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That would puzzle whoever was investigating it. Perhaps they’d think the murderers had begun a word game of hangman and done nothing but put up the gallows before being interrupted.
I loaded the shotgun, pocketed some extra rounds, and threw the rest of my prizes in a sleeping bag and headed out the door.
With that, I went out and joined Longliner. He’d produced transport, a big sort of three-wheeled motorcycle with two tires in front for steering and a fat drive tire in back, like a wheeled snow machine in a way.
“I thought for sure you’d never come out again,” Longliner said.
“Then why did you wait?” I asked.
“I figured if you were killed, I’d put some rope burns on my wrists and say I was your prisoner. Tell them all about you.”
The boy, oh, how would some phrase it—the boy had balls.
“What’s that machinery?”
“That’s a Cobra. Faster than an ATV, and almost as rugged.”
He revved it, a pointless, silent exercise with an electric engine. The hardwired programming prevented a rider from wasting energy on burn outs. “How do you like it?”
“How do you know how to work it?” Too late, I hoped that didn’t sound suspicious.
We stood, looking out over the ugly scar on the torn-away hills and the mining gear, trucks looking like toys in a child’s sandbox from this height.
“Well, Longliner, time to be on your way.”
“Aren’t you going to give me a letter or something?”
I almost felt sorry for him. He’d wrought considerable evil when he’d plunged Number Four into violence against the Order, but then it was surging back on the regime in unexpected ways. Time would tell whether he’d triggered a rogue wave or a tsunami.
“Tell them you need to speak to the Special Operations Department. Give them this code word: ‘spoonbread.’
“You may take the Cobra. I’ve always been more comfortable on my legs.”
“Nah, I have a feeling you’re going to need it. I’ll steal a bicycle somewhere.”
“Use that talent of yours sparingly. But you can help me further by lighting a few fires on your way out, from a distance. Just something to divert attention.”
“I told you, it doesn’t work so well from far away. Whatever it is has to be really inflammable.”
“All the better. You’ll be able to see it from a distance, then.”
The Cobra had an interesting recharging system. A sort of metallic-and-rubber shepherd’s crook was clipped in two pieces to the back. There was a good deal of naked wire in the Coal Country. You simply screwed the two ends of the “staff” together, plugged it into a power converter about the size of a loaf of bread, and hung the crook on any live power line—with a spark and a faint crackle of ozone, so it was something that attracted attention, unfortunately. The machine did the rest. There was also a plug that you could put into an ordinary wall outlet, but those were harder to find accessible and slower to use.
“I’ll be out of the territory soon. Sure like to know what you have in mind. Don’t see how you can do much on your own.”
“I still can’t discuss it.”
He seemed a lucky fellow. He’d probably make it to the Ordnance. What would they make of him? The fire-starting trick was too deft for them to waste; perhaps he would get his dream of training as an agent.
So began a strange six weeks of my life. I crisscrossed the Coal Country several times, silently going up and down jeep trails in the lush, windblown hills, using the rifle and my own abilities. I shot perhaps once every two or three days. I didn’t snipe individuals, I saved my bullets for machinery. The Coal Country could afford to replace a few firemen or troopers. What it could not afford was a loss of productive equipment.
I had to kill on two occasions, both times when breaking into a garage to destroy fireman vehicles under repair—and the machine tools used to repair engines. I had tried to knock the guards unconscious, but that sort of thing works best in movies. In practical life, they topple over and twitch as bowel and bladder empty and respiration fails. Several guard dogs also met their demise in a more direct fashion, with a crossbow I fashioned out of a leaf spring and an old rifle stock.
It was a matter of an hour’s work with an acetylene torch to render any engine unfit for future service.
I survived by taking to brush, or holding up in a remote attic, grain elevator, or abandoned cell tower used by the Reapers. Reaper nests are not the most comfortable, usually it is a blanket or two thrown over a piece of foam from an old couch cushion, but it served as a hideout from dawn to dusk, giving me a chance to work on my gear and plan the next strike.
My greatest coup, while operating alone, was the very satisfac
