A one-piece dark blue garment covered his superbly muscled form. On his left hip rode a survival knife; on his right an unusual curved sword in a leather scabbard. In a shoulder holster under his left arm rode a revolver; in a similar holster under his right nestled an auto pistol. Clutched in his brawny hands was a carbine with an exceptionally long magazine.
“It can’t be!” the stocky soldier blurted out.
“No one make a move,” Sergeant Sikes warned in a whisper. “We all have our Dakon II’s slung and he’d cut us down before any of us brought our weapons to bear. Wait for an opening, for my signal.”
Carson absently nodded. He couldn’t understand where the man in blue had come from. The nearest cover was over a dozen yards away. How had the guy managed to get there without being spotted?
“Hello,” Sikes said, much louder than necessary given the fact only 20 feet separated the patrol from the mystery man. “May we help you?”
Without responding, the man in blue came forward ten feet and halted.
His eyes seemed to bore into each one of them.
Sikes casually placed his right hand on the sling to his Dakon II. “What do you want? Who are you?”
“You know who I am,” the man replied in a low tone.
“Oh, God!” the stocky grunt blurted out, completely overlooking the fact it was illegal for any Technic City citizen to ever refer to any deity.
The man took several more strides. “Place all of your weapons on the ground at your feet and raise your hands over your heads.”
“We can’t do that,” Sergeant Sikes said, inching his hand a bit higher.
“Do it or die.”
“There’s six of us and only one of you,” Sikes blustered, and swallowed hard.
“I know the odds are in my favor,” the man said matter-of-factly. “Your superiors have been grossly negligent in sending out such small patrols.”
“We’ve heard about you, Shadow,” Sikes revealed, stalling, his hand sliding higher on the sling.
A lopsided smile curled the big man’s lips. “Is that what they’re calling me? How appropriate. But by the time I’m done they’ll be calling me much worse.”
“You’re the one who has killed thirty-seven Technics,” Sikes noted.
“Fifty-three.”
The stocky soldier whined. “Oh, God! Oh, God!”
“Lay down your weapons,” the Shadow repeated. “Either comply or use them.”
Carson couldn’t move. His limbs were locked in place, his mind stuck in neutral. Fear dominated his being, filling every pore, every cell. He knew if he twitched he’d be dead, and he desperately wanted to live.
“Go to hell!” Sikes suddenly barked, and attempted to bring his Dakon II into play.
It all happened so incredibly fast. Had Carson blinked he would have missed the fight. He saw the sergeant sweeping the Dakon II down and around, but the guy in blue already had the carbine leveled. The automatic burped. Heavy slugs tore into Sikes’s torso, and burst out his back to hit the stocky grunt even as the impact propelled Sikes rearward. Both men went down.
Private Lavender had her Dakon II only partially off her shoulder when several rounds drilled into her forehead and toppled her on the spot.
The remaining pair of troopers tried to unsling their Dakon II’s, but they each died on their feet, their brains cored in a millisecond of time.
Silence descended.
Feeling his heart thumping wildly in his chest, Corporal Carson stayed rooted in place. The big man’s Carbine swung to cover him and he flinched, expecting to feel searing pain in his chest or head an instant before he plunged into oblivion. Amazingly, no shots were fired. He glanced down at the bodies all around him, marveling at the Shadow’s marksmanship. When he glanced up again the man in blue was striding toward him.
“What’s your name?”
Taking a deep breath and licking his lips, Carson managed to squeak, “Lyle Carson, sir.”
“Do you want to live, Lyle Carson?”
“Yes. Oh, yes.”
The big man stopped and studied the corporal’s face. “Curious, isn’t it, how fear can be a lifesaver given the proper circumstances?”
“What?” Carson mumbled, struggling to get his mind to function.
“Your fear saved your life,” the Shadow elaborated, and pointed at the soldier’s groin.
Bending his neck, Carson was stunned to find a wide wet stain on the front of his pants, and realized he’d emptied his bladder. How could he do it and not even know it? He looked at the man in blue and mustered a feeble grin. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me. I’m not the one who’s going to smell like the hind end of a horse until those pants are washed.” The Shadow extended his left hand and said, “Now hand over your Dakon II or suffer the same fate as your fellows.”
Nodding vigorously, Carson complied, bothered by how the guy knew the name of the special weapon used only by the Technic troops. Not many outside of Technic City were familiar with the unique rifle.
The Shadow cast the Dakon II aside. “I’ve spared you for a reason. So long as you cooperate, you’ll live.”
“I’ll cooperate,” Carson said quickly. “Anything you want, you get.”
“I want answers. Lots and lots of answers.”
Carson stared at Lavender, at the ragged hole in the back of her head, at the brains and fluid oozing out of her cranium, and felt a chill ripple down his spine. “Ask away.”
“Somehow I knew I could count on you.”
CHAPTER ONE
The quaint settlement was located 15 miles northeast of the former town known as Rochester, Minnesota. It consisted of a mere nine buildings that had been constructed from whatever had been handy at the time the buildings went up. To most wanderers passing through it seemed as if a strong, gusty wind would flatten every structure. Optimistically dubbed Second Chance by its grizzled, cantankerous founder several decades ago, the settlement now served as a gathering point for all the farmers, trappers, and others living within 50 miles.
On the Sunday afternoon of the raid there were 65 people in Second Chance. Thirty-one belonged to various families that had traveled in by horse and wagon to hear the bearded man who called himself a preacher discourse on the reality of Heaven and Hell. His late-morning sermon stressed the fact they were all living in a hell spawned by a vile humanity, a hell that surpassed its Biblical counterpart for sheer wickedness and despicable brutality. He urged them to turn to God if they desired to escape the nightmarish legacy bestowed upon them by war-crazed leaders 106 years ago.
The preacher’s sermon had concluded two hours before, and the families were strolling about along the dusty main street—if such it could be called—as was the custom in Second Chance on comparable lazy Sunday afternoons. The bartender at Glisson’s Shine and Feed was doing a brisk but discreet business as many of the men came in ostensibly to see about purchasing supplies, and quite naturally slaked their thirst while contemplating their expenditures.
Into the town from the north rode the colorful prospector called Old Jerry astride his ancient donkey Jeffrey, waving his arms, his tattered coat flapping, and shrieking at the top of his ancient lungs that they should all flee to the woods. He reined up in front of Glisson’s, spilling from his mount rather than taking the time to dismount properly. From all directions hastened everyone in town, aroused by his cries and anxious to determine the cause.
Through the handcrafted batwing doors strode burly Dee Glisson, wiping his hands on his apron and bestowing a baleful glare on the man who had done more than any other living person to keep him in business.
“What the hell is all this racket, then? Are you drunk again, Jerry?” he demanded.