So Susan switched to offense. The open wound hurt, but she forced herself to ignore the pain as she jogged south. At least ten buildings were on fire by then, and there was plenty of light to see by as she neared the dome. The lights were back on and half a dozen ’brids were standing in front of the structure as if to guard it.
Susan brought the Fareye around, braced the rifle against a signpost, and triggered a series of quick shots. All but one of them flew true. Then the weapon was empty as the sole surviving stink spotted the weapon’s final muzzle flash and turned in her direction. It charged straight at her, firing as it came. Projectiles buzzed past her.
She didn’t have enough time to reload the Fareye, and the Reaper was hanging by its sling, so Susan pulled the Colt. Then, walking towards the oncoming stink, she raised the pistol, pulled the spur-shaped hammer back, and began to fire. “That’s for Dad! And that’s for Mom, and these are for our ranch hands.”
The heavy slugs hit the Hybrid, threw it back, and dumped the creature on its back. The Chimera was dead, but Susan had one bullet left, and was determined to use it. “And this one,” she said as she pointed the revolver downwards, “is for me.”
With a loud bang, the .45-caliber slug smashed the Hybrid’s grotesque face, flames shot a hundred feet up into the sky, and the past continued to burn.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ONE-ON-ONE
One step at a time. That was the way Capelli made it through each long and exhausting night. Fortunately the terrain was relatively flat. But even a slight incline required the slaves to throw their combined weight against the wooden crosspieces as Master Jack’s whip nipped at their backs and they pushed the wagon upwards.
Nine days had passed since the stop in Hamley and Nix’s ill-fated battle with El Diablo. And now, according to Bam-Bam, the circus was on its way to a place called Tank Town. A community which, to hear him tell about it, was like a miniature city. Except Capelli had no intention of going to Tank Town or anyplace with Master Jack and his so-called performers. Because he planned to escape.
It was on the fifth day out from Hamley that Capelli found the broken hacksaw blade. He and the other donkeys were crouched inside a large equipment shed at the time, waiting for night to fall, when he caught a glimpse of the object, partially covered with soil. The implement was half the length it should have been, and dull as well, which probably accounted for why it had been thrown away.
Shortly thereafter, Capelli went to work on link thirty-two of the chain that ran from the wagon’s tongue to his metal collar. But his task wasn’t easy. The teeth were worn down and there was rule eight to consider: “Don’t trust anyone.” Not even his fellow donkeys—who might try to take the tool for themselves, or sell him out to one of the guards.
So sawing through the link had been a long, arduous process often carried out with cold fingers when the others were sleeping. And with nowhere else to hide the object, Capelli had been forced to stick the ribbon of steel down into his right boot, where it rubbed his skin raw.
But finally the cut had been completed and camouflaged with a paste made from oil-soaked dirt mixed with spit. Now, all Capelli needed was the right opportunity to pull himself loose and run like hell. And when he and his fellow slaves toiled up a 3-percent grade, he saw his chance.
Alfonso was the only member of the troupe who had a horse, and he was scouting somewhere up ahead. There was no moon. But with a clear sky and some starlight, Capelli could see the mixture of grass and unharvested wheat that flourished along both sides of the road. It was tall enough to hide in, and given the need to protect the wagon, it seemed unlikely that Inkskin and Bam-Bam would pursue him for very long.
So as the slaves reached the top of the rise, Capelli felt for link thirty-two, found it, and broke free. Then, cognizant of the fact that it was important to move quickly, he ran. Inkskin saw the motion and hurried to block the slave’s escape route.
Capelli had about two feet of chain to work with, and the metal flail struck the guard across the bridge of his nose. He fell, the Bullseye clattered as it hit the ground, and Capelli kept running.
Master Jack was bellowing orders by that time, and projectiles blipped past Capelli’s head, as Bam-Bam opened fire on him. Capelli was in the wheat by then. But after hours of hard work, his legs felt as if they were made of lead. He drove himself forward anyway, knowing that every yard of progress took him closer to freedom. The firing had stopped by then, because a dead donkey was nothing more than Hybrid fodder.
But then, just as Capelli was about to drop to his hands and knees in an attempt to disappear from sight, he heard the sound of thundering hooves. Voices shouted, a loop of rope fell over his shoulders, and a horse rushed past him. Suddenly, Capelli was jerked off his feet and towed towards the highway. The ground was reasonably smooth, but there were small rocks, and they pummeled his back until he came to a sudden stop in the drainage ditch.
Inkskin was there to lift Capelli up, drag him onto the pavement, and beat him back down. The lower part of the guard’s face was black with blood and he was furious. From his vantage point on the ground, Capelli realized that there were three horses in all as the man who had roped him swung a leg over his mount’s back and stepped down. “Thanks,” Bam-Bam said, as the rope was removed from Capelli’s shoulders. “The bastard damned near got away.”
Master Jack had arrived on the scene by then and took advantage of the opportunity to kick Capelli in the ribs. The blow hurt like hell. Capelli curled up into the fetal position. Then, turning to the rider, the ringmaster spoke. “Are you from Tank Town by any chance?” he inquired conversationally. “We were told to expect a contact roughly five miles out.”
“You heard right,” the man replied, his breath fogging the air. “My name’s Grady. I’m what the boss calls a ‘coordinator.’ ”
“So Tank Town is still in operation?”
“We’ve been in business for fifty-three days without being attacked by the Chimera. And that ain’t no accident,” Grady added, as he coiled his rope. “In order to enter Tank Town you’ll have to do it at night, you’ll have to follow one of our guides, and you’ll have to obey the house rules once you’re inside.”
“Okay,” Master Jack replied. “That sounds reasonable. What’s this I hear about an entry fee?”
“You’ll have to pay a fee to get in,” Grady confirmed. “Plus the boss takes ten percent off the top of anything you make.”
There wasn’t much light, so Capelli couldn’t see the expression on the ringmaster’s face, but he could tell that the fat man was annoyed from the tone of his voice. “Ten percent? That’s kind of steep, isn’t it?”
Grady put a foot in a stirrup and swung up onto his horse. “That’s a matter of opinion, I guess. But a large audience is real hard to find these days.”
Master Jack was in no position to push back and knew it. “Point taken. We’ll follow your guide in.”
Inkskin jerked Capelli to his feet, shoved him towards the rest of the donkeys, and added a kick for emphasis. “Welcome back, Capelli. You’re going to be sorry. Real sorry.”
Capelli stumbled, caught himself, and knew that he was.
Both Boss Orley’s guide and Ringmaster Jack wanted to make it into Tank Town before sunrise. And for good reason. So long as the stinks controlled the sky, everyone on the ground was vulnerable. Especially during daylight hours.