Terror-stricken, Tom clambered up the rock-strewn slope. The roaring monsters were gaining on him. He did not know why he was being hunted. But instinctively he fled.
Suddenly he lost his footing on the loose gravel and crashed to the ground. He got up at once and sat crouched on his haunches, his hands on the ground before him, regaining his strength. He turned his wild, sweat-streaked face toward his pursuers and watched them with fear and hatred.
The boys drew up. Startled, they stared at the strange apparition squatting some distance before them.
“Man!” one of them exclaimed. “What kind of weirdo is that?”
“Looks like a fugitive from a funny farm,” his companion giggled. “Let's go put a net over him!”
He gunned his moped, and both boys raced toward their prey.
Tom leaped to his feet. He streaked toward the canyon, the noisy, terrifying creatures in close pursuit.
He reached the break and ran into the ravine. Still fairly wide, the canyon had a near-perpendicular wall on one side and a steep slope strewn with boulders and rocks on the other.
Tom was no match for the speed and mobility of the mopeds. They easily overtook him. Whooping his triumph, one of the boys raced past him and skidded around to a stop, gunning his idling motor.
Tom stopped short. Terror tore at his mind.
He was boxed.
The boy in front of him gunned his motor. The rumbling sound reverberated between the canyon walls — the roar of a demon. With a shrill Wild West war whoop the boy raced his moped a short distance toward the terrified Tom, slowing to a gravel-spurting halt a few feet from him. At once, from behind, the other boy, yelling with excitement, roared at his ambushed prey, raising a cloud of dirt and dust as he laid his bike on its side in a sliding stop.
Tom was frantic, gripped by a terror that robbed him of his breath. The noise hammered at his ears. Desperately he sought a way to escape the ravening monsters that herded him between them, closer and closer.
To the boys his frenzied attempts to flee were great sport. They gunned their noisy bikes and bellowed at their quarry, taunting and tormenting him until finally he was trapped between them, his back to the precipitous canyon wall. There was nowhere he could go.
Wild-eyed, lips drawn back in a snarl, he stood facing them. Raw panic ripped his mind apart. A savage fury took possession of him. A terrrifying scream tore from his throat — and with the feral desperation of a cornered rat he hurled himself at the nearest enemy.
Shocked by surprise, the boy tried to avoid the maddened charge. He gunned his moped. It leaped ahead with a sudden lurch. The loose gravel shot from the spinning wheels; the boy lost control and the bike crashed into a huge boulder, pitching the rider headlong into the rock. Limply he slipped to the ground.
In the grip of uncontrollable rage, Tom did not stop his onslaught. His tormentor was still there, lying before him. He rushed upon the motionless boy and the still racing machine, its wheels spinning as it lay on the ground. With unbridled fury he attacked. He seized the noisy, frightening demon that had been tormenting him. With strength born of blinding rage he lifted it over his head and slammed it violently into the rock. The gas tank split open and immediately flames and black smoke shot up from the mangled bike.
Tom drew back. His fury unabated, he whirled on the other rider. Shaken with horror, the boy gunned his moped, turning it away. He found himself headed for the steep incline that formed one wall of the canyon, his crazed assailant in close pursuit. Hammer down, he covered ground, trying to scale the slope. Gravel, sand and rocks spewed from the racing wheels as he urged the moped up the steep canyon side. Suddenly the vehicle bucked. It pitched over backward and tumbled down the hill, the boy — thrown from it — plummeting after. Gathering speed, the moped hurtled down to crash into the burning bike at the boulder below. A thunderclap explosion rocked the ravine and rolled through the hills.
Tom was thrown to the ground by the blast. With heart-stopping fear he stared at the flames that licked the remnants of his enemies. A momentary inner vision of another fireball burned through his mind — never reaching the conscious level. It filled him with primeval terror. Quickly he got up and ran for the mouth of the ravine — the way now open to him.
He felt utterly spent, but the rage had left him. His terror of the monsters pursuing him had been vastly reinforced, but there was also a self-satisfied realization.
The fearful monsters could be fought.
And vanquished.
Without a glance back he ran from the ravine, leaving behind two still figures sprawled on the ground and a blazing fire sending billows of black smoke up into the burning sky…
On the road a little more than a mile to the south Wilson brought his scout to an abrupt stop. He pointed.
“Look!” he called to Ward. “What the hell is that?”
In the distance a column of black smoke rose over the foothills, climbing higher and higher into the stagnant air…
To Paul, the map of Death Valley lying spread out on Stark's desk was becoming a symbol of something sinister and evil. The Chief Ranger pointed to a spot on the map.
“Here,” he said. “'Here's where he attacked the two moped drivers from the trailer camp.”
Paul frowned. “Attacked?” he queried. Grim-faced, he turned to Ward.
“I know,” the medical officer said. “It sounds — unbelievable. But — fact is we've got one kid with a fractured skull and another with a broken collarbone and a hide covered with contusions and lacerations.”
Scowling, Paul returned his attention to the map. He was beginning to hate it. He put his finger on it.
“Here's where we lost him,” he said. “Desolation Canyon.”
“I still don't see how it was humanly possible to get out of that ravine,” Ward said.
Paul glanced at him. “Humanly possible? Maybe it wasn't.” He returned to the map. “And here's where you found the mopeds and the two boys. He can't have gotten too far. We'll place observers in a ring around the area.” He traced a line on the map. “Here.” He turned to Stark. “Tell your men to keep their eyes open. He's got the cunning of a desert fox.”
Stark nodded. “If he's there, they'll spot him.”
“Our search teams will patrol the area inside the circle,” Paul continued. “We'll be in position to move in as soon as they do. Get on it.”
“Right.” Stark left.
Ward looked solemnly at Paul. “He's getting dangerous, Paul.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that we'd better get him before he really attacks someone. Or kills them.”
Paul stared at him, his face dark. He was about to make a remark when Randi entered the office. He turned to her.
“Randi,” he said, concerned, “why don't you get some rest? This heat is enough to bake all your energy right out of you.”
Randi nodded. She looked out the window at the sun-scorched desert. “One of the rangers told me that the Panamint Indians called this place Tomesha. It means Ground on Fire.” She turned to Paul. “Tom is out there, Paul. How will he rest?”
“Randi—”
“Are you going out?” Randi asked quietly.
“Yes.”
“I'm going with you,” she said.
He started to protest.
“Remember our bargain,” she cut him off firmly.
He grinned. “Dammit, doll! You drive a hard one.”