A Hole in the Sky

by William C. Dietz

  So the mood was somber as chains rattled, wood creaked, and the raggedly dressed donkeys pulled the wagon through the center of town. Master Jack was wearing a fancy black suit, Leena was practically naked, and a brightly attired Bam-Bam was working the crowd on the right side of the street. A stripped-down Inkskin had responsibility for those on the left. Both had pieces of hard candy for the wide-eyed children and were mouthing a spiel prepared by Alfonso.

  “Come see us when the revival is over, folks,” Bam-Bam said. “There will be juggling and fire eating! But that’s not all. One of our brave warriors will fight El Diablo!” A pitch made all the more effective when the Steelhead rattled the bars on its cage and screeched loudly.

  And so it went as the men pulled the wagon to the point where Alfonso was waiting for them. He was dressed as a cowboy, complete with a ten-gallon hat, a western-style red shirt, pearl-handled Colt revolvers, leather chaps, and high-heeled boots. His horse whinnied loudly and reared up onto its hind legs as Alfonso removed his hat and waved it at the crowd. That got cheers and applause as Capelli and the rest of the prisoners towed the wagon into the parking lot next to the feed store.

  The revival tent was set up only a block away, and the locals were drifting in that direction, as Master Jack began to shout orders. First a couple of slaves had to dig a hole for the twelve-foot-long section of telephone pole that they had been forced to cut. The rest of the donkeys were split into two groups and sent out to bring back anything and everything that could be used as seats. Capelli wondered if the chore would offer a chance of escape. But all such hopes were dashed by the fact that he was chained to the other men in his work party and Inkskin was sent to accompany them.

  Once the wooden benches, bales of hay, and the bleachers taken from the high school were set in place, the whole area was roped off. The idea was to herd the locals past Leena so she could collect an admission fee from each spectator. Food and ammo being the preferred medium of exchange.

  Finally, when everything was ready, or as ready as it would ever be, the donkeys were chained to a telephone pole located at the edge of the roped-off area. All of the slaves were frightened, and for good reason, since there was no way to know which one of them would be forced to fight El Diablo.

  They had theories, of course, such as the one that held that Bam-Bam didn’t like Loomis. But from what Capelli had been able to pick up over the last few days, there had been very little rhyme or reason to many of the previous choices that Master Jack and his performers had made. So as the paying customers began to filter into the arena, he felt a horrible emptiness invade the pit of his stomach. The others must have felt the same way, because all of the slaves were unusually quiet as they sat at the edge of the roped-off ring.

  Master Jack’s booming voice could be heard far and wide as he strode into the arena, and welcomed the steadily growing crowd to what he claimed was “the biggest little show on Earth.”

  Then Bam-Bam appeared. First he juggled two red-and-white-striped clubs. That was followed by four and six. The crowd started to applaud as the clown put eight clubs in the air, began to catch them behind his back, and hurried to get them airborne again. Then he missed, or that was the way it appeared, and a club fell on his head. Something at least part of the crowd thought was hilariously funny.

  He shook the blow off, and still juggling, the seemingly dizzy clown walked into the thick center post and knocked himself unconscious. It was supposed to be funny but garnered only halfhearted applause as Master Jack and a scantily clad Leena came in to drag Bam-Bam away.

  That was when Inkskin took over. The light had started to fade. But thanks to the fact that he was wearing nothing more than a loincloth, the audience could see all of Inkskin’s colorful tattoos. A likeness of an openmouthed Hybrid lurked in the spot between his prominent shoulder blades and appeared to glare at the audience. With a dramatic flare of light, Inkskin set afire a specially designed sword and waved the flaming weapon over his head.

  But Capelli and the rest of the donkeys weren’t paying any attention to Inkskin as Alfonso appeared in front of them. “So,” the sharpshooter said, as he scanned the faces before him. “Who’s it going to be? Hmmm! I know. Let’s give the runt a shot.”

  Capelli followed Alfonso’s pointing finger to a small man named Nix. He had sandy-colored hair, even features, and was known for his dead-on John Wayne impression. And as Capelli saw the look of hopelessness come over Nix’s face, he felt a sense of relief, followed by shame. Because his good fortune was at the other man’s expense.

  Suddenly Bam-Bam was freeing Nix from the main chain and fastening what looked like a ten- or twelve-foot lead to the slave’s rag-padded collar. That was when Capelli realized that Inkskin’s sword-swallowing routine was over—and Master Jack was about to announce the main act as Nix was led out into the makeshift arena.

  “Laaadies and gentlemen … Children of all ages … Please welcome the brave warrior who, armed with nothing more than a knife, is about to face the fearsome El Diablo in a full-bore, no-holds-barred, battle to the death. If our warrior wins, he will be freed. And should El Diablo win, he will be fed!”

  The whole thing was so barbaric, Capelli expected some of the townspeople to object, if not put a stop to the one-sided battle. And a year or two earlier they probably would have. But many of those who had survived the invasion were inured to violence, had been forced to kill many times themselves, and had come to regard strangers with suspicion. And Nix was a stranger. So rather than demand that the slave be released, they applauded instead. And Capelli was shocked to see a scattering of children in the crowd.

  El Diablo screeched in pain as Bam-Bam and Inkskin used pole-mounted cattle prods to force the Hybrid out of its cage, down a ramp, and into the arena. The Chimera had been fitted with a neck collar similar to Capelli’s.

  The slaves came to their feet as Leena made her way out to where Nix stood, took one of his arms, and raised it above his head. The audience had grown to at least sixty people. Capelli was reminded of the stories he’d heard about Rome’s Colosseum as the crowds cheered the man who was about to die.

  Then the yelling stopped, and there was a mutual inhalation of breath, as Leena took hold of the chain that was coiled near the center post and began to drag it out to El Diablo. And as she came within reach of the beast’s arms, the crowd waited for the Chimera to kill her. But it didn’t. Why?

  The answer could be seen standing in the shadow next to the circus wagon. Alfonso was aiming Capelli’s Marksman at El Diablo. A safety precaution? Yes, Capelli thought so, as the chain was secured to the beast’s collar. Then Leena turned her back on the Steelhead and walked away. The act of bravado earned a burst of applause.

  By then both Nix and El Diablo were chained to the center post so neither one of them could run. Capelli didn’t know Nix. Not really. But he felt sorry for him as the other slave was given a large, single-edged knife. Nix tested the edge with a thumb as he turned to face the Chimera.

  But in spite of the sympathy he felt, Capelli was a survivor. So as El Diablo screeched and shambled towards Nix, he was determined to learn whatever he could from the impending slaughter.

  Nix reacted the way most people would—he backed away from the Chimera. But that meant his chain was gradually wrapping itself around the thick center post. And as it became shorter, the distance between the combatants grew shorter as well. Capelli could see that eventually Nix would be forced to go one-on-one with El Diablo. At that point he would slash the Chimera a few times, and having survived dozens of such battles in the past, the Steelhead would charge the human. The end would come quickly.

  Capelli wanted to shout a warning, to give Nix some advice, but knew the other slave wouldn’t be able to hear him over the crowd noise. But then, just when it appeared that the deadly dance was about to come to its inevitable conclusion, Nix did something entirely unexpected.

  Nix did not keep backing away. Instead, he put the blade between his teeth, and
turned towards the vertical center post. Then, with the agility of a monkey, he swarmed up it. The weight of the chain slowed Nix down, but failed to stop him, as he pulled himself up onto the flat surface above. Then, having taken control of his chain, Nix passed it over his head three times. That gave him some additional slack and a momentary advantage. The crowd reacted with a cheer.

  El Diablo roared its anger, but was plenty tall enough to snatch Nix off his roost, so the human’s situation had only marginally improved. The Hybrid was shuffling forward, clearly intent on sweeping Nix off his perch, when the human launched himself into the air. Nix had extended the knife point down. He was a real threat if he could manage to drive the blade into the Steelhead’s neck.

  And the plan might have worked except that as Nix landed on the Chimera, the tip of his knife hit El Diablo’s iron collar and skidded off. That was the only break the monster needed. It wrapped Nix in a stinking embrace and proceeded to crush the life out of him. Bones crackled like broken twigs, a horrible farting noise was heard, and the battle was over.

  Capelli, who had been hopeful up until the last moment, uttered a groan of disappointment. It was echoed by the men around him. And it seemed as if the crowd felt the same way, because as the Hybrid began to feed, most of the people booed and got up to leave.

  “Nix had balls,” Bar said admiringly, as the spectators began to file out.

  “Yeah,” Capelli agreed. And sadly enough, that was the only memoriam Nix was likely to receive.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  HOLE CARD

  Thursday, October 15, 1953

  Concordia, Kansas

  Susan Farley awoke hundreds of feet up in the air. As the first rays of sunshine slanted down to splash Level 12 of Defense Column Five with golden light, Susan resolved to enjoy the cozy warmth of her sleeping bag a little bit longer.

  And why not? The central elevator that served DC-5 back before the top fifty feet of the tower had been blown off was no longer operational. The only way to access her lofty perch was a series of flights of switchbacking stairs. And, thanks to the booby trap she had left down on Level 10, no one could sneak up on her using the stairs. Not without setting off a Chimeran hedgehog grenade.

  Drones were a danger of course, but having done nothing that would attract them, Susan had been free to enjoy her first good night’s sleep in many days. A couple of weeks had passed since she’d killed Warden Brewster and his bodyguards. After arming herself with weapons stolen from Brewster’s quarters, and exiting the mine via the emergency bolt hole the warden had provided for himself, Susan found herself partway up a mountainside.

  From there she scrambled down a scree-covered hill to a trail that took her halfway around the mountain. After a short hike to a logging road, she’d come to a paved highway. She had to decide which way to go. And that was a tough decision. Because, with the possible exception of her adopted brother, Susan’s entire family was dead. And, since Nathan had chosen to work for a corrupt government, he was as good as dead insofar as she was concerned.

  So with no family to seek out, Susan resolved to hook up with Freedom First, the underground resistance group that opposed the Grace administration and the stinks. Their base in Montana had been destroyed. Susan had heard that much before she and her fellow prisoners were transferred to the mine. But the organization had other cells, one of which was in Concordia, Kansas.

  It wasn’t much to go on, but with no better destination in mind, Susan began what she knew would be a long walk. She had weapons, including a single-action Colt .45, an Army-issue Fareye rifle, and a lightweight Reaper carbine. All liberated from Brewster’s private quarters. She kept the Reaper handy day and night because of its capacity to provide a heavy volume of fire. Something neither one of her other weapons was capable of.

  Susan also had a good knife, plus the green Hudson’s Bay blanket from Brewster’s quarters that now served as a poncho. But what she lacked was a pack, camping gear, and boots to replace the ones on her feet. Both of which had holes.

  So as Susan made her way down out of the mountains, she’d been on the lookout for an opportunity to buy what she needed. And thanks to the silver dollars taken from Brewster’s desk, she had the means. There must have been a stash of gold somewhere as well. The Buckle was a gold mine, after all. But rather than take the time to look for it, and be forced to deal with the guards, Susan figured the silver would be enough to get started. If not, she could sell the Colt.

  The opportunity came when Susan caught up with a group of survivalists, all headed for what they called a rendezvous. She followed them to a tiny ranching town called Falcon. It had been important once because of its location at the intersection of two railroads. But those days were over. So the town was of little interest to the Chimera, making Falcon the perfect spot for a rendezvous.

  At least two hundred people were present when Susan arrived, and she was pleased to discover that there were all sorts of things for sale. That included handmade pack frames, women’s clothing, and boots. Thanks to the pouch of silver dollars, Susan was able to purchase everything she needed without sacrificing the .45 or any of her precious ammo. And she was pleased to acquire two hundred rounds for the Reaper.

  Having obtained the items she needed, Susan left the rendezvous before dark. Half the crowd was rip-roaring drunk by then and she wanted no part in what was to follow. As an unaccompanied female, she was something of a target, and had already been forced to deal with half a dozen come-ons.

  That was why Susan left Falcon quickly. She kept her eyes peeled as she hurried up the road and made for the first firing position she saw. The water tank sat atop wooden stilts, which were at least twenty feet tall. A maintenance ladder led upwards and she hurried to climb it. Once on the walkway that circled the metal tank, Susan shucked her newly acquired pack, took the Fareye, and lay flat. Then, using the rifle’s scope, she looked back towards the edge of town.

  It wasn’t long before a couple of people pulling a cart on bicycle wheels came her way. They were talking to each other, completely oblivious to the danger above as they passed the water tank and continued on their way. Then a trio of horsemen galloped by in the other direction. They were late, but clearly determined to take part in the rendezvous before it melted away.

  A full five minutes passed after that with no sign of pursuit. So Susan was just about to pack up and leave when one of the men who had come on to her appeared. He was armed, but wasn’t wearing a pack, which seemed to suggest an errand of some sort. Of course that didn’t mean he was looking for her, since there were lots of other reasons why he might venture out.

  But if the man wasn’t looking for her, then why was a bloodhound straining at the leash in his hand, and leading the way? Susan remembered the big animal now. It had been with the man, sniffing around her ankles, as he invited her to have a drink with him. Something that seemed innocent at the time but took on added significance as the beast bayed and towed its master along.

  As the twosome made a beeline for the water tower, Susan was well aware of the fact that many months had passed since she’d fired a rifle. But the skills learned as a little girl, and subsequently honed by the Freedom First instructors, were there waiting to be used.

  With no crosswind to speak of, and the air relatively dry, all Susan had to do was squeeze the trigger. The Fareye produced a loud report. The bullet knocked the man’s right leg out from under him, and he went down hard. The dog stopped, circled back, and stood next to its master.

  Susan could have killed her pursuer, and probably should have, but was satisfied to shoulder her pack and hurry down the ladder. By keeping the tower’s stiltlike support beams between her and the wounded man, she hoped to prevent any possibility of return fire.

  The man was about three hundred feet away. He had a bushy beard, wild uncut hair, and was dressed in denim overalls. And he was tough. Having secured a makeshift pressure dressing with a blue bandanna, the man was back on his feet. Or foot, since he coul
dn’t put much weight on the other one. “I’ll find you!” he shouted. “And when I do, you’ll wish you had never been born.”

  Susan stopped in her tracks, uttered a sigh, and turned back towards the man. Then, having moved to the left in order to get a clear shot, she raised the Fareye. The man could have fired at her then—but was using his rifle as a cane. So Susan shot him in the head and was already turning away as the body fell. Some people are just plain stupid. That’s what Dad said, and he was right.

  After securing supplies in Falcon, Susan headed north through Limon and Last Chance, Colorado, to U.S. 36. It paralleled U.S. 40 to the south, but was likely to be less traveled by both humans and the Chimera. That made it ideal insofar as Susan was concerned. Of course, “less traveled” didn’t mean safe. Far from it.

  A pair of Howlers had picked up Susan’s trail just west of Atwood, Kansas. It had taken eight long hours, and all the skill she possessed, to establish an ambush, and to take the lion-sized beasts down.

  Then, a few miles east of Norton, Susan had been forced to take shelter in a line shack for two days due to heavy rains. Although that had been good in a way: she had taken the opportunity to bathe in a nearby stream, wash both sets of clothes, and fine-tune her gear. That included converting Brewster’s western-style holster into a shoulder rig.

  Once the weather cleared, Susan returned to the road. She spotted the jagged top of the defense column seven days later. The tower grew steadily taller as the afternoon wore on. She was a quarter-mile away when the sun began to set.

  Having scanned the area for a good ten minutes to determine that the way was clear, Susan passed through a hole in what had been part of the perimeter fence, and crossed a fire-blackened defense moat.

  From there it was a short trip up an embankment, through a gap between a couple of gun positions, and into the debris-strewn area that surrounded the column’s sturdy base. Tons of material had fallen from above. The only sounds were generated by the eternal whine of the prairie wind, her own footsteps, and the rattle of metal treads as she climbed the stairs. She could not help but think about the others who had made the same journey and were almost certainly dead. If not as a result of the battle that had rendered the column impotent, then as a result of some other fight, as the Chimera systematically pounded North America into submission.