Valentine searched the copper-dusted mountains of the Mogollon Rim ahead. The dry air gave the horizon a clarity that seemed to expand his personal patch of earth as it reduced his place in it. He felt rather like one of the valley butterflies, perhaps determinedly unaware of an approaching windshield.
"Will they keep off us?" Valentine asked.
"Depends. Some of the young men might be feeling their oats. Wish I could tell you more. All we got to go on is rumor. No one's lived in Holloweye Valley long enough to do any social studies".
"I didn't see that on the road map".
"It's unofficial, like Checkpoint Circlejerk back there. The valley's not a problem. It's the passes you have to watch. They'll roll a wreck down and try to cause an accident".
"Why Holloweye?"
Salsa probed an ear. "Let's hope we don't find out".
* * *
The bikers, skin almost as dark as their faded leathers, reported back as the convoy paused on a long turn looking down into the valley. While they refueled stomachs and tanks from chuck wagon and bowser, Road Chief Lautenberg held a meeting.
Salsa returned and put his crew back in the overwatch vehicle. "We're going to go clear the road while we still have daylight", he told his crew. Swell wiped his palm on his jeans as Salsa described their operation.
"The Jaguars have the road blocked good with wrecks. They ain't manning the barricade, but somebody launched off slingstones at the bikers while they checked for survivors. We're going to go in and cover the wreckers while they clear the road".
"Could they tell how they took out the wrecks?" Zuniga asked.
Salsa shrugged. "Looked like a big road accident, they said. No question, one vehicle blew up. I had dynamite lobbed at me a couple runs back when I was driving the tanker. Maybe they got lucky with a toss. Any more questions?"
"How many dead?" Valentine asked.
"They said it was a dozen at least. They're not even dried out yet.
Zuniga shook his head slowly. Salsa continued: "Yeah. They were about to cut the bodies down when the slingstones hit".
* * *
With two motorcycles riding scout, flanking the operation like prowling dogs under the perfect yellow of an Arizona sun, the two wreckers and Salsa's armed 4x4 approached the blockade at a creep. Valentine hung out one door by a safety strap, searching the road for signs of mining. Salsa did the same, from a slightly more conventional position in the passenger window.
The expedition stopped fifty yards from the blockade. Valentine smelled burning tire.
Vultures rose from the wrecks when Zuniga blasted the Rover's horn.
"Okay, Argent, go earn your coin", Salsa said as the vehicles halted.
"Seen-yority", Swell said, swinging the now-uncovered gun to cover the wrecks. "It's got its privileges".
Valentine trotted up the median of the highway with carbine held ready against his shoulder - there was precious little cover on the road itself, and if he had to go to ground, he at least wanted the dry-looking brush in between him and the Jaguars.
The eight bodies were laid out between the wrecks in a pattern that might have been trying to be a flower, or a boat propeller. All were hollow-socketed and opened at the rib cage. Valentine guessed that the heart and liver were missing at least, along with more obvious extractions of eyes, noses, and tongues. Taking a deep breath, he knelt beside one sandy-haired corpse and looked in the nose.
They'd spooned out a good deal of brain as well.
Valentine heard a flutter and whirled, but it was just a crow. The black bird opened its mouth, an angry "Kaww!" contesting the bodies.
Valentine paid it no attention and did a fast search of the trucks
and vans. He found three more bodies, similarly picked at but not arranged in any fashion save what was needed for a quick extraction of organ meat.
He heard a chatter of machine-gun fire and the sudden gunning of a motorcycle. He hopped up in a pickup bed - the contents had been stripped as hastily and messily as the bodies - and saw one of the bikers taking off against a running, sun-browned figure. The runner had a bad limp, with blood and dirt caked on his leg.
The biker stopped his bike, lifted an oddly thick rifle, pumped its action three times, and fired. Valentine saw a thick dart blossom in the back of the runner, who flopped over again.