The dry cornstalks shattered as the APC streaked across the field, the big engines screaming. The muscles stood out on Krysty's arms as she worked the levers, forcing the multiton wag into a tight arc, swinging back the way they had just come. A few seconds passed, and she spied a dark blotch moving amid the cornstalks directly ahead of them.

"Go for it," Ryan commanded, and braced for the impact.

Grimly, Krysty held the course. At the last moment, the driver saw them suddenly looming close and screamed in horror. Then the Hummer disappeared from sight below the prow of the LAV. The companions lost their footing as the nose of the war wag went high, aiming toward the sky. Underneath the floor was a terrible crunching noise, mixed with high-pitched shrieking. The APC tilted at an angle, almost flipping over, then leveled out and was back in the corn again, riding on even ground.

Braking to a halt, Krysty returned to the crash site and stopped a short distance from the flattened wreck. Stepping from the rear of the APC, the companions approached the destroyed Hummer, warily walking over the crushed cornstalks to avoid the pieces of broken machinery and twitching meat.

Gore-splattered limbs jutted from the smashed chassis, red blood and gasoline dripping from a dozen spots. An eye lay on the ground near the splintery stock of a Kalashnikov. Shards of glass from the windshield were sprinkled across the cornstalks like diamond dust. Circling around the site, Ryan found a sec man dangling out of the crumpled metal, still struggling to get free in spite of the fact his body was shredded below the waist. "Help me..." he panted, blood welling from his mouth at the words and dribbling down his chin.

"I'll end the pain," Ryan said, going closer, a hand on his blaster. "Just tell me where your home base is. Who is your leader?" There were more questions he wanted to ask. A lot more. But those were the most important-where and who. "H-help me..."

"Where is your home base!" the warrior demanded. Drooling blood, the man blindly reached out a trembling hand with only two remaining fingers.

"He can't hear you," J.B. said, resting his Uzi on a shoulder.

Ryan turned. "Mildred?" The physician shook her head. "Fair enough." Drawing his blaster, Ryan put a 9 mm round into the dying soldier. The man jerked at the impact and went still.

"Let's go," Ryan said, holstering the piece. "There's nothing here to salvage."

Doc sniffed the air. "And we had best hurry, my dear Ryan. I think the cornfield is on fire."

"Yeah," Dean said from the turret, squinting into the distance. "And it's coming this way fast."

Chapter Three.

Moving quickly past the remnants of the Hummer, the companions climbed into the APC and took seats. Settling in, Doc began the lengthy process of reloading his LeMat, while Mildred checked on the unconscious Jak. The teen was lying on a bedroll, a wet compress on his bruised forehead. He had received a small concussion from a falling ammo box, but otherwise seemed undamaged.

"Let's go," Ryan said, slamming home the bolt. "This corn is burning fast as a fuse."

Starting the engines took a few tries, but Krysty finally got the diesels to turn over. A slight shudder was detectable in the floor as she struggled to slide the stick shift into neutral.

As the wag rumbled forward, a nasty grinding noise came from the engine. It became steadily louder.

"Fireblast, we do have damage!" Ryan cursed. "Must have been that damn satchel charge. No chance to fix it now. Keep going!"

Fluttering his eyelids, Jak tried to speak and began to cough.

Dampening a cloth with water from a canteen, Mildred turned to the youth and saw gray tendrils of smoke rising from the nearby vents. Dropping the canteen, she tried to slide the vent covers closed, but they were firmly jammed in place. Muttering curses her minister father wouldn't have approved, the physician grabbed some more rags from the pile and started stuffing the openings closed. Dean rushed to assist and, working at opposite ends of the craft, they got the larger holes sealed. That helped, but not much. Wisps still seeped into the vehicle around the doors and hatches.

"Get moving!" Mildred barked, splashing more water on the rags to keep them wet. "We have to get out of this or risk suffocation!"

"I'm worried about that," Ryan answered, placing a palm on the hull. The metal was still cool to the touch. "It's the external fuel cans. Those flames get too close and we ignite like a bomb."

"Drop them," J.B. stated, snatching another duffel bag from the loose items on the floor. Yanking open the top, he began tossing in food packs and spare ammo in case they were forced to abandon the LAV to run for their lives. He might be mistaken, but the engines sounded bad, and seemed to be getting worse by the second.

Ryan forced his attention away from the struggling engines. "Can't lose the fuel. We're going to need every drop to reach the next Shiloh. We're low as it is. Worst comes, we can always cut the cans loose."

"Might have to!" Krysty shouted. As she peered out the broken ob port, smoke stung her eyes and made them water. "The fire is keeping us from the road, and I can't see a thing through this bastard corn. Gone wild, this stuff could stretch for miles. Which direction do we go, north or south?"

Restraining a cough, Ryan gestured. "Doc, you're the tallest. Get into that turret and guide us!"

"With the greatest pleasure." As the old man holstered his blaster and clambered into the turret, J.B. passed up his Navy telescope. Forcing back the top hatch, Doc tied a handkerchief to his mouth as protection from the thickening smoke, then extended the antique instrument to its full length.

"Forest to the right, ocean to the left," he loudly announced, studying the golden field. "The corn goes for another mile and then seems to abruptly stop. There might be a dip in the ground!"

"Or another cliff," Krysty added, working the clutch and throttle trying to smooth out the engine vibrations.

Bending at the knees, Doc stooped back inside and dogged the hatch shut. "Indeed, madam." He coughed to clear his throat. "Our choices are exceedingly poor."

"The fire is closer," Dean said from the aft doors, a note of tension in his voice. "I can see flames over the top of the cornstalks."

In spurts, the LAV straggled to roll through the ancient farmland, the dry plants bending slowly out of their way, then rising intact again as the APC crept along.

Studying the motion of the billowing smoke, Ryan made his decision. "The wind is from the sea, going toward the cliff. Head for the trees."

Her prehensile hair coiled protectively against her scalp, Krysty stomped on the gas pedal. "Do my best," she muttered, mentally sending a prayer to Gaia to aid them once more this day.

Behind them, thick plumes of black smoke masked the horizon, wild tongues of orange flame rising to fill the sky with hellish illumination as the rapidly growing inferno raged completely out of control.

ON THE OTHER SIDE of a distant mountain range, a small child stumbled through a lush field of green grass. It had been early morning since her mother left to gather wood for their campfire, and now it was late afternoon. Susie was trying not to cry, but she was hungry and dared not eat the dead squirrel before the greenish meat was cooked. That was how her daddy had died so many months ago. She missed him so much, and often awoke crying from bad dreams, seeing him thrash about foaming at the mouth until her mommy cut his throat. Susie never wanted to eat meat after that, but it was the only food they had. She had tried grass, but it tasted nasty and too much made her bad sick.

"Mommy?" she called out softly, hugging a bundle of rags. Her dolly had once had a head, but it was long ago. "Mommy, where are you?"

Only the whispery winds in the trees answered.

Following a bear path through the woods, the tearful child watched the prickly bushes for signs of muties that might attack, clutching her doll for protection. She was supposed to run away from strangers and animals, but if something was hurting her mommy, Susie would kill it dead with the sharp knife hidden inside her dolly. Oh, yes, she would. Daddy had showed her how.

A strange sound caught her attention, and she headed in that direction. Pushing her way through some vines, the girl cried out in delight at finding a bush still heavy with summer berries. Odd that the bear hadn't eaten them, but this would mean more meat for her mommy to eat! That should make her so happy. Greedily, Susie stuffed her face with the mushy blueberries, rivulets of purple juice flowing down her chin, until she thought her belly might burst. It felt so good not be hungry again, if only for a little while.

Taking one last handful, the child curiously walked through the trees munching steadily. The weird noise came again, louder this time, and there were faint voices-men talking and shouting.

Susie started to run and shout for her mother, but stopped. People were dangerous, even the right ones without extra arms and such. Sometimes they tried to eat you, or worse, her mother had warned. Susie carefully obeyed the warning, even though she wasn't sure what could be worse than getting eaten by a nasty mutie.

More voices came through the forest, and the crack of a whip. That sound she knew from when they stayed at a ville and the sec men beat a man to death for stealing a blaster from the baron. It was a very bad thing to do because blasters were only for sec men, or barons. Her mommy wouldn't let her watch the beating, but Susie heard the whips, and it seemed to take forever for the poor thief to die. Her daddy said it was a good thing he got chilled. Thieves were worse than muties because muties didn't know any better.

Wiping her hands clean on her ragged dress, Susie followed the faint voices through the foliage until coming to the top of a steep hill. Filling the valley below was a wonderful ville, unlike anything she had ever seen before. There were houses made of brick, and many, many people, some in chains and others herding them forward with whips. More thieves? A squat building near a river had six big chimneys with black smoke pouring into the purple sky. Thick rope stretched from the building to a machine, then spread out across the ville like a spiderweb. A tremendous bowl sat in the middle of the ville, the huge white machine towering over the tall chimneys and casting the land underneath into dark shadows.

More people were digging into the side of a rocky hill, chained thieves dragging stone blocks over to a wall they were building around the whole area. A wall of stone. Susie was in awe. She had never seen such a thing before. It was wonderful! Certainly no mutie or mean old coldheart could get through that. Well, except for sting-wings, and they were little.

"Hold it right there, kid!" an adult voice growled.

Still holding her doll, Susie turned and looked up at the two big men standing in the weeds. They were wearing clean blue shirts and carrying longblasters. The tall man had a bushy beard, and the other was short and fat.

"Hello, sec men," she said, giving a curtsy. Her mommy said to always be polite to sec men, or they would tell the baron on you. "I'm looking for my mommy. Have you seen her?"

"Oh, crap. This must be that bitch's kid," the tall man growled irritably. "I was hoping she would run away and get lost or something."

"Well, she didn't," his companion snapped, doing something to his weapon. "And you know what that means."

Frightened, Susie stayed still as the adults argued. When the sec men were done, mebbe they could help her. She thought about offering them some berries, but only had a few and wanted to save them for her mommy.

The tall man scratched at his beard. "Come on, Sarge. She's too small to work in the mines."

"And we can't let her go. No exceptions, or it's our necks. That's what the boss said." The short man aimed his longblaster at her. She hugged her doll tight, feeling very scared for some reason. Susie wanted to run, but knew they could catch her easy.

"Aw, she's just a kid!" He sounded very angry for some reason.

"Not any more."

The blaster fired once, the sharp report seeming to echo through the forest and into the valley where the giant machine stood poised and nearly ready to be activated.

WIPING AT THE DIRTY windshield with his hand, Stephen stared at the blockhouse ahead of the caravan and frowned in displeasure. In a squeal of metal on metal, he ground the rickety old van to a halt. In slow procession, the two trucks behind the rusty wag also stopped, the drivers fumbling with the unfamiliar brakes and gearshifts.

Chewing a lip, Stephen rested his arms on top of the steering wheel. Straight ahead was a fork in the road, the left branch going to some nameless pesthole ville, the right heading directly toward Front Royal. Strategically positioned between the branches was a stout blockhouse made of whole logs cemented together into a formidable structure. Blaster slots were notched into the thick walls, the only door fronted by a half circle of sandbags a full yard high. A dozen sec men armed with blasters stood behind the sandbags watching him sitting in the lead wag, but that wasn't what made Stephen so apprehensive. It was their clothes. They were wearing the wrong clothes.

Setting the parking brake with a yank, Stephen stared at the leader of the sec men as he came closer. The rest of the troopers stayed where they were, their longblasters held casually, but with their fingers on the triggers. They weren't expecting any trouble, just ready for it. From previous trips, Stephen knew there were more sec men hidden in the trees to give additional support should the need arise. This fork was a major approach to the ville and was always well-defended.

It was the shirts that bothered him. The material was brown, not the blue of Overton's private army. What had happened in Front Royal during his absence?

As the sergeant stopped well away from the van, Stephen rolled down the window and managed to smile, politely keeping both of his hands in plain sight. He had a revolver at his hip, and a shotgun was clipped to the ceiling. But the slightest move toward either of those weapons would probably be the last thing he ever did.

"Hey," the sec man said in greeting.

Stephen nodded. "Good morning, sir. How much?"

Hooking thumbs into his gun belt, the sergeant snorted a laugh. "That's all done with. No more tolls on this road by order of Baron Cawdor."

Something was wrong here; Stephen knew it and took a chance. "Cawdor?" he asked, trying to sound puzzled. "I thought the baron here was named Overton."

A sneer replaced the smile. "He's dead. Got chilled by his own troops. Nathan Cawdor is the rightful baron here."

Dead? So the invasion failed. Sweat broke out over Stephen's body as he smiled to the news. "Great! I heard Overton was a real son of a bitch."

"Pretty bad," the sec man agreed, looking at the line of trucks. "All three of these wags belong to you?"

"Yeah, we caravan through the hills together. Safer that way, you know, muties and coldhearts."

The smile returned, but not with much warmth. "I hear you. Much trouble in the passes?"

"No. A few stickies, nothing more. We travel at night when it's too cold for anybody to try jacking us."

"Pretty smart." The smile stayed, but the eyes became hard. "What's the cargo?" Stephen started to say wire, but stopped himself. For some reason Overton had wanted insulated cable from predark buildings and lots of it Who knew why? Mebbe he wanted to electrify all of Front Royal. Yeah, right. Few villes were able to sustain a constant supply of electricity. Most folks considered it a myth. And there was no chance that Nathan would want the cable for the same purpose as Overton. But what else could copper wiring be used for? An answer was needed immediately, and Stephen surprised himself by dredging up a vague memory of a phrase he heard somewhere. "Refined metal," he lied smoothly. "For making jacketed bullets." The sec man looked properly impressed. "Plus, a few passengers."

"Muties?"

"Norms, I assure you."

Narrowing his eyes, the sergeant seemed skeptical. "How many?"

"Ten."

"Any skilled workers, carpenters, masons?"

"Hell, I have no idea," Stephen answered honestly. "You'd have to ask them."

"Mebbe I will. Any jolt or weed?"

"I don't traffic in drugs," Stephen snapped, then hastily added, "sir."

The sec man chuckled. "Saved yourself a hanging here, friend. You must have

been here before." The words were so matter-of-fact, Stephen almost admitted the truth. Only a lifelong habit of lying stopped him. So the sec men were looking for folks who dealt with Overton, eh? That news could be worth something to a smart man.

"Nope," he replied amiably. "The last owner sold me his wags for some predark medicine I found in a ruin. He had the bleeding cough and was dying."

A minute passed, with the sergeant studying the expression on Stephen's face.

"It was a fair trade," Stephen added hastily, as if cutting off an expected argument. "He lived."

The sec man made no reply.

Stephen knew this was another test to rattle his nerves, so he tried to appear frightened, which was easy, and slightly confused. Innocent folks always seemed to be confused.

"Nothing else?" the man asked. The guards at the blockhouse were watching the exchange, their blasters pointing toward the caravan. From a truck behind him, Stephen heard one of the other drivers nervously cough, the noise unnaturally loud in the tense silence.

"Okay, okay, I'm also hauling shine," Stephen admitted, ever so slowly lifting a clay jug into view. There was a cross of tape on the side patching a small crack. "Good stuff, mighty smooth."

"Nothing wrong with hauling shine," the sergeant said tersely, a hand going to the checkered grip of the blaster on his hip. "If it's clean. An outlander sold some to us once that killed two of my men and made another go blind. Took us a week to find him again, then it took him a week to die."

Wordlessly, Stephen uncorked the jug and took a long pull. The home-brew whiskey burned his gullet like flaming battery acid, but he managed not to gag.

"Have a sip," he said hoarsely, offering the jug. "Good for what ails you."

Grinning, the sergeant started to reach for the container, then glanced at the blockhouse. "Thanks anyway, but it's not allowed," he said sternly, lowering his hand. "The baron forbids drinking on duty."

"A wise policy," Stephen agreed, placing aside the jug. "Smart man."

"That he is." The sergeant turned toward the cabin and tugged on an earlobe, then dusted off his shoulder. The guards relaxed and slung their blasters. A few started smoking hand-rolled cigs.

"Okay, here are the rules," the sergeant said, speaking in an odd singsong way as if quoting from memory. "There ain't no jolt or slaves in Front Royal. Anybody says different is lying. Stealing gets you whipped, rape gets you hanged. Stay on the road. There are land mines in the fields. Watch out for cougars, we've had some killings at the farms. You spot anybody wearing a blue shirt, avoid them like a mutie with the plague. Report finding a blue, and you get a reward. Understand?"