over the roof. He was on fire, took off like a

scalded cat We chased him down, but the light was fading. Looked like he fell over—his robe was still

burning. We put aboul twenty rounds into it and threw a couple of grenades Turned out it was just his

robe. He must have dropped it and scuttled off flat-assed. My guess is he probably can's see—he

plowed right into the wire and had to claw through it. We shouldn't have to worry about him."

Valentine thought for a moment. "What about the dependents?"

"That's your decision, sir. We're feeding those poor bastards that were tied up outside the house.

They're in pretty poor shape. Some of the women were asking me, but 1 played dumb. Gave them the

keys to the storeroom, though, They're emptying it now."

"Okay, I'll talk to them. We're going to head for the Pen-sacola Dam. Put the prisoners in one of the

pickups, and find a driver. I'm putting you in charge of the vehicles. Make sure you got food, water, and

fuel, spare tires if you can find'em. Drive slowly with your lights off; you'll make it. Cross country where

you can, especially after the old expressway."

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

E. E. Knight - Vampire Earth 2 - Choice Of The Cat

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