Flint, Eric - 1632

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1632

ERIC FLINT

1632

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this

book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely

coincidental.

thereof in any form.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

ISBN: 0-671-31972-8

Cover art by Larry Elmore

Interior maps by Randy Asplund

First paperback printing, February 2001

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Flint, Eric.

1632 / by Eric Flint.

p. cm.

ISBN 0-671-57849-9 (hc)

1. Thirty Years' War, 1618-1648 -- Fiction. 2. City and town life -- West

Virginia -- Fiction. 3. Germany -- History -- 1618-1648 -- Fiction.

4. Americans -- Travel -- Germany -- Fiction. 5. West Virginia -- Fiction. 6.

Time travel -- Fiction. I. Title.

PS3556.L548 A616 2000

813'.54 -- dc21 99-055275

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Typeset by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

To my mother,

Mary Jeanne McCormick Flint,

and to the West Virginia

from which she came.

Baen Books by Eric Flint

Mother of Demons

The Belisarius series, with David Drake:

An Oblique Approach

In the Heart of Darkness

Destiny's Shield

Prologue

The mystery would never be solved. It would simply join others, like the

Tunguska event or the Square Crater on Callisto, in the catalogue of

unexplained occurrences. The initial worldwide excitement waned within a few

months, as it became clear that no quick answers would be found. For a few

years grieving relatives would, with some success, press officialdom to

maintain the studies and inquiries. But there were no lawyers to keep the

fires stoked. The courts ruled soon enough that the Grantville Disaster was an

Act of God, for which insurance companies were not liable. Within ten years,

the Disaster had devolved into another domain of fanatics and enthusiasts,

like the Kennedy Assassination. Thereafter, of course, it enjoyed a near-

eternal half-life. But few if any reputable scientists in the world held out

any hope for a final explanation.

Theories, of course, abounded. But the vague traces on instruments were

impossible to decipher clearly. A small black hole, passing through the Earth.

That was one theory. Another -- popular for a time until the underlying

mathematics were rejected in the light of later discoveries -- was that a

fragmented superstring had struck the planet a glancing blow.

The only man who ever came close to understanding that a new universe had been

created was a biologist. A junior biologist by the name of Hank Tapper,

attached almost as an afterthought to one of the geological teams sent to

study the disaster. The team devoted several months to a study of the terrain

which had replaced what had once been part of West Virginia. They came to no

conclusions other than the obvious fact that the terrain was not indigenous to

the area, but that -- this eliminated the once-avid interest of the SETI crowd

-- it was clearly terrestrial.

The size of the foreign terrain was mapped, quite precisely. It formed a

perfectly circular hemisphere about six miles in diameter, approximately half

that deep at its center. Once the team left, Tapper remained behind for a few

more months. Eventually, he identified the fauna and flora as being almost

identical to those of parts of Central Europe. He became excited. That matched

the archaeological report, which -- very, very diffidently -- suggested that

the ruined farmhouses on the new terrain had a vaguely late-medieval/early

modern Germanic feel to them. So did the seven human corpses found in one of

the farmhouses. Two men, two women, and three children. The remains were badly

charred by the fire, but marks on the bones indicated that at least two of the

people had been murdered by some kind of large cutting implements.

The dental evidence suggested that the dead people were not modern. Or, at

least, had somehow never been given any kind of dental treatment. But medical

examination determined that the murders were very recent. And the farmhouses

were still smoldering when they were found.

Tapper teetered on the edge of the truth. Then, after several more months of

work failed to turn up any matching piece of disturbed terrain anywhere in

central Europe, he abandoned the study altogether. He had suspicions, but --

The only possible explanation was a transposition in time as well as space.

Tapper was a junior biologist. His budding career would be ruined if he

advanced his suspicions without evidence. And there could be no evidence, if

he was right. Whatever remained of the area of West Virginia which had

vanished was lost somewhere back in time.

So, Tapper accepted the loss of a year's work, and went in search of greener

pastures. He published his findings, to be sure; but only as dry factual

accounts in obscure publications. He made no attempt to draw conclusions, or

posit theories, or draw any kind of public attention.

It was just as well. His career would have been ruined -- and for no good

purpose. No one would have believed him. Even if someone had, the most

extensive archaeological search of central Europe would never have discovered

the matching hemisphere. It was there, of course, in that region of Germany

called Thuringia. But it was there almost four centuries earlier, and only for

an instant. The moment those hemispheres had been transposed, a new universe

split off from the old.

And, besides, the truth was far stranger than even Tapper ever imagined. Even

he assumed that the cause was some kind of natural cosmic disaster.

In reality, the Grantville Disaster was the result of what humans of the day

would have called criminal negligence. Caused by a shard of cosmic garbage, a

discarded fragment of what, for lack of a better term, could be called a work

of art. A shaving, you might say, from a sculpture. The Assiti fancied their

solipsist amusements with the fabric of spacetime. They were quite oblivious

to the impact of their "art" on the rest of the universe.

The Assiti would be exterminated, eighty-five million years later, by the Fta

Tei. Ironically, the Fta Tei were a collateral branch of one of the human

race's multitude of descendant species. Their motive, however, was not

revenge. The Fta Tei knew nothing of their origins on a distant planet once

called Earth, much less a minor disaster which had occurred there. The Fta Tei

exterminated the Assiti simply because, after many stern warnings, they

persisted in practicing their dangerous and irresponsible art.

Part One

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright

In the forests of the night

Chapter 1

"I'm sorry about my parents, Mike." Tom gave the two people in question a look

of resentment. "I'd hoped -- " He broke off, sighing faintly. "I'm sorry, I

really am. You spent a lot of money on all this."

Mike Stearns followed his gaze. Tom Simpson's mother and father were standing

near the far wall of the cafeteria, some fifty feet away. Their postures were

stiff; their faces, sour. Their very expensive clothing was worn like suits of

armor. They were holding the cups of punch in their hands by thumb and

forefinger, as if determined to make as little contact with the surrounding

festivities as possible.

Mike repressed a smile. Ah, yes. The dignitaries from civilization,

maintaining their savoir faire among the cannibals. They'll hold a cup of

blood, but damned if they'll drink it.

"Don't worry about it, Tom," he said softly. Mike's eyes moved away from the

haughty couple against the wall and surveyed the crowd. The gaze was filled

with satisfaction.

The cafeteria was a very large room. The utilitarian gray and cream walls had

been festooned with an abundance of decorations, which made up in cheerfulness

and festive abandon whatever they lacked in subdued good taste. Many of the

cafeteria's plastic chairs had been moved against the walls, providing a

bright orange contrast -- those few of them that were not holding someone.

Long tables ranged near the kitchen were laden with food and drink.

There was no caviar, and no champagne. But the crowd which packed the room

wouldn't have enjoyed the first -- fish eggs, yuk! -- and the second was

prohibited by high-school regulations. Mike was not concerned. He knew his

folk. They would enjoy the simple fare which was piled on the tables, thank

you, even if it was beneath the contempt of wealthy urban sophisticates. That

was true of the adults, even, much less the horde of children swarming all

over the place.

Mike gave the younger man standing at his side a little pat on the shoulder.

It was like patting a slab of beef. Tom was the first-string nose guard for

West Virginia University's varsity squad, and looked the part. "My sister

married you, not your parents."

Tom scowled. "Doesn't matter. They could at least -- Why did they even bother

to show up at my wedding, if they were going to act like this?"

Mike glanced at him. For all Tom's immense size, Mike didn't have to look up.

Tom was barely over six feet tall, about Mike's own height, even if he

outweighed him by a good hundred pounds.

Tom was back to glaring at his parents. His own face was as stiff as theirs.

Unobserved, Mike studied his new brother-in-law.

Very new brother-in-law. The wedding had been held not two hours earlier, in a

small church less than a mile away from the high school. Tom's parents had

been just as haughtily rude at the church as they were being now at the

reception. Their son should have been married in a properly discreet ceremony

in a proper Episcopalian cathedral, not -- not --

This yahoo preacher! In this yahoo -- shack!

Mike and his sister had abandoned the stark faith of their ancestors in favor

of quiet agnosticism. Years ago, in Mike's case. But neither of them had even

once considered having Rita married anywhere else. The pastor was a friend of

the family, as his father and grandfather had been before him. The Calvinist

fundamentalism of the ceremony had bothered them not in the least. Mike choked

down a laugh. If nothing else, it had been worth it just to see the way the

pastor's fire and brimstone had caused obvious constipation in Tom's

sophisticated parents.

His humor faded quickly. Mike could sense the pain lurking within Tom's eyes.

An old pain, he thought. The dull, never-ending ache of a man whose father had

disapproved of him since he was a small boy.

Tom had been born into one of the wealthiest families in Pittsburgh. His

mother was old Eastern money. His father, John Chandler Simpson, was the chief

executive officer of a large petrochemical corporation. John Simpson liked to

brag about having worked his way up from the ranks. The boast was typical of

the man. Yes, he had spent a total of six months on the shop floor, as a

foreman, after he retired from the Navy's officer corps. The fact that his

father owned the company, however, is what accounted for his later

advancement. John Chandler Simpson had fully expected his own son to follow in

those well-worn footsteps.

But Tom had never fit his family's mold and expectations. Not when he had been

a boy, and not now when he was of age. Mike knew that John Chandler had been

furious when his son chose WVU over Carnegie-Mellon -- especially given the

reason. Football? You're not even a quarterback! And both his parents had been

well-nigh apoplectic at their son's choice for a wife.

Mike's eyes scanned the room, until they fell on a figure in a wedding dress,

laughing at something being said by the young woman at her side. His sister,

Rita, sharing quips with one of her bridesmaids.

The contrast between the two girls was striking. The bridesmaid, Sharon, was

attractive in a slightly heavy and buxom sort of way. She was very dark

complected, even for a black woman. Tom's sister was also pretty, but so

slender that she bordered on being downright skinny. And her complexion --

very pale skin, freckles, blue eyes, hair almost as black as her brother's --

betrayed her own ethnic origins. Typical Appalachian mongrel. The daughter and

sister of coal miners.

Poor white trash. Yup. That's what we are, all right.

There was no anger in Mike's thought. Only contempt for Tom's parents, and

pity for Tom himself. Mike's father had a high school education. Jack Stearns

had worked in a coal mine since he was eighteen, and had never been able to

afford more than a modest house. He had hoped to help his children through

college. But the mine roof-fall which crippled him and eventually caused his

death had put paid to those plans.

The quintessential nobody. On the day he finally died, Mike had been like a

stunned ox. Years later, he could still feel the aching place in his heart

where a giant had once lived.

"Let it go, Tom," he said softly. "Just let it go. If it's worth anything,

your brother-in-law approves of you."

Tom puffed out his cheeks, and slowly blew out the breath. "It is. Quite a

bit."

Abruptly, he shook his head, as if to clear his mind for other concerns. He

turned to face Mike squarely.

"Give it to me straight, Mike. I'm graduating in a few months. I've got to

make a decision. Do you think I'm good enough to make it in the pros?"

Mike's reply came instant and firm. "Nope." He shook his head ruefully. "Take

it from me, buddy. You'll be right where I was -- the worst possible place.

Almost good enough. Good enough to keep hoping, but . . ."

Tom frowned, still hoping. "You made it. In a way. Hell, you retired

undefeated."

Mike chuckled. "Sure did. After all of eight professional fights as a light

heavy." He reached up and stroked the little scar on his left eyebrow. "My

last fight I even made it to the second card at the Olympic Auditorium. Pretty

big time."

The chuckle came again -- more of an outright laugh. "Too big! I won -- barely

-- on points. The kid demanded a rematch. And that's when I finally had enough

sense to quit. A man's got to know his limitations."

Tom was still frowning. Still hoping. Mike placed a hand on his thick arm.

"Tom, face it. You'll get no farther than I did. Realizing that you only beat

the kid in front of you because you were a little more experienced, a little

savvier, a little luckier." He winced, remembering a young Mexican boxer whose

speed and power had been well-nigh terrifying. "But that kid'll learn, soon

enough. And the fact is that he's a lot better than you'll ever be. So I quit,

before my brains got scrambled. You should do the same, while you've still got

healthy knees."

Again, Tom puffed out his cheeks and, again, blew out a slow breath. He seemed

on the verge of saying something, but a motion caught his eye. His brand-new

wife was approaching, with people in tow.

Tom was suddenly beaming like a child. Watching that glowing smile, Mike felt

his own heart warming.

Hell of a sweet kid, to come from such cruddy parents.

Rita arrived with her usual thermonuclear energy. She started by embracing her

new husband in a manner that was wildly inappropriate in a high-school

cafeteria -- springing onto him and wrapping both legs around his thighs.

Wedding dress be damned. A fierce and decidedly unvirginal kiss accompanied

the semi-lascivious embrace. Then, bouncing off, she gave Mike a hug which,

though it lacked the sexual overtones, was almost as vigorous.

The preliminaries done, Rita spun around and waved forward the two people

lagging behind her. Outside of the accompanying grin, the gesture resembled an

empress summoning her lackeys.

Sharon was grinning herself. The man next to her wore a more subdued smile. He

was a black man somewhere in his fifties, dressed in a very expensive looking

suit. The conservative, hand-tailored clothing fit the man perfectly, but

seemed at odds with the smile on his face. There was something a bit rakish

about that smile, Mike thought. And he suspected, from the man's poised

stance, that the body beneath the suit was far more athletic than its sober

cut would suggest.

"Mike, this is Sharon's father. I want to introduce you." She reached back,

more or less hauled the parent in question to the fore, and moved her hand

back and forth vigorously. "My brother, Mike Stearns. Doctor James Nichols. Be

very polite, brother of mine. He's a surgeon. Probably got four or five

scalpels tucked away somewhere."

An instant later she was charging off, hauling Tom and Sharon toward a cluster

of people chattering away in a corner of the cafeteria. Mike and Dr. Nichols

were left alone.

Mike eyed the stranger, unsure of how to open a conversation. He opted for low

humor. "My new brother-in-law's in for a long night," he said dryly. "If I

know my sister."

The doctor's smile widened. The hint of rakishness deepened. "I would say so,"

he drawled. "Is she always this energetic?"

Mike shook his head fondly. "Since she was a toddler."

Having broken the ice, Mike took the time to examine the man next to him more

carefully. Within a few seconds, he decided his initial impression was

correct. Sharon's father was a study in contradictions. His skin was very

dark, almost pure black. His hair was gray, kinky, cut very short. His

features were blunt and rough-looking -- the kind of face associated more with

a longshoreman than a doctor. Yet he wore his fine clothing with ease, and the

two rings on his fingers were simple in design and very tasteful. One was a

plain wedding band, the other a subdued pinky ring. His diction was cultured,

but the accent came from city streets. Then --

James Nichols was not a big man. No more than five feet, eight inches tall and

not particularly stocky. Yet he seemed to exude a certain physical presence. A

quick glance at the doctor's hands confirmed Mike's guess. The faint scars on

those outsized hands had not come from working in the medical profession.

Nichols was returning Mike's examination with one of his own. There seemed to

be a little twinkle in his eyes. Mike guessed that he would like the man, and

decided to probe the possibility.

"So, Doc. Did the judge give you a choice? Between the Army and the Marines, I

mean."

Nichols snorted. There was a twinkle in his eyes. "Not hardly! 'Marines for

you, Nichols.' "

Mike shook his head. "You poor bastard. He let me pick. Since I wasn't crazy,

I took the Army. I wanted no part of Parris Island."

Nichols grinned. "Well . . . You were probably just up for assault and

battery, I imagine. One brawl too many." He took Mike's smile for an answer.

His own headshake was rueful. "They couldn't prove it, since I fumbled the

thing like a Laurel and Hardy routine, but the authorities had their dark

suspicions. So the judge was hard as stone. 'Marines, Nichols. I'm sick and

tired o' you. Either that or six years downstate.' "

The doctor shrugged. "I admit, that judge probably saved my life." His

expression became filled with mock outrage. The accent thickened. "But I still

say it ain't armed robbery when the dumb kid drops the gun on the way into the

liquor store and gets caught running five blocks away. Hell, who knows? Maybe

he was just looking for its rightful owner. Not realizing, the poor cherub,

that it was a stolen piece."

Mike burst into laughter. When his eyes met those of Nichols again, the silent

exchange between them was warm and approving. The way two men, meeting for the

first time, occasionally take an instant liking to each other.

Mike glanced toward his new in-laws. He was not surprised to see that his

riotous gaiety had drawn their disapproving eyes. He met their stern frowns

with a smile whose politeness barely covered the underlying mockery.

Yeah, that's right, you rich farts. Two scapegraces, right before your eyes.

As close to outright ex-cons as you can get. Heavens!

Nichols' voice broke into Mike's silent test of wills with the Simpsons.

"So you're the famous brother," the doctor murmured.

Startled, Mike's eyes left the Simpsons. "I wasn't aware that I was famous,"

he protested.

Nichols shrugged, smiling. "Depends on the circle, I imagine. From what I can

tell, listening to them gabble over the last couple of days, every one of your

sister's college friends has a crush on you. You're quite a romantic figure,

you know."

Again, Mike was startled. And, again, it must have showed on his face.

"Oh, come on, Mike!" snorted Nichols. "You're still in your mid-thirties, and

look younger than that. Tall, handsome -- well, handsome enough. But, most of

all, you've got that glamorous history."

"Glamorous?" choked Mike. "Are you nuts?"

Nichols was grinning, now. "Give me a break. You can't fool me." He made a

little sweeping gesture with his hands, indicating himself. "What do you see

here? A very prosperous-looking black man in his mid-fifties, right?" His dark

eyes glinted with humor and knowledge. "And what else?"

Mike eyed him. "A -- let's call it a history. You weren't always a proper

doctor."

"Certainly wasn't! And don't think, when I was your age, that I didn't take

full advantage of it." Nichols' wide grin changed to a gentle smile. "You're a

classic, Mike. It's that old tale which always tugs at sentiment. The reckless

and dashing black sheep of the family, leaving town before the law could nail

him. An adventurous lad. Soldier, longshoreman, truck driver, professional

boxer. Disreputable roustabout, even if he did manage to tuck away three years

in college. Then -- "

The smile faded away completely. "And then, when your father was crippled, you

came back to take care of your family. And did as good a job of that as you'd

done scaring them to death earlier. Quite respectable, now. Even managed to

get yourself elected president of your local miners' union a couple of years

back."

Mike snorted. "I can see Rita's been telling tales." He started looking for

his sister, ready to glare at her, when his eyes fell on the Simpsons. They

were still frowning at him, so he bestowed the glare on them.

"See?" he demanded. "My new in-laws don't seem to feel any 'romantic

attraction.' Me -- respectable? Ha!"

Nichols' own gaze followed Mike's. "Well . . . 'Respectable' in an Appalachian

sort of way. Don't think Mr. Blueblood over there is mollified that his new

daughter-in-law's brother is a stone-hard union man as well as a damned

hillbilly. Not hardly."

The Simpsons were still maintaining the stare. Mike was matching it, and

adding a grin to the bargain. The grin was purely feral. A sheer, brazen,

unyielding challenge.

Nichols would remember that savage grin, in the years to come. Remember it,

and be thankful.

The Ring of Fire came, and they entered a new and very savage world.

Chapter 2

The flash was almost blinding. For an instant, the room seemed filled by

sunlight. The accompanying thunder rattled the windows.

Mike ducked, hunched. James Nichols' reaction was more dramatic. "Incoming!"

he yelped, flinging himself to the floor and covering his head with his arms.

He seemed utterly oblivious to any possible damage to his expensive suit.

Half-dazed, Mike stared through the plate-glass windows of the cafeteria. The

afterimage was still glowing in his eyes, as if the greatest lightning bolt

ever heard of had just struck right next to the school. But, blurrily, he

couldn't see any actual damage. The windows hadn't even been cracked. None of

the multitude of cars and trucks in the parking lot seemed damaged. And if the

people in the parking lot seemed like a bunch of squawking chickens, none of

them seemed to have been hurt.

The men in the parking lot were mostly coal miners from his local, who had

come in from all over the area for his sister's wedding. Partly, that was

because the United Mine Workers of America never missed a chance to flaunt

their solidarity. The UMWA sticks together. Mike thought that almost every

single member of his local had shown up for the wedding, with their families

in tow.

The sight of the startled men in the parking lot almost caused Mike to laugh,

despite the sudden shock of that incredible -- sheet lightning? What the hell

did happen? The men were clustered at the back of several pickups, making

precious little attempt to hide the fact that they were sneaking a drink in

clear and flagrant violation of the high school's firm policy against

alcoholic beverages anywhere on the premises.

A motion in the corner of his eye caught Mike's attention.

Ed Piazza was scurrying toward him, frowning like Jupiter. For a half second,

Mike thought the high-school principal was about to lecture him on the

unseemly behavior of the coal miners in the parking lot. He choked down

another laugh.

No, he's just wondering what happened too. Waiting for Ed to reach him, Mike

felt a moment's warmth for the man. Wish he'd been the principal when I was in

school. Might not have gotten into so much trouble. Good-humored, Ed is.

"I know they're gonna drink in the parking lot, Mike," Piazza had told him the

day before. Snort. "Bunch of coal miners at a wedding reception? But puh-leese

keep 'em from waving the bottles under my nose. I'd feel downright stupid, all

five and a half feet of me, marching out there to whack 'em with a ruler."

Ed was at his side now. "What happened?" The principal glanced at the ceiling.

"The lights are out too."

Mike hadn't noticed until Ed mentioned it. It was still broad daylight, and

the plate-glass windows lining the entire side of the cafeteria made the

room's fluorescent lighting almost redundant.

"I don't know, Ed." Mike set his cup of punch -- unspiked; he hadn't felt he

could break the rules himself -- on the table nearby. Dr. Nichols was starting

to rise. Mike lent him a hand.

"Lord, do I feel stupid," muttered the doctor, brushing his clothes.

Fortunately for his finery, the cafeteria floor had been mopped and waxed to a

shine. "For a moment there, I thought I was back at Khe Sanh." He, too,

asked the inevitable question. "What the hell was that?"

The large and crowded room was now in a muted uproar, everyone asking the same

thing. But there was no panic. Whatever that was, nothing immediately

disastrous seemed to have occurred.

"Let's get outside," said Mike, heading toward the cafeteria's door. "Maybe

we'll get a better idea." He glanced around the room, looking for his sister.

He spotted Rita almost at once, clutching Tom's arm. She seemed a bit alarmed,

but was obviously unhurt.

By the time Mike reached the door, Frank Jackson had pushed his way through

the babbling crowd. Seeing the stocky, gray-haired form of the union's

secretary-treasurer, followed by five other miners from the local, Mike felt a

flash of pride. UMWA. Solidarity forever.

Meeting Frank's eyes, Mike shrugged and shook his head. "I don't know what

happened either. Let's go outside and check around."

A few seconds later, the little group of men was passing through the entrance

to the high school and making their way onto the parking lot. Seeing him come,

dozens of Mike's local union members started moving in his direction. Most of

them even had enough self-possession to leave their drinks behind in the

vehicles.

Mike's first concern was for the high school itself. His eyes ranged up and

down the long row of buildings, looking for any signs of damage. But none of

the beige and white structures seemed to have been harmed at all.

"Everything looks okay," muttered Ed with heartfelt relief. The relatively new

consolidated high school -- built not much more than two decades ago, using a

lot of voluntary labor -- was the pride and joy of the rural area. For no one

was that more true than its principal.

Mike looked to the west, toward Grantville. The town itself, two miles away,

was hidden behind the hills which gave northern West Virginia its distinctive

landscape. But Mike couldn't detect any obvious indications of trouble in that

direction either.

His eyes moved to the south. The high school had been built on a gentle slope

north of Buffalo Creek. At the bottom of that slope, just beyond the end of

the parking lot, U.S. Route 250 ran parallel to the small river. The hills on

the other side of the little valley were steep, covered with trees, and

uninhabited except for a handful of trailers.

Nothing. His eyes began following the highway at the bottom of the slope,

toward the large town of Fairmont some fifteen miles to the east.

Stop. There was a hint of smoke . . .

He pointed to the hills southeast of the school. "Something's burning. Over

there."

Everyone followed his finger. "Sure enough," muttered Frank. "C'mon, Ed. Let's

call the fire brigade." The union's secretary-treasurer and the high-school

principal started moving toward the double doors leading into the school.

Then, seeing the man coming through those doors, they stopped.

"Hey, Dan!" Frank pointed to the thin columns of smoke rising in the distance.

"See if you can get hold of the Volunteers. We've got trouble here!"

Grantville's police chief didn't waste more than two seconds staring at the

smoke. Then he was hurrying toward his vehicle and its radio.

The radio wasn't working, for some reason. Nothing but static. Cursing under

his breath, Dan looked up and spotted Piazza.

"You'll have to use the phones, Ed!" he shouted. "The radio isn't working."

"The phones aren't working either!" responded Piazza. "I'll send someone down

there in a car!"

The principal hurried back toward the school. "And get hold of Doc Adams while

you're at it!" the police chief shouted to his retreating form. "We might need

medical help!" Piazza waved his acknowledgment.

By then, Mike and Frank and several other coal miners had already started up

their trucks. Dan Frost was not surprised at their instant assumption that

they would be accompanying him to see what the problem was. In truth, he took

it for granted.

Dan had once been offered a position in a large city's police force, at a

considerably larger salary. He hadn't thought for more than three seconds

before turning it down. Dan Frost had seen police work in big cities. He'd

rather stay in his little town, thank you, where he could be a cop instead of

an occupying army.

As he climbed into his Cherokee and started the engine, Dan checked the

interior of the vehicle quickly. The shotgun was in its gun case in the back,

and there was extra ammunition for his pistol in the glove compartment.

Satisfied everything was in place, he leaned out of the window. Mike Stearns

pulled his truck alongside. Dan was surprised to see a black man riding in the

passenger seat.

"Dr. Nichols here is a surgeon," Mike explained, half-shouting. "He

volunteered to come along." Mike hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "His

daughter Sharon will ride with Frank. Turns out she's a trained paramedic."

Dan nodded. An instant later, he was driving the Cherokee down the asphalt

road leading to Route 250. Three pickups and a van followed, carrying eight

coal miners along with James and Sharon Nichols. Behind them, in his rearview

mirror, Dan could see a mob of people pouring out of the high school. There

was something slightly comical about the scene. Squawking chickens, wearing

their Sunday best for the wedding.

Once he reached the road, Dan turned left. Route 250 was a well-built two-lane

highway. Even winding through the hills and hollows, it was easily possible to

drive fifty miles an hour at many stretches. But Dan took it more slowly than

usual. He was still uncertain what was happening. That flash had been truly

incredible. For a fleeting instant, Frost had been certain that a nuclear war

had started.

Everything seemed normal, though, as far as he could see. He was driving

alongside Buffalo Creek now. On the other side of the creek, at the foot of

the hills, railroad tracks ran parallel to the road. He caught a glimpse of

two house trailers nestled away in the woods. They were old, weather-beaten,

ramshackle -- but otherwise unharmed.

Coming around a bend, Dan threw on the brakes. The highway ended abruptly in a

shiny wall, perhaps six feet tall. A small car had skidded sideways into the

wall, caving part of it -- dirt, Dan realized -- over the hood. Dan could see

a woman's face staring at him through the driver's side window. The woman was

wide-eyed.

"That's Jenny Lynch," he muttered. He stared at the wall across the road.

"What in the hell is going on?"

Dan got out of the Cherokee. Behind him, he could hear the miners' trucks

coming to a halt and doors opening. When he reached the car, he tapped on the

window. Slowly, Jenny rolled it down.

"Are you okay?" The youngish, plump-faced woman nodded hesitantly.

"I -- I think so, Dan." She reached a shaky hand toward her face. "Did I kill

anybody? I don't know what happened." The words started coming out in a rush.

"There was a flash -- some kind of explosion -- I don't know . . . Then this

wall, where did it come from? I hit the brakes, car started skidding -- I . .

. I don't know what happened. I don't know what happened."

Dan patted her on the shoulder. "Relax, Jenny. You didn't hurt anybody. I

think you're just a little shaken up." He remembered Nichols. "We've got a

doctor with us. Hold on just -- "

He started to turn, but Nichols was already there. The doctor gently

shouldered Dan aside and gave Jenny a quick examination.

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1632ERICFLINT1632Thisisaworkoffiction.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinthisbookarefictional,andanyresemblancetorealpeopleorincidentsispurelycoincidental.Copyright(c)2000byEricFlintAllrightsreserved,includingtherighttoreproducethisbookorportionsthereofinanyform.ABaenBooksOriginalBaenPublishingEnte...

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