There was a dead or dying animal, thrashing and squealing on the edge of the pavement, so smeared in blood it was impossible to tell what it might once have been. A pig or a small deer, was Jeff’s blind guess.
The cream-and-brown Phantasm had stopped, its exhaust smoking a little, the driver’s door swinging open. Behind it, just visible, was the jeep, with a tall, bearded man getting out, holding a pump-action shotgun.
Lying still in the dirt, her khaki suit covered in dust, was the unmistakable figure of Nanci Simms, the machine pistol glittering in the sunlight a couple of feet away from her outstretched hand.
But the person dominating the scene was a heavily built, muscular man with grizzled hair. He was holding a shotgun, barrel pointing down toward Nanci.
The man started to turn toward Jeff as he heard the sound of the pounding boots on the tarmac.
Something about him brought Jeff to a dead halt. He stared for a second, then started to yell at the top of his lungs.
“Mac! Holy shit, Mac! It’s me. Don’t shoot, Mac, it’s me. It’s me!”
Nanci, fighting for breath, was beginning to recover a little. She was aware of the shouts and the voice of the man who held the 16-gauge Brazzi scattergun aimed at her. She noticed the tone of surprise, tinged with something that remarkably resembled disgust.
“Well, I’ll go to the top of our stairs, folks. If it’s not Jeff Thomas.”
JEANNE MCGILL had copied out the original note from Jim Hilton and she showed it to Jeff and Nanci as they all sat together in the living area of the Phantasm. Introductions had been made, and everyone was sharing mugs of instant decaf and a plate of chocolate-chip cookies.
Mac was watching Jeff while he read the note, sitting on the sofa with Nanci Simms at his side.
There was something about the ex-journalist that had always gotten on Henderson McGill’s nerves. An arrogance that was somehow underlaid with a strange subservience, as though he was equally ready to hit out at you or be hit himself and didn’t care all that much which it was.
Nanci had recovered from the shock of the attack by the dogs and had used the RV facilities to wash and clean herself, helped by Jeanne and Pamela. Mac was equally uneasy about their new companion. Retired schoolteacher from Fort Worth, she’d said. Though she didn’t flaunt herself, he knew enough about bodybuilding and weight training to recognize someone who was in terrific shape despite admitting to being around the middle fifties.
But company was company. And Nanci certainly looked like someone who would handle herself well in any emergency, and life after Earthblood was one emergency after another.
Jeff laid down the piece of paper, half closing his eyes as he did his arithmetic. “How many of the old Aquila left, then? Only five? Is that right?”
Mac nodded. “Looks like it. You and me. Jim and Carrie and Kyle Lynch.” Jeff whistled. “High mortality.”
“Not so high as throughout the country,” said Nanci. “My guess is that there’s a lot less than one left alive from every five hundred.”
Paul McGill nodded, carefully putting down his empty mug on a shelf. “From what we’ve seen driving from New England, Miss Simms, it could be even worse than that.”
“Difficult to tell, though.” Pamela McGill looked at her father. “We supposed there’s quite a few taken to the back country and just plain vanished.”
Mac glanced toward his first wife. “Any chance of a refill, Jeanne? Thanks. Yeah, Pamela, there could be dozens within a hundred yards as you drive by.”
Nanci Simms leaned back, wincing as she felt the bruising under her ribs. “Whoa, that bastard dog nearly did me some serious damage. Like they used to say about the Apaches, Mac… if you could see them then they were there. And if you couldn’t see them, then they were really there.”
“How about this place—” Jeff consulted the note again. “—Eureka? We going there?” As he waited for Mac to reply, he added, “You were heading south?”
“That’s the way out from Muir Woods that’s open. Then we cut back and head north.”