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Someone downstream would collect a bounty of dead sunfish.
Tikka rested her mount on the other side, letting it graze in a thicket. Valentine watched brush and bramble and clumps of sod disappear into its muscular lipped throat. Valentine waved the Bears forward.
They came, three groups of four, in the variegated mix of Reaper cloth, Kevlar, and studded leather the Bears seemed to favor. Valentine even saw a shimmer of a chain mail dickey over one Bear's throat and upper chest. Their weapons were no more uniform than their attire.
Belt-fed machine guns in leather swivel slings, deadly little SMGs, grenade launchers, assault shotguns, an old M14 tricked out with a custom stock and a sniper scope . . . never mind the profusion of blades, bayonets, and meathooks taped or clipped onto boots, thighs, forearms, and backs. Most of Gamecock's team favored facial hair of some kind. All wore a little silver spur around their neck-a team marker, Valentine guessed.
The Moondaggers, used to slaughtering rebellious farming collectives armed with stones and pitchforks, were in for a surprise.
"We're riding to the bluff. Can your worm hold them all?"
"It's young and strong," Tikka said. "As long as we're not riding all day."
Tikka unrolled a length of newbie netting from the back of her saddle, where it served as a lounger while coiled up. Gamecock's dozen picked Bears climbed uncertainly onto the creature.
"I've blown a few of these up but never ridden one," a Bear with a shaved, tattooed scalp said.
Another, who'd somehow stretched, teased, or sculpted his ears into almost feral points, wiggled his legs experimentally as he gripped the netting. "Not bad. Ride's smooth, like a boat.
You could sleep while traveling."
"We do," Tikka said.
She kept them in the trees, keeping leafy cover over their heads whenever possible as they approached the bluff. The hills closed in between them and the riverbank. Then, suddenly, the steep slope was before them.
Valentine dismounted, carefully went forward, waiting for the sniper's bullet or the machine-gun burst. Every twig and leaf seemed to stand out against the blue Kentucky sky.
Nothing.
The Moondaggers had erred. Or at least he hoped they had. They'd put all their troops at the top of the hill, rather than on what was referred to as the "military crest," the line of the hill where most of the slope could be covered by gunfire. Even experienced troops had made the mistake before.
He trotted back to the head of the worm and tapped Tikka on her spiked boot.
"Still think you can get it up?"
Tikka winked. "I'm five and oh, Blackie. Wanna be six?"
"This isn't the time-"
She laughed. "I don't quit that easy. If I get you all up so you can cork those guns, you going to finally give me a taste?"
Just get it over with. "A three-course dinner."
"With dessert," she added.
"I think that's included in the price."
"Sir, how am I supposed to go red when an episode of Noonside Passions is running at the other end of the fuckin' worm?" a Bear named Chieftain asked Gamecock.
They started up the hill, sidewinding on the long worm. Tikka found some kind of path, probably an old bike or hiking trail. The worm tilted.
A shot rang out.
"You all better side-ride-it's going to get nasty here," Tikka called.
"Can you keep the worm upright?" Valentine asked.
"Do ticks tip a hound dog? Grab netting."
