He ghosted out of the wooden building, into the darkness. He checked his chron, finding that it was 3:29 in the morning. The air tasted flat and cold on his tongue, with the distinct flavor of salt from the Pacific, close by them to the west. One of the first things that he’d begun to notice after their return to the blighted Earth was how much cleaner the atmosphere was, making it easier to catch scents.
Now he could smell the gasoline from their vehicles, and the rich odor of the plants beneath their transparent covers all around him.
Jim thought for moment that he saw a brief flash of light on the far side of the mill, like a flashlight being switched quickly on and off. But he couldn’t be sure.
Whoever was coming after the place was coming in fast.
He hesitated, his mind swamped with an overwhelming desire to get out quick to make sure that his daughter and Carrie, Kyle and Sly were safe.
The GPF-555 Ruger Blackhawk Hunter in his right hand gave him a measure of confidence. An ounce shy of two pounds of metal, it was loaded with six rounds of .44-caliber full metal jackets.
For ten beats of his heart, Jim Hilton stood very still, holding his breath, listening and waiting.
There.
The scrape of a boot against sandy dirt. And to the left, someone passing on a whispered instruction.
On one of the survivalist weekends that Jim had enjoyed in the happy years before Earthblood, there’d been a special course on “urban self-saving,” run by a tall, quiet-spoken Encino woman in her midtwenties.
“Don’t wait. That’s rule one. Rule two is not to wait. Rules three through fifty are all the same. You wait and you’re down on your back with the rain falling into your open eyes. Believe me, I know.”
Based on that advice, Jim considered blasting away into the damp blackness beyond the narrow stream. But bullets got you through times of no money a whole lot better than money got you through times of no bullets.
Instead, he moved as quietly as he could toward the largest building on the site, which was the sleeping and living quarters for the young enthusiasts.
The door handle was moist under the fingers of his left hand as he turned it, easing his way inside.
“Who’s that?” The voice sounded to Jim like Harriet’s, the young woman with the baby.
“Me. Jim Hilton.”
“What is it?” another voice called from the opposite side of the low-ceilinged hut.
“Trouble,” he replied.
That was all it took.
In less than forty-five seconds everyone was awake and dressed, all done in complete silence. Diego Chimayo came over to stand by Jim at the center of the room.
“The Hunters? Or whatever they are called?”
“Don’t know. Kyle heard a noise. I’ve seen a light over near the mill.”
“You know how many, Jim?”
“No idea. Mob-handed is my guess.”
“We’ll try and stop them.”
“What sort of armory you got, Diego?”
The silence was so intense that it seemed to grip Jim Hilton by the throat.
At the far end of the room, the little baby whimpered, and its mother picked it up and held it to her breast. It was still and quiet outside and inside.
“Diego? Guns? What you got?”
There was a flash of white teeth in the gloom as the young man smiled and shrugged. “Guess we don’t have what we should have here, Jim. Not really. There didn’t seem any need to get ourselves protected. Growing the plants was what counted.”
“Not really!” Jim grabbed him by the shirt. “Just what does that mean, you ignorant bastard!”
“Hey, stay free, Jim.”
“Stay fucking free yourself, kid! If that’s the Hunters of the Sun creepy-crawling out there and… and it looks like it might be…”
“What?”
“Oh, Jesus, son.” The bright rage suddenly trickled away, leaving him feeling tired and defeated. “Then it means you probably get to be dead.”
“Why would they do that?” asked a new voice.
“Why not?”
“We got a pair of shotguns, but there’s only a couple of rounds for the 10-gauge. And there’s a .32 someplace around here. Little Saturday night special kind of gun. Got four or five bullets in it.”