"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."

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 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.

Tags: E.E. Knight Vampire Earth Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net