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The Reapers, if they were out there, hadn't caused the "Valentingle"-but with his blood loss, and nervous exhaustion after the strain of the past few days, his wiring might have loosened.
Boothe drove skillfully, just fast enough to choose the best way to negotiate the patched road without bouncing her passengers around too much. The rugged suspension on the truck helped. In the rear cargo area, Gail counted the bumps, but lost track at sixty-seven.
As they took the river road into town Valentine saw what looked like bonfires in the hills, on both sides of the river.
"What's all this?"
"Hell night," Boothe said.
"Meaning?"
"Kind of a tradition. Old, emptied houses get burned to the ground on Halloween night. Farther out it's grain silos and barns."
On this one night the town sounded lively. People crisscrossed the streets burning everything from road flares to candles in grimacing, fanged pumpkins. Valentine wondered at the pumpkins- Reapers had pale skin, not orange in the slightest, and a yellow squash might better reflect both skin tone and their long, narrow skulls.
They pulled up on the street leading to the NUC hostel. It, too, was burning. Firefighters and police fought the blaze with hoses.
"I thought you said only abandoned buildings?" Valentine asked.
Boothe stopped the four-wheeler well away from the conflagration and its attending crowd.
"Could be some drunk got carried away. I should see if anyone-"
"No," Valentine said. "Stay here."
He got out of the vehicle. A man in football padding sat on the curb, drinking from a bottle within a paper bag.
Valentine heard a high-pitched whistle from the other side of the street. Duvalier and a man in the shale-colored uniform of the Ordnance, old US M-model rifle over his shoulder and a duffel in his hand, ran across the street and to the Lincoln.
"You weren't kidding about transport," Duvalier said. "Tar, meet Corporal Scott Thatcher."
Valentine remembered him from the dance. Thatcher had a bony face, but everything was pleasantly enough arranged.
"You sure about this?" he asked. He meant the question for Duvalier but Thatcher spoke up.
"I want out, sir. Passage all the way if it can be arranged." He lowered his voice. "Free territory."
Valentine didn't like it. The boy could win a nice position in the Kurian Zone by turning them in. He was certainly armed heavily enough to take control of the escape, with a pistol at his hip, an assault rifle over his arm . . .
Is that what you really think? Or is it Alessa finding someone?
Valentine's first escape from the Kurian Zone, leading a few families of refugees with a platoon of Zulu Company's Wolves, had been betrayed to the Reapers. He wouldn't let it happen again.
On the other hand, an Ordnance uniform, stripes, and knowledge of the region-assuming Thatcher could be trusted--would come in handy.
"He's okay, Val," Duvalier said. For her to use his real name like that must mean something. "He knows the ground. I trust him. So can you."
"We'll see."
"Says the man who manages to come out the gates with three, count 'em, ladies and gentlemen, three women. New personal best?"
Valentine ignored the jibe. "You'll have to put your duffel up top," he said to Thatcher. "The rifle can go in back. Give me that pistol."
Thatcher passed him the weapons. Valentine handed the assault rifle back to Ahn-Kha in the cargo bay.
"Take shotgun," Valentine said. "And remember, another shotgun's in the seat right behind you."
Valentine wondered how they'd all fit. Duvalier crouched in between the driver and passenger seats, next to Thatcher, with Valentine and Pepsa in the seats behind.
