Valentine's Exile (44 page)

But it didn't.

After they passed it crossed the road behind them. How could it not know they had an expectant mother inside the SUV? Of all forms of lifesign, a pregnant woman's was the strongest, and Valentine had one experience involving a Kurian and an infant's lifesign that he'd rather die than repeat. Perhaps the Kurian animating it was sick, or sated, or . . .

Someone was letting them go.

The gate warden hardly looked at them as they followed a bus full of Halloween partygoers out of Xanadu. Ahn-Kha lay flat in the back cargo space, holding down Gail Foster. “Have a good time, Dr. Paoli,” the sergeant said. Valentine nodded and Boothe waved in return.

Pepsa tapped her hands against the leather seats as Valentine pulled away from the gate. “We've done it!” Boothe said.

“We've done it, alright,” Valentine demurred. “Now what are they going to do about it?”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Valentine switched places with Boothe as soon as they passed out of the light of the gates. It was a cloudy evening and the woods were black as a mine shaft. Only with wide-open Cat eyes could he distinguish a tree trunk or two. He relaxed a little once they passed where he had sensed the Reaper pickets on his reconnaissance and made it out of the hairpin-turn gully—if Valentine had chosen a spot to ambush the big-framed Lincoln, it would have been there.

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 . . .

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.

“Fire your doing?” he asked Duvalier as they pulled away from the fire and the growing crowd.

“Yes. But it's just a diversion. In another half hour the police headquarters is going to lose their fodder-wagons and fuel depot.”

Pepsa took a startled breath. “I had a feeling you were more than just a boy heading home, Tar,” Boothe said.

“You thought of everything,” Thatcher said. “But it's not the police we have to worry about, it's the Ordnance.”

“A girl has to keep busy,” Duvalier said.

In the back, Ahn-Kha assembled his puddler.

“West on the river road,” Valentine told Boothe.

"Where you planning to cross?” Thatcher asked, excitement bringing his words fast and hard.

“Route ten bridge,” Valentine said. “Just a mile ahead here. Saw it when we were biking. It gets a lot of traffic.”

“Yeah, 'cause it's open to civilians,” Thatcher said. “You'll at least get a flashlight sweep. Go up five more miles and cross at Ironton Road. That's an Ordnance checkpoint. There's a Kentucky Roadside popular with all of us up a ways there. Better all around.”

“Well?” Boothe asked.

“Ironton Road it is,” Valentine said.

Duvalier gripped Thatcher's hand and nodded, but Valentine felt like it was a mistake. He handed her a party hat. The old, rusty trestle bridge had been blown up at some point. New girders and railroad ties had been cobbled together to close the gap.

“Don't worry, we've taken trucks over it,” Thatcher said as Boothe slowed. Valentine checked the magazine of Thatcher's 9mm, then chambered a round.

They made it over the gap with no more than the sound of tires rumbling across the ties.

A lighted guardhouse at the other end had a couple of uniformed men in it. The Lincoln's headlights revealed two chains, running from either side of the bridge to a post in the center, more of a polite warning than a serious obstacle. Yellow reflective tape fluttered from the center of each length, looking like a dancing worm in the headlights' glare.

“I'm supposed to be asleep now,” Gail announced, an angry tone in her voice.

“Oh great, we have a med-head,” Duvalier said.

“Keep her quiet in back, there,” Valentine said to Ahn-Kha. He heard a squeak.

Boothe rolled down her window as they approached the checkpoint. She swerved into the left-hand lane to pull up to it.

“Hey there, Cup,” Thatcher called. He passed over an ID card. Valentine didn't know if it was Ordnance slang or a nickname, but the man's shirt read “Dorthistle.” “Five and a lost Grog going to Beaudreaux's. Back by sunup.”

The sentry looked at the card, then placed his flashlight beam on Thatcher.

Boothe began to glance around and Valentine stiffened. If he was on the ball, the sentry would notice the fight-or-flight tell. She was looking for a direction to run. Valentine yawned and returned his hand to the butt of the pistol next to his thigh.

Valentine heard the phone ring in the guardhouse.

“Line's up again,” the man inside said. “That was quick.”

Shit shit shit
.

“You going to unhook or what,
Private,
” Thatcher said. “It's Halloween and we need to raise some hell.”

A soldier inside picked up the phone.

The private went around to the center post and placed his hand on the chain.

“Border closed, alert!” the soldier with the phone shouted from inside the guardhouse.

“Ram it,” Valentine shouted. Boothe sat frozen, her hands locked on the steering wheel.

The guard by the chain stepped back, fumbling for his rifle as the butt hit the post.

“Christ, go!” Duvalier said.

Valentine opened his door and aimed his pistol through the gap at the white-faced guard, lit like a stage actor by the Lincoln's beams. A whistle blew from somewhere in the darkness.

Pop pop pop
—the flash from the pistol was a little brighter than the headlights; the guard spun away, upended over the chain.

The noise unfroze the gears in Boothe's nervous system. She floored the accelerator.

The Lincoln hit the chain, bounced over something that might have been the post going down, or might have been the guard, and Valentine heard a metallic scream that was probably the front bumper tearing.

The Lincoln gained speed.

“Turn the lights off,” Ahn-Kha boomed as he looked out the back windows. “Don't give them a mark to aim—”

Bullets ripped into the back of the Lincoln. Ahn-Kha threw himself against the back of the seats, wrapping Gail Foster in one great arm and Pepsa in the other.

“Agloo,” Pepsa yelped. Gail screamed.

Valentine felt the Lincoln head up a slight rise, then turn, putting precious distance, brush, and trees between them and the checkpoint.

“Everyone okay?” Valentine asked.

“Some glass cuts,” Ahn-Kha said. “Post's mate is hit in the foot. Let me get her shoe off.”

Gail yelped again. “I want to go home,” she wailed.

“I believe a toe is missing,” Ahn-Kha said.

Pepsa nodded at Valentine.

“Pepsa, take my bag. See what you can do,” Boothe said.

Ahn-Kha shifted to give her room to get in the back. Valentine heard his friend wheeze.

“Glass cuts?” Valentine said.

“I fear it may be more than that, my David,” Ahn-Kha said.

“Who's David?” Boothe asked.

“Just drive, please.”

“I could go faster if I turned on the lights.”

“No,” Valentine and Thatcher said in unison.

“Go left here,” Thatcher said. “Good road.”

Valentine, smelling blood, his stomach hurting as though he'd been mule-kicked, saw a distant patch of flame; a house burning over by the river. Somewhere there were people dancing in firelight. Somewhere Reapers were asking questions. Boothe made the turn, heading south.

The bumper ground as it scraped the road surface.

Ahn-Kha let out a gentle cough. “My David. I saw headlights hit the clouds far back. I believe we are being followed. ”

How far would the Ordnance chase them into Kentucky?

“Stop the car. I'll drive,” Valentine said. “Doc, check out Ahn-Kha. Do what you can for him.”

Valentine slipped into the driver's seat, and got the sport-utility vehicle moving as soon as he heard the back door close. Boothe switched places with Pepsa in the cargo area. Ahn-Kha kicked out a bullet-starred window.

You can do this
.
Nothing to be afraid of. You've driven before. Badly, but you've driven.

He could see farther than Boothe, and pushed the engine up past forty miles an hour. They ate miles. Every now and then the Lincoln hit a pothole with a resounding thump.

A flash blinded him. “You need help,” Boothe said.

“Watch the light back there,” Valentine said. Boothe had been using a flashlight to look at Ahn-Kha. Sudden increases in light gave him an instant headache.