WAY OF THE WOLF


WAY OF THE WOLF
BOOK ONE OF THE VAMPIRE EARTH
E. E. KNIGHT



Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 
Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library, a division of 
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, September 2003
10 987654321
Copyright  Eric E. Frisch, 2003 All rights reserved
Cover art by Koveck
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To Mom and Dad, who believed



Have you ever dealt with people who have lost everything in just an hour? In the 
morning you leave the house where your wife, your children, your parents live. 
You return and you find a smoking pit Then something happens to youto a certain 
extent you stop being human. You do not need any glory, money anymore; revenge 
becomes your only joy. And because you no longer cling to life, death avoids 
you, the bullets fly past. You become a wolf.
Russian General Aleksander Lebed, veteran of Afghanistan



One
Northern Louisiana, March, the forty-third year of the Kurian Order: The green 
expanse once known as the Kisatchie Forest slowly digests the works of man. A 
forest in name only, it is a jungle of wet heat and dead air, a fetid 
overflowing of swamps, bayous, and backwaters. The canopy of interwoven cypress 
branches shrouded in Spanish moss creates a gloom so thick that twilight rules 
even at midday. In the muted light, collapsing houses subside every which way as 
roadside stops decay in vine-choked isolation, waiting for traffic that will not 
return.
A long file of people is moving among moss-covered trunks to the piping cries of 
startled birds. At the front and rear of the column are men and women in 
buckskin, their faces tanned to the same weather-beaten color as their leather 
garments. They carry sheathed rifles, and all are ready to use their weapons at 
the first hint of danger. The guns are for the defense of five clusters of 
families clad in ill-fitting lemon-colored overalls at the center of the file. 
Patches of brighter color under the arms and along the inner thighs suggest the 
garments once glowed a vivid optic yellow and are now faded from heavy use. A 
string of five pack mules follows behind them under the guidance of teenage 
versions of the older warriors.
At the head of the column, well behind a pair of silent scouts, a young man 
scans the trail. He still has some of the awkward gangliness of youth, but his 
dark eyes hold a canny depth. His shoulder-length black hair, tightly tied at 
the back of his head, shines like a ravens feathers even in the half-light. 
With his dusky skin and buckskin garb, he could be mistaken for a native 
resident of this area three centuries before: perhaps the son of some wandering 
French trapper and a Choctaw maiden. His long-fingered hands wander across his 
heavy belt, from holstered pistol to binoculars, touching the haft of his 
broad-bladed parang before moving on to the canteens at his waist. A scratched 
and battered compass case dangles from a black nylon cord around his neck, and a 
stout leather map tube bumps his back from its slung position. Unlike his men, 
he is hatless. He turns now and again to check the positions of his soldiers and 
to examine the faces of his yellow-clad dependents as if gauging how much 
distance is left in their weary bodies. But his restless eyes do not remain off 
the trail for long.
If they come, theyll come tonight. Lt. David Valentine returned to that thought 
again as the sun vanished below the horizon. He had hoped to get his charges 
farther north of the old interstate before nightfall, but progress had slowed on 
this, their fourth day out from Red River Crossing. He and his Wolves shielded 
twenty-seven men, women, and children who had hazarded the run to freedom. The 
families were now adapted to the rigors of the trail, and followed orders well. 
But they came from a world where disobedience meant death, so that trait was 
understandable.
If they had been traveling by themselves, the detachment of Wolves would already 
be in the Free Territory. But Valentine was responsible for seeing the Red River 
farmhands brought safely north. Four hours ago, the yellow-clad group had 
crossed the final barrier: the road and rail line connecting Dallas with the 
Mississippi at Vicksburg. Then Valentine had driven them another two miles. Now 
they had little left to give.
It was hard to quiet his mind, with so much to think about on his first 
independent command in the Kurian Zone. And quieting his mind, keeping lifesign 
down, was literally a question of life and death with night coming on. Being a 
Wolf was as much a matter of mental as physical discipline, for the Reapers 
sensed the activity of human minds, especially when fearful and tense. Every 
Wolf had a method of subsuming consciousness into a simpler, almost feral form. 
But burdened with new responsibilities and with night swallowing the forest, 
Valentine struggled against the worries that shot up like poisonous weeds in his 
mind. The Reapers read lifesign better at night. His charges were giving off 
enough to be read for miles even in the depths of the Kisatchie. If his Wolves 
minds were added to the total, the Reapers would home on it like moths drawn to 
a bonfire.
A trilling call from ahead broke into his anxieties. Valentine raised his arm, 
halting the column. Garnett, one of his scouts, gestured to him.
Water, sir, in that little holler, the scout reported as Valentine came up. 
Looks safe enough.
Good. Well rest there for an hour, Valentine said, loudly enough for the 
column to hear. No more. Were still too close to the road to camp.
The faces of the farm families brightened in contrast to the deepening night as 
they drank from the spring trickling down the side of a shallow ravine. Some 
removed shoes and rubbed aching feet. Valentine unscrewed the cap on his plastic 
canteen, waiting until the families and his men had a chance to drink.
A faint yelping echoed from the south. Wolves dived for cover behind trees and 
fallen logs. The yellow-clad families, who lacked the ability to hear the 
baying, shrank together in alarm at the sudden movement.
Sergeant Patel, Valentines senior noncommissioned officer, appeared at his 
elbow. Dogs? Very bad luck, sir. Or
Valentine, careering along in his runaway train of thought, only half heard 
Patels words. The families broke out in noisy consternation.
Silence, Valentine rasped at the civilians, his voice cracking with 
unaccustomed harshness. Sergeant, who knows this area best?
Patels eyes did not leave the woods to the south. Maybe Lugger, sir. Or the 
scouts. Lugger pulled a lot of patrols in this area; I think her people lived 
westaways.
Would you get her, please?
Patel pointed to and brought up Lugger, a seasoned veteran whose limber, sparse 
frame belied her name. She held her rifle in hands with alabaster knuckles.
Sir? she breathed.
Lugger, we may have to do some shooting soon, Valentine said in an undertone, 
trying not to alarm the unsettled civilians. Wheres a good spot for it?
Her eyes wandered skyward in thought. Theres an old barn we used to use on 
patrol. West of here, more like northwest, I reckon. Concrete foundation, and 
the lofts in good shape.
How long to get there?
Under an hour, sir, even with them, she said, jerking her chin toward the 
huddled families. Their yellow overalls now looked bluish in the darkness. 
Valentine nodded encouragement.
Solid foundation, she repeated. And a big water trough. We used to keep it 
filled with a rain catcher.
Make a decision.
No help in that direction. Mallows more to the east, but it will have to do, 
Valentine said. Mallow, the senior lieutenant of Zulu Company, had remained in 
the borderlands with a cache of supplies to help them make it the rest of the 
way to the Ozark Free Territory. He considered something else. Think you could 
find the rendezvous at night?
God willing, sir, she responded after a moments cogitation.
Take a spare canteen and run. Ask Mallow to come with everything he can.
Yes, sir. But I dont need my gun to keep me company. I think youll need every 
bullet you got before morning, she said, unslinging her rifle.
Valentine nodded. Lets not waste time. Tell Patel where to go; then run for 
our lives.
Lugger handed her rifle to the senior aspirant, spoke briefly to Patel and the 
scouts, then disappeared into the darkness. Valentine listened with hard ears to 
her fading footfalls, as fast as his beating heart, and thought, Please, Mallow, 
for Gods sake forget about the supplies and come quick.
As his men dusted the area around the spring with crushed red pepper, Valentine 
approached the frightened families.
They found us? asked Fred Brugen, the patriarch of the group. Valentine smiled 
into their dirty, tired faces.
We heard something behind us. Could be they cut our trailcould be a dog got 
the wrong end of a skunk. But as I said, we have to play it safe and move to a 
better place to sleep. Sorry to cut the halt short.
The refugees winced and tightened their mouths at the news, but did not 
complain. Complainers disappeared in the night in the Kurian Zone.
The good news is that were really close to a place we can rest and get a hot 
meal or two. Personally, Im getting sick of corn bread and jerky. He squatted 
down to the kids level and forced some extra enthusiasm into his voice. Who 
wants hot-cakes for breakfast tomorrow morning?
The kids lit up like fireflies, nodding with renewed energy.
Okay, then, he finished as he filled his canteen, forcing himself to go 
through the motions nonchalantly. Everybody take one more drink of water, and 
lets go.
The aspirants somehow got the pack mules moving, and the column trudged forward 
into the darkness. With curses matching the number of stumbles brought on by 
confusion and fatigue in the night, the column continued north. Valentine led 
the way. A rope around his waist stretched back to Sergeant Patel at the tail 
end of the file. He bade the families to hold on to it to keep everyone together 
in the dark.
One scout guided him, and a second brought up the rear, in close contact with 
two fire teams shepherding the columns tail, their phosphorous candles ready. 
If the enemy was close enough for their dogs to be heard, the Reapers could be 
upon them at any moment. Valentine resigned himself to the orders he would give 
if they were set upon in the open: he would abandon his charges and flee north. 
Even a few Wolves were more valuable to the Free Territory than a couple of 
dozen farmers.
Valentine, continuing on that grim line of thought, decided that if he were a 
battle-hardened veteran from the campfire stories, he would stake the farmers 
out like goats to a prowling tiger, then ambush whatever took the bait. The 
death of the defenseless goat was worth getting the tiger. Those 
win-at-all-costs leaders from the Old World history books would never be swayed 
by sleepy voices repeatedly asking, Is it much farther, Momma?
Close up and move on. Close up and move on, Valentine said over his shoulder, 
hurrying the column. Wolves picked up tired children, carrying them as easily as 
they bore then-weapons.
They found the farm exactly as Lugger had described. Her Wolfs eye for terrain 
and detailed memory of places and paths would astound anyone who did not know 
the caste.
The barn was a little bigger than Valentine would have liked with only 
twenty-two guns. No time to be picky, not with the Reapers on our trail, he 
thought. Anyplace with the trees cleared away and walls would have to do.
Garnett entered with blade unsheathed, covered by his comrades hunting bows and 
rifles. The paranga shortened machete used by the Wolvesgleamed in the 
mist-shrouded moonlight. A few bats fluttered out, disturbed from their pursuit 
of insects among the rafters. The scout appeared at the loft door and waved the 
rest in. Valentine led the others inside, fighting a disquieting feeling that 
something was wrong. Perhaps his Indian blood perceived something tickling below 
his conscious threshold. He had spent enough time on the borders of the Kurian 
Zone to know that his sixth sense was worth paying attention to, though hard to 
qualify. The danger was too near somehow, but ill defined. He finally dismissed 
it as the product of overwrought nerves.
Valentine inspected the sturdy old barn. The water trough was full, which was 
good, and there were shaded lanterns and oil, which was better.
Patel posted the men to the doors and windows. Cracks in the walls of the 
time-ravaged structure made handy loopholes. The exhausted families threw 
themselves down in a high-walled inner corner. Valentine trotted to the hayloft 
ladder and began to climb. Someone had repaired a few of the rungs, he noticed 
as he went up squeaking wood. The barns upper level smelled like bat urine. 
From the loft he watched his second scout, Gonzalez, backing into the barn, 
rifle pointed into the darkness.
Gonzos got wind of em, sir, Garnett reported from his perch at the upper 
door. He always gets bug-eyed when theyre around.
Three Wolves from downstairs joined them in the loft and took positions on each 
side of the barn. Valentine glanced down through a gap in the loft floor to the 
lower level, where Patel talked quietly to Gonzalez in the dim light of a 
screened lantern. Both glanced up into the loft. Gonzalez nodded and climbed the 
ladder.
Sir, the sarge wanted me to show you this, he reported, extending a filthy and 
stinking piece of cloth drawn from his pocket.
Valentine reached out to take the rag, when a chorus of shrieks sounded from 
down the hill in the direction of the old road. He spun and ran to the wide loft 
door.
Gamett cursed. Ravies, goddamn Ravies!
The banshee wailing out of the midnight mists turned the back of his neck into a 
bristle-brush. Theyre here! He bent to the gap in the floor and called out to 
the Wolves. Keep to your posts, look to your fronts! The Ravies might be a 
ruse. They could be on top of the hill already.
He ran to the ladder and clambered down the rungs two at a time, driving a 
splinter into the flesh opposite his thumb in his haste. Wincing, he unsnapped 
the leather strap of his parang sheath and drew his revolver.
Uncle, the flares! he shouted, but Patel knew better than to wait for an 
order. The veteran sergeant already stood at the gaping southern door, lighting 
one. A Wolf opened a lantern door so he could thrust it in. The high-pitched 
shrieking grew louder, until it filled the night.
The firework burst into flame, illuminating the barn with blue-white light and 
sharp black shadows. Patel wound up and threw the burning flare down the slope 
they had just traversed. Before it landed, he lit another and hurled it into the 
darkness, as well. Other Wolves copied him, tossing phosphorus candles in each 
direction.
Valentine stared down the hill, transfixed by a mob emerging into the glare. 
Running figures with arms thrashing as. if trying to swim through the air swept 
up toward the barn. Seemingly endless supplies of wind powered their screams. 
Their siren wail was paralyzing. They were human, or what amounted to human, 
considering their minds burned with madness, but with the wasted look of corpses 
and sparse streams of unkempt hair. Few wore more than tatters of clothing; most 
ran naked, their skin pale in the light of burning phosphorus.
Dont let em in close enough to bite. Drop em, goddammit! Patel bellowed.
Shots rang out in the enclosed lower level of the bam. Ravies fell, one rising 
again with blood pouring from his neck, to stagger a few paces and fall once 
more, this time for good. Another had a bullet tear through her shoulder, 
spinning her around like a puppet with tangled strings. She regained her balance 
and came on, screaming all the while. What looked like a scrawny ten-year-old 
boy stepped on one of the flaring candles without a glance.
Valentine watched as the human wave approached, dribbling bodies as the Wolves 
bullets struck. He knew the Ravies served as a distraction for something else 
lurking in the night. He felt the Reaper stalking his mind, approaching from the 
darkness, even if he could not see its body.
The Reaper came, full of awful speed and power. A cloaked figure charged into 
the light, seeming to fly over the ground in a blur of motion.
Hood! a Wolf shouted, squeezing off a shot and working the bolt on his rifle. 
The caped and cowled figure, still twenty feet from the barn, made a leap and 
crashed bodily through the old planks and beams as if they were papier-mache.
The Reaper landed on all fours, arms and legs splayed like a spider. Before a 
gun could be turned in its direction, it sprang at the nearest Wolf, a 
shovel-bearded wedge of a man named Selbey. It was upon him before he could 
bring up his gun. The Hoods satchel-size mouth opened to display pointed ebony 
teeth. Large, inhuman jaws sank into Selbeys arm, thrown up in defense. The 
Wolfs scream matched those from outside as the thing opened its mouth to bite 
again.
Chaos reigned as the refugees began running. Wolves at the exits had to restrain 
them, taking up precious seconds when they should have been employing their 
guns. One Wolf pumped shot after shot, working the lever-action rifle from his 
hip, into the Reaper pressing Selbey to the detritus-covered floor. The Reaper 
fed, immune to the bullets hitting its heavy robes.
Valentine grabbed a candle flare from Patels two remaining at the south door. 
He thrust the candle into the lantern, waiting for it to sputter into life. It 
caught after an eternity, and he ran toward the Hood.
The thing raised its blood-smeared face from its twitching victim to receive the 
burning end in its eye. It howled out its fury and pain and slapped the candle 
out of Valentines hand with the speed of a cougars paw. The flaming wand fell 
to the ground as the thing rose. Behind it, the Reapers menacing black shadow 
filled the wall of the barn. Death reached for Valentine, who struggled to draw 
his blade from its sheath in time.
A bullet caught the Reaper in the armpit, staggering it. A heavier leather-clad 
missile hurled itself onto the Hoods back. Patels body blow brought it down, 
and using every ounce of his formidable strength, the sergeant managed to keep 
it on the floor until Valentine brought his machete onto the back of its neck. 
The blade bit deep into flesh and bone, but failed to sever the head. Oily, 
ink-black ichor poured from the wound, but still the thing rose, rolling Patel 
off with a heave. The sergeant fought on and bore down on one arm, ignoring the 
deadly teeth opening for him. Valentine lashed out again with his machete, 
catching it under the jaw. The Reapers head arced off to land with a thud next 
to Selbeys lifeless body.
Jesus, theyre in, theyre in! someone shouted.
A few Ravies, ghoulishly white in the glare of the candle, clambered through the 
gap in the wall created by the decapitated Reaper. Valentine shifted his parang 
to his left hand and reached for his pistol. The empty holster turned the 
movement into comic mime as he realized he had dropped the gun while getting the 
candle. But other Wolves drew their pistols, snapping off a shot at the 
shrieking forms.
The screaming grew into a chorus: a Ravie plunged in among the families. 
Valentine rushed to the corner to find the howling lunatic pinned against the 
wall by a man whod had the presence of mind to grab an old pitchfork when the 
fight started. The Ravie had both hands on the haft of the weapon, trying to 
wrench the tines out of her belly, when Valentine came in, swinging his parang 
to strike and strike and strike again until she sank lifeless to the floor, at 
long last silent.
The screaming outside had ceased. The Wolves opened ammunition pouches and took 
bullets from belts and bandoliers. A final bullet or two ended the spasms of the 
few crawling, crippled targets still living and therefore still dangerous. The 
men in the loft called downstairs, in anxiety over their comrades. Valentine 
ignored the chatter and saw with a kind of weary grief that one of the wives had 
been bitten by the impaled Ravie. He went to check on Patel. The husky sergeant 
was on his feet, one arm hanging limp and useless, Valentines pistol in his 
working hand.
Patel handed the pistol back to the lieutenant. Quiet, up there! And keep your 
eyes peeled, the sergeant shouted at the uncomprehending floorboards above. He 
held his hurt arm closer to his body, grimacing.
Broken collarbone, I think, he explained. Could be my shoulder is out, as 
well. Are you okay, sir?
Hell, Patel, enough is enough. Next itll be I hope you liked your drink. 
Lets get that arm in a sling, for a start. Valentine motioned an idle Wolf 
over to help his sergeant. He saw another of his men bandaging the Ravie bite on 
the woman as her anxious family crowded around. Weve got a widower there who 
doesnt know it yet, he said, sotto voce. His sergeant nodded with sad 
understanding, and Valentine thought of Patels family. They had been taken by 
the Raving Madness five years ago.
The lieutenant walked through his shaken command, checking on his men, and came 
into the corner sheltering the escapees. He shot a significant glance at his 
Wolf attending to the woman; the man caught the hint and nodded. The bleedings 
stopped already, sir.
Quick action, Mosley. Grab someone and get thathe pointed at the lifeless 
Ravieout of here.
The candles outside were sputtering out. Valentine walked over to the ladder, 
intending to check with Gonzalez upstairs
 when the floor suddenly tilted beneath his feet. Thrown to the floor, he saw 
an albino-white arm open a heavy trapdoor in an explosion of dirt, dried leaves, 
and twigs.
The barn had a cellar.
The Reaper got halfway out the trapdoor as the bullets zipped over Valentines 
head. His Wolves, still keyed up from the fight, aimed their guns with lethal 
accuracy and pumped bullet after bullet into the yellow-eyed creature. Under the 
point-blank cross fire from five directions, the black-robed shape jerked wildly 
and fell back into the basement.
Grenades, Valentine bellowed. Three of his men gathered at the trapdoor, now 
shooting down with pistols.
Striking matches or using the lanterns, two Wolves lit fuses on the bombs and 
hurled them down the square hole. Valentine grabbed the trapdoor and flung it 
shut. The rusty hinges squealed their complaints.
The first explosion threw the door forever off its aged fastenings, and the 
second boomed with an earsplitting roar. Smoke mushroomed from the square hole.
A Reaper sprang from the gap like something a magician had conjured from the 
smoke, arms nothing but two tarry stumps, and head a bony mask of horror. Even 
with its face blown off, the Reaper was on its feet and running, seeming to 
favor them with a splay-toothed grin. The guns rang out again, but the creature 
fled through the exit, knocking Patel aside like a bowling pin in the path of a 
cannonball as the sergeant attempted another body blow. A tattered and 
smoldering cape streaming out behind it as it ran, the Reaper disappeared into 
the darkness.
Some of the children had hands over their ears, screaming in pain. Valentine 
tried to shake the drunken sensation that had come over him, but it was no use. 
The acrid air of the barn was too thick to breathe. He staggered to the doorjamb 
and vomited.
An hour later, with the barn cleared of bodies except for the unfortunate 
Selbey, who lay in his poncho in the empty blackness of the blasted cellar, 
Gonzalez again shared his discovery with Valentine. His scout, after asking for 
permission to speak privately in the loft, presented him with a filthy strip of 
cloth.
Valentine examined the excrement-stained yellow rag with tired eyes.
Uncle smelled something, sir, you know? He told me to check the area where we 
heard the bloodhounds real careful after everyone pulled out. I found this in 
the bushes where the Red River people er, relieved themselves, sir, Gonzalez 
elaborated, half whispering.
He read the semiliterate scrawl by lantern light: N + W, bam, about twenty gun, 
yrs trly.
Betrayal. That explains a thing or two. But which one is yrs trly  ? Valentine 
wondered. He remembered a couple of: the farmhands had hurried to the bushes as 
they assembled for I the flight to the barn. He hadnt thought anything of it at 
the! time: the fear in the night had turned his own bowels to water, j as well.
He gathered three Wolves from downstairs and explained j what he wanted to do 
when the sun came up.
Mallow and his reserve platoon trotted up to the barn, just beating the sun. He 
suppressed the urge to hug the panting Lugger, who looked as tired as Valentine 
felt.
The senior lieutenant responded to Valentines report with a low whistle. One 
in the basement, huh? You had some bad luck, rookie. But it could have been 
worse. Good thing the was too thick to breathe. He staggered to the doorjamb and 
vomited.
An hour later, with the barn cleared of bodies except for the unfortunate 
Selbey, who lay in his poncho in the empty blackness of the blasted cellar, 
Gonzalez again shared his discovery with Valentine. His scout, after asking for 
permission to speak privately in the loft, presented him with a filthy strip of 
cloth.
Valentine examined the excrement-stained yellow rag with tired eyes.
Uncle smelled something, sir, you know? He told me to check the area where we 
heard the bloodhounds real careful after everyone pulled out. I found this in 
the bushes where the Red River people er, relieved themselves, sir, Gonzalez 
elaborated, half whispering.
He read the semiliterate scrawl by lantern light: N + W barn, about twenty gun, 
yrs trly.
Betrayal. That explains a thing or two. But which one, yrs trly? Valentine 
wondered. He remembered a couple o the farmhands had hurried to the bushes as 
they assembled for the flight to the barn. He hadnt thought anything of it at 
the time: the fear in the night had turned his own bowels to water as well.
He gathered three Wolves from downstairs and explained what he wanted to do when 
the sun came up.
Mallow and his reserve platoon trotted up to the bam, jus beating the sun. He 
suppressed the urge to hug the panting Lugger, who looked as tired as Valentine 
felt.
The senior lieutenant responded to Valentines report wit a low whistle. One in 
the basement, huh? You had some bad luck, rookie. But it could have been worse. 
Good thing.
A kid, whaddaya know, one of the men sighed. A couple of others swore.
The boy broke down, alternating threats and curses in between sobs. His 
ashen-faced father held his distraught wife. She already trembled with the 
weakness of the first stage of the disease that would claim her life within two 
or three more days, when she would have to be shot like a rabid dog. Mallow and 
Patel ignored the grieving parents and questioned the boy in time-honored good 
cop-bad cop fashion.
Who put you up to this, boy? Mallow asked, leaning to put his face below the 
boys downcast eyes. What did they promise you? If it were up to this guy here, 
hed snap your neck with his good arm. I cant help you unless you talk to me. 
Tell you what, you leave another note, only write on it what we tell you, and 
you wont get hanged. Cant promise anything else, but you wont hang.
The boys fear exploded into anger. You dont get it, do you? Theyre in 
charge, not you. They make the laws. They run the show. An when they get tired 
of you, youll be emptied an the Grogsll have the leftovers! Them that dont 
want to die gotta go along with orders.
Valentine, sick with fatigue, stepped outside to watch the dawn. As the 
yellow-orange sun burned through the morning haze, he wondered what doom of fate 
had selected him to be born into such a fucked-up time.
Two
Northern Minnesota, the thirty-ninth year of the Kurian Order: He grew up in a 
pastoral setting among the lakes of upper Minnesota. David Stuart Valentine was 
born during one of the interminable winters in a sturdy brick house on Lake 
Carver. The scattered settlements of that area owed their survival not so much 
to resistance as to inaccessibility. The Kurians dislike cold weather, leaving 
the periodic sweeps and patrols of this area to their Quislings. The Reapers 
come only in the summer in a macabre imitation of the fishermen and campers who 
once visited the lakes between May and September.
In the first few years after the Overthrow, myriad refugees supported themselves 
amid the abundant lakes and woods of what had been known as the Boundary Waters. 
They exterminated the remaining disease-infested Ravies hotzones, but the 
settlers refused aid to would-be guerrilla bands, as most of them had already 
tasted Reaper reprisals elsewhere. They wished nothing more than to be left 
alone. The Boundary Waters people were ruled only by the weather. A frantic 
period of food storage marked each fall, and when snow came, the families 
settled in for winter, ice-fishing for survival, not sport. In summer they 
retreated into the deep woods far from the roads, returning to their houses 
after the Reapers were again driven south by the cold.
Young Davids family reflected the diaspora that found refuge in the region. He 
had a collection of Scandinavian, American Indian, and even Asian ancestors in a 
family tree whose roots stretched from Quebec to San Francisco. His mother was a 
beautiful and athletic Sioux from Manitoba, his father a former navy pilot.
His fathers stories made the world a bigger place for David than it was for 
most of the children his age. He dreamed of flying across the Pacific Ocean the 
way some boys dream of being a pirate or building a raft and drifting down the 
Mississippi.
His early life came to an abrupt stop at the age of eleven, on a cool September 
day that saw the first frost of the northern fall. The family had just returned 
from summer retreat to their home, but a Quisling patrol or two still lingered. 
Judging from the tire tracks that David found later, two trucks probably the 
slow, alcohol-burning kind favored by rural patrolshad pulled up to the house. 
Perhaps the occupants were also liquor fueled. The patrol emptied the larder and 
then decided to spend the rest of the afternoon raping Davids mother. Attracted 
by the sound of the vehicles, his father had died in a hail of gunfire as he 
came up from the lakeshore. David heard the shots while gathering wild corn. He 
hurried home, accompanied by a growing fear that the shots had come from his 
house.
David explored the too-silent house. The smell of tomatoes, which his mother had 
been stewing, filled the four-room cabin. He found his mother first, her body 
violated, her throat slit. Out of spite or habit, the intruders had also killed 
his little brother, who had just learned to write his own name, and then his 
baby sister. He did not cryeleven-year-old men dont cry, his dad said. He 
circled the house to find his father lying dead in the backyard. A crow was 
perched on the former pilots shoulder, pecking at the brains exposed by a 
baseball-size hole blown out of the back of his skull.
He walked to the Padres. Putting one foot in front of the other came hard; for 
some reason he just wanted to lie down and sleep. Then the Padres familiar lane 
appeared. The priests home served as school, church, and public library for the 
locals. David appeared out of the chilly night air and told the cleric what he 
had heard and seen, and then offered to walk with the Padre all the way back to 
his house. The saddened priest put the boy to bed in his basement. The room 
became Davids home for the remainder of his adolescence.
A common grave received the four victims of old sins loosed by the New Order. 
David threw the first soil onto the burial shrouds that masked the violence of 
their deaths. After the funeral, as little groups of neighbors broke up, David 
walked away with the Padres hand resting comfortingly on his shoulder. David 
looked up at the priest and decided to ask the question that had been troubling 
him.
Father Max, did anyone eat their souls?
Every day at school they had to memorize a Bible verse, proverb, or saying. 
Often there was a lot of writing down and not much memorizing. Sometimes the 
lines had something to do with the days lesson, sometimes not. The quotation 
prescribed for the rainy last day of classes had an extra significance to the 
older students who stayed on for a week after the grade-schoolers escaped the 
humid classroom for the summer. Their special lessons might have been called the 
Facts of Death. The Padre hoped to correct some of the misinformation born of 
rumor and legend, then fill in the gaps about what had happened since the 
Overthrow, when Homo sapiens lost its position at the top of the food chain. The 
material was too grim for some of the younger students, and the parents of 
others objected, so this final week of class was sparsely attended.
The Padre pointed to the quotation again as he began the afternoons discussion. 
Father Maximillian Argent was made to point, with his long graceful arms and 
still-muscular shoulders. Sixty-three years and many long miles from the place 
of his birth in Puerto Rico, the Padres hair was only now beginning to reflect 
the salt-and-pepper coloring of age. He was the sort of pillar a community could 
rest on, and when he spoke at meetings, the residents listened to his rich, 
melodious, and impeccably enunciated voice as attentively as his students did.
The classroom blackboard that day had fourteen words written on it. In Father 
Maxs neat, scripted handwriting, the words THE FARTHER BACKWARD YOU CAN LOOK, 
THE FARTHER FORWARD YOU CAN SEE.WINSTON CHURCHILL Were written with Euclidean 
levelness on the chalkboard. Normally Valentine would have been interested in 
the lecture, as he liked history. But his eye was drawn out the window, where 
the rain still showed no sign of letting up. He had even used the leaky roof as 
an excuse to shift his desk to the left so that it pressed right against the 
wall under the window, and the chipped white basin where his desk usually sat 
was now full enough with rainwater falling from the ceiling to add a plop every 
now and then as punctuation to the Padres lesson. Valentine searched the sky 
for a lessening of the drizzle. Today was the final day of the Field Games, and 
that meant the Crosscountry Run. If the Councilmen canceled the games because of 
weather, he would finish where he now stood in the ranking: third.
The youths came from all over the Central Boundary Waters to compete against 
others in their age group each spring as part of the general festivities that 
ended the winter and began the great Hideout. This year Valentine had a shot at 
winning first prize. Second and third place got you a hearty handshake and an 
up-close look at the trophy as whoever came in first received it. The prize for 
boys aged sixteen to eighteen was a real over-under shotgun, not a hunting 
musket, and fifty bird-shot shells. A good gun meant a bountiful hunting season. 
The Padre and David needed all the help they could get. The Padre taught more or 
less for free, and Valentine didnt earn much at his job chopping endless cords 
of firewood for the neighbors. If Valentine won, he and Father Max would be 
dining on goose, duck, and pheasant until well after the snow flew.
Mr. Valentine, Father Max said, interrupting Davids mental meal. Please 
rejoin the class. Were talking about a very important subject your heritage.
Funny, whispered Doyle from a desk behind. I dont remember him saying 
anything about what a stupid son of a bitch you are.
Plop, added the basin to his right.
The Padre cracked his knuckles in a callused fist; profane jokes out of Doyle 
were as natural as water dripping into the classroom when it rained. He 
evidently chose to ignore both, keeping his eyes fixed on David.
Sorry, Father, Valentine said with as much contrition as a seventeen-year-old 
boy could summon.
You can apologize to the class by reviewing what you know about the 
Pre-entities.
Another whisper from behind: ThisU be short.
The Padre shifted his gaze. Thank you for volunteering two hours of your free 
time to school maintenance, Mr. Doyle. The roof and I are grateful. Your 
summary, Mr. Valentine?
Plop.
Valentine could hear Doyle slump in his seat. They go back to before the 
dinosaurs, Father. They made the Gates, those doorways that connect different 
planets. The Interworld Tree. Its how the Kurians got here, right?
Father Max held up his hand, palm outward. The thumb was missing from his right 
hand, and his remaining fingers were misshapen. They always reminded Valentine 
of tree roots that could not decide which way to grow. You are getting ahead of 
yourself, Mr. Valentine. Just by sixty-five million years or so.
The Padre sat down on his desk, facing the eight older students. The classroom 
should have contained forty or so, had all the teenagers within a long walk 
attended. But education, like survival, depended on initiative in the 
disorganized Boundary Waters.
Valentine settled in for a good listen, as he always did when the Padre parked 
himself on the desk in that fashion. The rest of the class, not having the 
qualified joys of living with the Padre, did not know as he did that when the 
Padre perched there, he was imitating another teacher from his own youth, a 
determined San Jose nun who had woken a hunger for learning in the ganja-smoking 
teen he still had trouble imagining the Padre had been. His mind insisted on 
wandering off to the games.
We know so very little about these beings, the Pre-entities, except that they 
predate everything else we do know about life on Earth, the Padre began. I was 
telling you about the Doors yesterday. No, Mr. Doyle, not the Old World 
rock-and-roll band. I know we think of these Doors as a terrible curse, the 
cause of our trouble. Everything we know would be different if they had never 
been opened. But long ago they were marvelous things, connecting planet after 
planet in the Milky Way as easily as that door over there connects us with the 
library. We call the builders of this Interworld Tree the Pre-entities, because 
we are not even sure if they had bodiesin the sense that you and I have bodies, 
that is. They probably didnt need our little chemical engines to keep going. 
But if they did have bodies, they were big. Some of the Doors are said to be as 
big as a barn.
We know they existed because they left the Interworld Tree and the Touchstones. 
A Touchstone is like a book that you can readjust by laying your hand on it. 
They dont always work correctly on our human minds, however; there are always a 
few who touch them and go insane from the experience, which I find easy to 
believe. But a person with the right kind of mind who touches one has what we 
might call a revelation. Like the downloads I was telling you about when we were 
talking about the Old Worlds computer technology.
The Padre looked down and shook his head. Valentine knew the Padre had a 
lovehate relationship with the past; when he was in his cups, he would 
sometimes rave about the injustices in the Old World, which had the ability to 
feed and clothe all of its children but had chosen not to. This might lead to 
tears over missing something called McDonalds fries dipped into a chocolate 
shake, or overpriced souvenir T-shirts.
The Pre-entities existed by absorbing energy; a very special kind of energy, 
produced by living things. Plants make it at a very low level. All animals, us 
included, possess it to a greater extent. This energy, which we call a vital 
aura for lack of a better term, is determined by two factors in an organism: 
size and intelligence. The latter predominates. A cow, despite its size, gives 
off a smaller vital aura than a monkey. A monkey being the brighter of the two 
in more ways than one, if you understand.
A student held up her hand, and the Padre stopped.
You talked about this before, but I never got if the aura was your soul or not. 
Is it, I mean? Elaine Cowell was a thirteen-year-old, but so bright she stayed 
for all the lessons with the older teens.
The Padre smiled at her. Good question, Miss Cowell. I wish I had an absolute 
answer. My gut feeling is that a vital aura is not your soul. I think your soul 
is something that belongs to you and God, and no one else can interfere with it. 
I know some people say it is your soul that gets fed on, but there is no way we 
can ever know that. I think of the vital aura as being another special kind of 
energy you give off, just as you give off heat and an electromagnetic field.
Elaine fixed her gaze at an invisible point sixteen inches in front of her face, 
and Valentine sympathized. She was also an orphan; the Reapers had taken her 
parents five years ago in Wisconsin. She now lived with an aunt who scratched 
out a living weaving blankets and repairing coats. The others sat in; silence. 
Whenever the Padre discussed the Facts of Death with the older students, their 
normal restlessness vanished.
So why arent they still around? I thought that energy stuff was what made the 
Kurians immortal? another student asked.
Evidently our Creator decided that no race can live forever, no matter how 
advanced their science. When they started to die, we think it caused a terrible 
panic. I wonder if beings who are nearly immortal are more afraid of death, or 
less? They needed more and more vital aura to keep going, and they cleaned out 
whole planets in their final years, trying to stave off the inevitable. They 
probably absorbed all the dinosaurs; the two events seem to have happened at the 
same time. In their last extremity, they ate each other, but it was all for 
nothing. They still died. With no one to maintain their portals, the doorways 
began to shut down over the thousands and thousands of years that followed. But 
pieces of their knowledge, and the Interworld Tree itself, survived for a new 
intelligence to find later on.
Thunder rumbled outside, and the rattling of the rain increased.
So we call the Pre-entities Kurians now? a young woman asked.
No. The Kurians come from a race called the Lifeweavers. They found the 
remnants of the Pre-entity civilization. They pieced some of their history and 
technology back together and made use of what they could understand, like the 
barbarians who moved into Rome. We get the word Lifeweaver from their own 
language; it refers to those of the race who visit other worlds and 
interpopulate them. Just as man takes his livestock, crops, and orchards with 
him when he migrates, but is willing to adapt if something better is found, so 
did the Lifeweavers in their colonization of the Interworld Tree. Lifeweavers 
live a long, long time many thousands of years. Some believe they were created 
by the Pre-entities as builders, but it seems strange that beings with a vital 
aura as strong as theirs would have survived the extinction throes of the 
Pre-entities.
These Lifeweavers reopened the portals to our Earth about the time we were 
discovering that food tasted better if it was cooked first. Our ancestors 
worshiped them. Most of them were content to be teachers, but it seems a few 
wanted to be more. A Lifeweaver can appear to us as a man or woman, or an 
elephant or a turtle if it wants, so they must have seemed as gods to our poor 
forefathers. They can put on a new shape as easily as we can change clothes. 
Maybe they threw thunderbolts for good measure. I think they inspired many of 
our oldest myths and legends.
They adopted us in a way. As we grew more and more advanced, they took a few of 
us to other worlds. Ive been told humans are living on other planets even now. 
If so, I pray their fortune has been better than ours. The Lifeweavers could do 
anything they wanted with DNA. They could make useful creatures to suit 
themselves, or modify a species as they required. We know they liked making 
beautiful birds and fish to decorate their homes; some of these still live on 
our planet today.
The Padre smiled at them. Ever seen a picture of a parrot? I think they 
tinkered with them a little bit. He paused in thought.
Valentine had seen pictures of parrots. Right now the only birds in his mind 
were pheasants, tender young pheasants rising in a flutter of wings. He could 
see them in his newly won shotgun sight. Hed heard the Kolchuks lab-pointer 
pair had had another litter; maybe he could still get a puppy.
The Padre droned on.
Doyle held up his hand, serious for once. Sir, why tell us all this now? Weve 
known about vampirism and so on since we were kids. Okay, maybe some of the hows 
and whys were wrong. What difference does it make how any of it got started? We 
still have to hike out every summerand every fall, a couple of families dont 
come back.
The Padres face crumbled. He looked ten years older to Valentine.
No difference, no difference at all. I wish everyday of my life something could 
make a difference. Mr. Doyle, class, you are young, youve lived with it your 
whole lives, and it is not such a weight for you. But I remember a different 
world. People complained a lot about it, but in hindsight it was something like 
Eden. Why talk about this now? Look at the quotation on the board. Churchill was 
right. By looking back, we may often see the future. I tell you this because 
nothing lasts forever, not even those who will do anything to become immortal. 
Theyre not. The Kurians will eventually die, just like the Pre-entities. Once 
an old king paid to have a piece of knowledge carved deep in the side of a 
monument, something that would always be true. The wisest man of the age told 
him to carve the words This, too, shall pass. But who shall pass first, us or 
them?
We will not live to see it, but one day the Kurians will be gone, and the Earth 
will be clean again. If nothing else, I want you to take that certain knowledge 
from me and carry it with you wherever you go.
The rain left shortly after the rest of Valentines schoolmates did. He hurried 
to empty the various bowls, basins, and pails brimming with rainwater from the 
leaky roof, then headed for the kitchen. Father Max sat at the battered table, 
staring at the bottom of an empty glass. He was already recorking the jug.
David, telling that story always makes me need a drink. But the drink I have 
always wants another to keep it company, and I should not do that. At least not 
too often. He replaced the jug in its familiar spot on the shelf.
That stuffs poison, Father. I wouldnt use it to kill rats; itd be too 
cruel.
The old man looked up at David, who poured himself the last of the cows vintage 
from the morning milking. Isnt the race today?
Valentine, now dressed in faded denim shorts and a leather vest, bolted a piece 
of bread and washed it down with mouthfuls of milk. Yeah, at four or 
thereabouts. Im glad the rain stopped. In fact, I better get moving if Im 
going to walk the trail before the race.
Youve been running that trail since April. Id think youd know it by now.
All the rain is going to make the footing different. Might be muddy going up 
the big hill.
Father Max nodded sagely. David, did I ever tell you that your parents would 
have been proud of you?
Valentine paused for a second as he laced his high moccasins. Yes. Mostly after 
youve had a drink. It always makes you soft.
Youre a bit of the best of both of them. Youve got his quick thinking and 
dedication, and enough of your mothers looks and humor and heart to soften his 
edges. I wish he theycould see you today. We used to call the last day of 
school graduation, you know that?
Yup. Ive seen pictures and everything. A funny hat and a piece of paper that 
says you know stuff. That would be great, but I want to get us that gun. He 
moved to the door. You going to be in the public tent?
Yes, blessing the food and watching you collect first prize. Good luck, David.
He opened the patched, squeaky screen door and saw two bearded men coming up the 
path from the road. They were strangers to him. They looked as though they had 
spent every moment of their adult years in the elements. They wore buckskin top 
to bottom, except for battered, broad-brimmed felt hats on their heads. They 
bore rifles in leather sheaths, but they did not have the shifty, bullying air 
that the soldiers of the patrols did. Unlike the soldiers charged by the Kurians 
with keeping order in the Boundary Waters, these men moved with a cautious, 
quiet manner. There was something to their eyes that suggested wary wild 
animals.
Father Max, Valentine called into the house without taking his eyes off the 
men. Strangers coming.
The men paused, smiling with tobacco-stained teeth. The taller of the two spoke: 
Dont let the guns scare you, boy. I know your people.
Father Max emerged from the house and stepped out into the rain-soaked yard with 
arms outstretched. Paul Samuels, he half shouted, walking out to embrace the 
tall man in his gangly arms. You havent come this way in years! Who is this 
with you?
My names Jess Finner, sir. Ive sure heard about you, sir.
The Padre smiled. That could be good or bad, Mr. Finner. Id like you both to 
meet my ward, David. Hes the son of Lee Valentine and Helen Saint Croix.
I knew your father, David, said the one named Samuels. Valentine saw memories 
lurking in the brown pools beneath his wrinkled brow. Bad business, that day at 
his place. I saw you after the funeral. Took us four months, but we got the men 
that
Lets not dredge up old history, the Padre interrupted.
Valentine caught the looks exchanged between the men and suddenly lost interest 
in the race and the shotgun.
The Padre patted his shoulder. Well talk later, David thats a promise. Get 
going! But give my regrets to the Council at the public tent, and get back here 
as soon as you can. Were going to crack the seal on one of the bottles from the 
woodpile, and then you may have to put me to bed.
Not likely, Samuels guffawed.
The Padre gave David his I mean it, now look, and Valentine headed off down 
the road. He still had time to look over the two-mile course if he hurried. 
Behind him, the three men watched him go, then turned and walked into the house.
The smell of cooking food greeted him at the campgrounds. The public tent, a 
behemoth, six-pole structure that saw weddings, baptisms, auctions, and meetings 
at the start of every summer, was hidden in a little glade surrounded by lakes 
and hills, miles from the nearest road and out of sight from any patrol in 
vehicles. The Hideout Festival featured sports and contests for the children and 
teenagers. A wedding or two always added to the celebratory atmosphere. The 
adults learned crafts; held riding, shooting, and archery competitions; and then 
feasted on barbecue each evening. Families brought their special dishes for all 
to share, for in a region of dreadful, cold winters and summers spent in hiding, 
there were few chances for large gatherings. With the festivals conclusion, the 
people would scatter into the woods and lakes to wait out the summer heat, 
hoping that the Reapers would comb some other portion of the Boundary Waters in 
search of prey.
The race felt less a sport and more of a chore to Valentine by the time he 
reached the crowd. The people, horses, wagons, and traders stalls normally 
fascinated him, but the arrival of the two strangers held his thoughts in a grip 
that startled him. His desire for a ribbon and a shotgun in front of an 
applauding crowd seemed meaningless when compared with meeting a man who had 
known his father.
He resigned himself to running the race anyway. The course looped out in a 
horseshoe shape around Birch Lake. Usually a mud-rimmed half-swamp by mid-May, 
Birch Lake had swollen with the heavy rains until its fingers reached up almost 
to the public tent.
Valentine greeted Doyle and a few other acquaintances from school. He had many 
acquaintances but no close friends. As the Padres live-in student, 
responsibilities in keeping the house and school running prevented him from 
forming attachments, and if that werent enough, his bookish habits made him a 
natural outsider on the occasions when he did mix with the boisterous teenagers. 
He wandered off into the woods along the two-mile trail. He wanted time to be 
alone and to think. He had guessed right; the ground on the big hill to the west 
of Birch Lake was slick with clay-colored mud. He stood on the hill and looked 
out across the rippled surface of the lake toward the public tent. A thought 
sprang from the mysterious garden in his mind where his best ideas grew.
Fifteen boys participated in the race, though only a handful had enough points 
from the other Field Game events to have a chance at the prize. They were 
dressed in everything from overalls to leather loincloths, all tan and thin, 
tangle haired and wire muscled.
One to be steady, invoked Councilman Gaffley to the rocking assortment of 
racers. Two to be ready, and youre off!
A few of the boys almost stopped a hundred yards into the race when Valentine 
made a sharp right turn off the trail, heading for Birch Lake. He sprinted out 
onto a long spit of land and thrashed his way into the water.
Valentine swam with lusty, powerful strokes, sighting on a tall oak on the other 
side. This neck of the lake was 150 yards or so across, and he figured he would 
be back on the trail about the time the rest of the boys skidded down the muddy 
hill.
And he was right, lunging dripping wet from the lake and pounding up the trail 
before the lead boy, Bobby Royce, could be seen emerging from the woods. David 
broke the string at the finish line with a muddy chest to a mixture of cheers 
and boos. Most of the boos came from families who had their boys in the race. A 
frowning Councilman grabbed it off him as if it were a sacred icon being defiled 
and not a piece of ratty twine.
The other boys hit the finish line two minutes later, and the debate began. A 
few maintained that the important thing was to race from point A to point B as 
quickly as possible, and the exact route, land or water, didnt matter. The 
majority argued that the purpose of the race was a two-mile run cross-country, 
not a swim, which would be a different sport altogether. Each side increased its 
volume under the assumption that whoever made the most noise would win the 
argument. Two old men found the whole fracas hilarious, and they pressed a 
bottle of beer into Davids palm, slapping him on the back and pronouncing him a 
first-rate sport for getting Councilman Gaffley so huffy he looked like a hen 
with her feathers up.
A hasty, three-councilmen panel pronounced Valentine disqualified from the race, 
but the winner of a special award in recognition for his initiative and 
originality. Valentine watched Bobby Royce receive the shotgun and shells and 
wandered out of the tent. The barbecue smell made him hungry all over again. He 
grabbed a tin tray and loaded it from the ample spread outside. The homemade 
beer tasted vile. Had beer been this bad in the Old World? he wondered. But 
somehow it complemented the smoky-tasting meat. He found a dry patch of ground 
under a nearby tree and went to work on the food.
One of the backslapping oldsters approached him holding a varnished wooden case 
and dangling two more bottles of beer from experienced fingers.
Hey there, kid. Mind if I sit with you a bit?
Valentine smiled and shrugged.
Almost seventy years of creaky bones eased themselves up against the trunk of 
the tree. Dont have much of an appetite anymore, kid. When I was your age, 
give or take, I could put away half that steer. Beer tastes just as good, 
though, he said, taking a pull from one of the open bottles and handing the 
other to Valentine.
Listen, son, dont let em get you down. Gaffley and the rest are good men, in 
their way; they just dont like the unexpected. Weve seen too much unexpected 
in our days to want any more.
Valentine nodded to the old man, mouth working on the food, and took a 
companionable pull from the fresh beer.
My names Quincy. We were neighbors, once. You were a squirt then. Your ma used 
to visit, especially when my Dawn was in her last illness.
Valentines tenacious memory, jogged, came to his rescue. I remember you, Mr. 
Quincy. You had that bicycle. You used to let me ride it.
Yeah, and you did good, considering it didnt have any tires. I gave it away 
with everything else when she passed on. Moved in with my son-in-law. But I 
remember your mother; she used to sit with her. Talk with her. Tell jokes. Get 
her to eat up. You know, I dont think I ever thanked her, even the day we put 
my wife in the ground
The old man took a long pull at the beer.
But thats water under the bridge, we used to say. Ever seen a real bridge, 
boy? Oh, of course you have, the one on old Highway Two is still up, isnt it. 
Anyhow, Im here to give you something. Seeing you with your hair all wet and 
shiny made me think of your mom, and since those old dorks wont award you the 
prize you deserve, I thought Id give you one.
He fumbled with the greenish latch on the case and raised the lid. Inside, 
nestled on formed blue velvet, rested a gleaming pistol.
Valentine gasped. Wow! Are you kidding? That gun would be worth something at 
the wagons.
The old man shook his head. It was mine. Your daddy probably had one just like 
it at some time or other. Its an automatic pistol, an old United States gun. 
Ive kept it clean and oiled. No bullets, though, but its a nine millimeter, 
which aint too hard to find ammo for. I was going to give it to my son-in-law, 
but hes a putz. Hed just swap it for liquor, most likely. So I brought it 
here, figuring Id trade it for some books or something. All at once I wanted to 
give it to you, where maybe it would do the most good. Its not too handy for 
hunting, but plenty comforting on a lonely road.
What do you mean, Mr. Quincy?
Look, kid, erDavid, right? Im old, but not particularly wise. But I got old 
by being able to read people. Youve got that look in you; I can tell youre 
hungry for something besides your food. Your dad was that way, too. You know he 
used to be in what we called the navy, and they went all over the world, which 
just suited him. After that, after all the shit came down, he did other things. 
He fought for the Cause just like the Padre. Did things he maybe even didnt 
tell your mother. You are a rolling stone, too, and all you need is a little 
push. What that push is gonna be, I cant say.
Valentine wondered if he had been pushed already. He wanted to talk to Paul 
Samuels, wanted to talk to him alone. He might as well admit it to himself, he 
had been thinking about asking to go with the men when they left the Padres.
This world is so cocked up I sometimes cant believe Im still in it. You can 
do two things when somethings wrong: fix it or live with it. All of us here in 
the Boundary Waters, were trying to live with it, or hide from it, more like. 
Weve gotten good at it. Maybe we should never have gotten used to it, I dont 
know, but there were always hungry kids to feed and clothe. Seemed better to 
hide, not rock the boat. But thats me, not you. Youre a smart kid; that little 
stunt at the lake proved it. You know that the ones really in charge dont 
bother with us because were not worth the trouble. Living with the Padre, you 
probably know that more than most. Its only a matter of time before they get 
around to us, no matter how deep in the woods we go. Its them or us. Us meaning 
human beings. Getting rid of them is work for the Cause.
David swallowed his food, but swallowing his mixed emotions was a much tougher 
proposition. Could he just take off? His vague plans for living in a lakeshore 
cabin in the company of books and fishing poles no longer applied or appealed, 
ever since Samuels and Finner had mentioned killing the patrollers who had 
turned the only world hed known into piles of butchered meat. Odd that this old 
neighbor spoke as though he were privy to secret, half-formed thoughts. Are you 
saying I should leave, join the resistance, take up the Cause?
A few of the boys your age are. It happens every year. Folks are quiet about 
it. If word of a son or daughter leaving got to the patrols, thered be trouble. 
So its usually Joe got married and is living with his wifes folks near 
Brainerd, or some such. The councilmen discourage it, but Gaffleys own 
daughter ran away two years ago. Letters arrive every year, but he wont show 
them to anyone.
In a fit of contrariness, perhaps to show Quincy that he wasnt as astute a 
judge of human nature as the old man credited himself for being, David shrugged. 
I cant say what Ill do, Mr. Quincy. I was thinking of going up to Lake of the 
Woods, building a boat I love fishing, and they say next to no one lives 
there.
Sure, son. And maybe twenty years from now, a patrol will come through, just 
like
Hey, Valentine flashed, thats not fair.
But it keeps happening. Just this spring, out by Grand Rapids. Eight people, 
that one. The way I hear it, its a lot worse down south. Especially in the 
cities, where theres nowhere to hide.
Valentine was about to say, Thats not my problem, but held his tongue. An 
orphaned eleven-year-old had not been the Padres problem that September 
afternoon so long ago, either. The Padre had faced the problem, took 
responsibility, because that is what decent people do.
It was an anxious young man who hurried to the Padres that evening along 
familiar paths, carrying a burlap bag full of leftovers, an old empty pistol, 
and a head full of choices. The faces and animals at the public tent, the 
shores, hills, and treesall pulled at him with promises of safety and security. 
The woods are lovely, dark and deep He went into the backyard, checked on the 
animals, and began to chop wood. Turning cordwood into kindling always cleared 
his mind, even if it left his body wet and rubbery. He had been doing this chore 
for the Padre, and for a number of the neighbors in trade for sugar or flour, 
since his arrival five years ago. The solid feel of the ax in his hands, the 
thwock as the blade sank into the dried wood, absorbed the things that bubbled 
up from the dark corners of his mind.
He stacked the splintered results of his labor and went inside the house. He 
found the three men sprawled in the smoke-filled library around an empty bottle 
and a mostly empty jug. A small bag full of letters, including a couple from a 
young lady named Gaffley, sat on the Padres nicked-up table, and a much larger 
bundle of letters lay tucked in one of the mens satchels, ready for the long 
return trip south. The one called Finner paged raptly through a battered volume 
titled Classic Nudes through the Photographers Lens.
David, you missed some boring catching up. And some even more boring drinking, 
Father Max said, not bothering to rise from his barely upholstered chair. Did 
you win the race?
Sort of. It doesnt matter. He told the story. When he got to the part about 
being disqualified, Firmer blew a raspberry. Id like to hear how you knew my 
father, Mr. Samuels.
Samuels looked at the Padre. Its always Paul when Im off my feet, son. When I 
was a kid about your age, give or take, your dad and I used to come up together 
from down south, just like me and Jess do now. We liked to keep in touch with 
the folks up here, and this old fraud. Well-lubricated philosophy sessions, you 
might say.
Valentine began distributing the bounty from the public tent. The men dug in 
with the enthusiasm of days spent on the road eating only what the wilderness 
provided.
You fight them, right? The Kurians, the Reapers, the things they make? And the 
patrols, right?
Patrols are what we call the Quislings up here nowadays, the Padre 
interjected.
Well, not all at once, son, Samuels answered. In fact, we spend more time 
running scared from them than we do standing and fighting. We can hit them here 
and there, where we dont stand too much chance of getting hit back. When were 
not doing that, were trying to keep from starving. Ever drunk water out of a 
hoof print to wash down a couple handfuls of ground-up ants? Slept outside in 
the rain without even a tent? Worn the same shirt for a month straight? It 
really stinks, son. And I dont just mean the shirt.
Valentine stood as tall as he could, trying to add a couple of inches to his six 
feet one. Id like to join up, sir.
Father Max broke loose with a whiskey-fumed laugh. I knew you could talk him 
into it!
* * *
A week later, Father Max saw the party off on a warm, sun-dappled morning. He 
gave David an old musty-smelling hammock. It had uses other than rest; the Padre 
showed him how to roll his spare clothing up in it, then tie it across his back. 
By the time that was finished, other recruits who had collected over the past 
days began to shoulder their own burdens. Most carried backpacks bulging with 
preserved food. Valentine found that there were mouthfuls of words to be said, 
and no time or privacy to say them.
God be with you, David, the graying old man finally said, tears wetting his 
eyes.
Ill write. Dont worry about me. Jacob Christensen said hed help out around 
here. He wants to teach the younger kids, too, so you dont have
The Padre held out his gnarled hand for a handshake. Yes, David. Ill be fine. 
Soon youll have more important things to worry about than getting the cow 
milked and the chickens fed. But the day I quit teaching the kids their ABCs is 
the day Ill be resting in the ground.
Samuels and Finner also shook hands with the Padre. How the men looked so alert 
was beyond Valentine; they seemed to be up every night drinking and talking, 
then visiting the trading wagons and surrounding homes in the day. David guided 
them, leading them on backwoods paths to the households that matched the names 
on the mail. One visit stood out, when Samuels had called on an old woman to 
deliver a few personal effects from her dead son, who had been a friend of 
Samuelss. Some intuition must have revealed her sons fate; she seemed neither 
surprised or grief stricken, and wasnt even preparing to leave her home for the 
summer. That night there had been more drinking and less laughter in the 
library.
Valentine began to learn on the first day of the journey south. He learned just 
how sore his legs could get. Though he had walked all day many times in his 
life, he had never done so with better than forty pounds of food, water, and 
possessions on his back at a pace set by a demanding sergeant. Other volunteers 
joined the group as they walked, one whom he knew. Gabriella Cho had gone to the 
Padres school for a number of years; her rich black hair had fascinated him as 
he struggled through the awkward rites of puberty. Necessities at home kept her 
out of school past the age of fifteen. She had blossomed into a woman since 
Valentine had last seen her two years ago.
Gabby, so youre coming, too, Valentine said, relieved to be finally taller 
than the doe-eyed young woman.
She looked at him once, twice. Davy? Yeah, Im taking the big trip.
We missed you. Father Max had to start asking the rest of us the tough 
questions. It wasnt the same since you left.
No, nothings been the same since then, Cho responded. When she replied to 
further questions with one-word answers and downcast eyes, Valentine ended the 
conversation.
They spent the first evening at an overgrown crossroads more than a dozen miles 
south of the Padres. They made camp and spent the next day talking, waiting, 
and nursing sore muscles. Another soldier showed up, escorting four more 
recruits. Two of the men were twin brothers, six-foot-six-inch blond giants. 
Valentine was surprised to learn their names were Kyle and Pete rather than Thor 
and Odin.
They repeated the process as they hiked south and west in easy stageseasy, that 
was, in the estimation of the men who bore the title Wolves. To Valentine, each 
day proved more exhausting than the last. By the time they reached the outskirts 
of Minneapolis, the group had swelled to thirty soldiers and over a hundred 
young men and women.
Lieutenant Skellen met them at a boat they used to cross the Mississippi. The 
lieutenant wore an eye patch so wide, it could have just as well been labeled an 
eye scarf, which mostly covered a crescent-shaped scar on the left side of his 
face. He had a dozens more recruits with him. Like the sergeants they were in 
their teens or barely out of them, wide-eyed and homesick among new landscapes 
and unfamiliar faces. The travelers made a wide loop west around the Twin 
Cities, into empty lands teeming with prairie plants. One day they skirted a 
hundred-head herd of mountains of hair and hide, and the Wolves informed 
Valentine he was looking at his first buffalo.
Aint no weather can kill those big shaggies, Finner explained to his charges 
from the Boundary Waters. The cows and wild horses gotta find low wooded spots 
when the snow is blowing out here, but them buffalo just form a big circle and 
wait it out.
Valentine picked up much more on that journey south. He learned he could make a 
compass by stropping an old double-edged razor blade against the back of his 
hand. Charged with static electricity, he suspended it from a string in a 
preserve jar to shield it from the wind. The little piece of metal found north 
after wavering indecisively like a bird dog sniffing the breeze. The recruits 
learned how and where to build a fire, using reflectors made of piled logs to 
hide the flame and direct the heat back toward the camper. He was taught about 
trench fires in high wind, and to always roast game skewered on a spit beside a 
fire, not over it, with a pan underneath to catch every drop of valuable fat. 
They learned how to make flour not only from wheat, but also with the 
flowerheads at the end of cattails and even with bark. Valentine pounded masses 
of bark in a pan of water, removed the fibers, and allowed it to settle, then 
poured off the water and toasted the pulpy starch on a stick. Even with salt it 
did not taste like much, but he found himself able to eat just about anything as 
the long weeks of walking wore on. Even more incredibly, he gained weightthough 
he was hungry from dawn to dusk.
When their packs emptied, they didnt always have to live off the land. They 
stopped at isolated farmhouses and tiny, hidden enclaves where the residents fed 
them. I cant fight them, no sir, but I can feed them that does the fightin, 
one goat-whiskered farmer explained, passing out bags of beans and corn flour to 
the hundred-odd campers on the banks of his stream.
He practiced with his pistol. The Wolves passed a hat around and collected two 
dozen bullets from the men with handguns that used the same ammunition as his. 
Some of the Wolves carried up to three sidearms in order to have a better chance 
at using bullets acquired from scavenging the deceased after a fight. He plinked 
away at old paint cans and weathered, paint-stripped road signs. It was during 
one of these marksmanship sessions in an old barn near camp that Valentine made 
an effort to talk to Sergeant Samuels. He had just knocked down a row of three 
aluminum cans, their colored labels illegible with the passage of years, and he 
was feeling pretty full of himself.
You should try it with your left hand, the veteran suggested.
That cleaned the self-satisfied smile from Valentines face in a hurry. Why, 
Sergeant?
What if your right arms busted, kid? What if someone just blew your hand off? 
I know, most instructors say its a waste of time. Me, I think its good to use 
your off hand. Makes your brain and body work different than its used to.
Valentine set one of the cans back up, the sharp cordite smell tickling his 
nostrils. Feeling awkward, he raised the gun to eye level, feet shoulder-width 
apart. He sent the can flying with the second shot.
May I? Samuels asked.
Valentine passed him the gun. The sergeant examined it professionally.
This was your dads?
No, Sergeant. AI suppose hes a neighborhe gave it to me.
Samuels whistled. A gun like this? Its in great shape. He must have thought a 
lot of you. He handed the gun back to Valentine.
More like he thought a lot of my parents, Valentine mused. He paused for a 
moment, not sure how to phrase the question. You seemed to think a lot of my 
father, too. I never knew about his life before he met my mother. He just said 
he traveled.
Samuels glanced out the missing barn doors. The campsite was nearly empty; a 
heavy patrol was out under the lieutenant, and most of the recruits were taking 
advantage of the afternoon off to wash clothes and bathe in the nearby river.
Yeah, David. I knew him. Not from way back, from before the skies filled with 
ash, that is. We met in Michigan, soon after all this shit started. I was 
younger than you then, maybe fifteen. Your dad and I were in this outfit; we 
called ourselves the Band. Fighting sometimes, hiding mostly. Cops, army guys; 
we had some coast guard sailors from Lake Michigan, even. The uniform was a hat 
with a piece of camouflage material sewn on it somewhere. God, what a hungry, 
sorry-looking bunch we were.
He shook his head and continued. Even when we were blasting away at the Grogs, 
we couldnt really believe it. It was like something out of a sci-fi movie. No 
one knew shit about what was going on. I used to cry every damn night, it seemed 
to me. My parents were in Detroit when the nuke went off, you see. I learned one 
thing: tears make you feel better, but they dont change anything. Youll still 
be hungry when they dry up. Still be lonely.
The two men, one mature and weathered, the other a few years past puberty, 
wandered out of the barn and watched the sun descend into the western haze. 
Samuels nodded to a couple of the Wolves carrying out camp duties, and sat down 
on the corpse of an old green tractor. The space where the engine once sat 
gaped, an open wound with wires dangling.
So you were both Wolves then? Valentine omitted the sir, since they were both 
sitting.
That came later. God, we didnt know what to think. The rumors we heard. Stuff 
about government experiments. That the Apocalypse was here and Satan walked the 
earth. People getting rounded up into camps like in the Nazi movies. Creatures 
from outer space. Turned out the truth was even weirder than the rumors, of 
course.
Seems to me we were trying to make for this Mount Omegathere was talk that the 
vice president was there with what was left of the government and the joint 
chiefs. Only problem with it was no one knew where Mount Omega was. And then we 
came across the Padre.
The Padre was working for someone named Rho. Not that hed given up on Holy 
Mother Church, of course. He said this Rho was very special and was advising us 
on how to fight these things. We werent interested. He said Rho was holed up in 
a safe place with food, liquor, womenI cant remember what all he promised us. 
None of us were interested in that, either. Wed been almost trapped and killed 
by those kind of promises before; the Quislings were already running us down. 
Then the Padre said this Rho knew what was going on. That got us. Especially 
your father. Some of the guys said that it was another trap, but I went with 
your dad, because hed done a good job looking after me.
It turned out this Rho was a Lifeweaver. He looked like a doctor from TV, 
really distinguished and everything. Guess you know who the Lifeweavers are, 
living with the Padre as you did. He gave us this speech about doors to other 
planets and vampires and vital auras and how the Grogs were things cooked up in 
a lab. We didnt buy any of it. I remember some of the guys started singing 
Row, Row, Row Your Boat, sort of having fun with him. We thought he and the 
Padre were a couple of fuckin nuts, you know? He said something to the Padre, 
and then, I swear to Jesus, he turns into this big gold eagle, with flames for 
wings. Circled over us like the Hindenburg going up. None of us knew whether to 
shit or shoot, I can tell you. Your dad told us to quiet down, and it turned 
back into a man again, or the image of one.
Believe me, after that we listened. He told us about a group of Lifeweavers on 
a planet called Kur. Theyd learned from some Touchstones the secret of how to 
live off vital auras. To beings with a life span of thousands of years, the 
chance to have a life span of millions must have been temptation, too much 
temptation. They violated the Lifeweaver law, their moral code, and started 
absorbing aura. They were trying to become immortal. In the interest of science, 
of progress. According to Rho, what they accomplished instead was to turn their 
world into a nightmare. They became what we call vampires, beings that are, to 
us, immortal. They do this through taking the lives of others. These rogue 
Lifeweavers, the Kurians, became the mortal enemies of the rest of their race.
The Kurians smashed Lifeweaver society. Theyd been transformed from 
researchers and scientists into something else. Cold. Ruthless. They used their 
skills to destroy all op-position. Overwhelmed, all the Lifeweavers could do was 
shut the portals to Kur. I guess it was in an attempt to keep the infection from 
spreading. But it was too late. A few Kurians had already escaped and were using 
the Interworld Tree to attack the whole Lifeweaver order. More doors were shut, 
but that only cut the Lifeweavers off, stopping them from organizing an 
effective resistance. It was like a houseful of people each hiding from a pack 
of killers in separate locked rooms instead of banding together to fight.
The sound of galloping hooves interrupted the story. A rider on one of the three 
horses in the group pulled up in the yard.
Sarge, the rider said, walking his horse in a circle, the lieutenant says 
theres a Grog column out east of here, heading this way. Mounted on legworms. 
Four legworms, twenty Grogs altogether. Not coming right for us, but definitely 
looking. Youre supposed to gather everyone up and get to the Highway Forty-one 
bridge. If the lieutenant hasnt shown up by tomorrow, youre supposed to get 
everyone to Round Spring Cave.
Got it, Vought. Now ride on down to the river and get the kids in gear. Slowly, 
dont scare them out of a years life like you did me. The courier moved his 
roan off at a more sedate pace. Damn, but the Grogs are far out from Omaha. 
Maybe someone saw us outside Des Moines. Lot of Quislings live in this area 
nowadays.
The sergeant gathered up the six Wolves remaining at the camp and issued orders. 
He motioned Valentine over.
Sarge?
Samuels pulled at the beard sprouting on his chin. Valentine, were going to be 
marching tonight. Were going to stick to an old road because I want to get some 
miles south of the Grogs, but that means Ive got to have scouts and a rear 
guard.
Im shorthanded, what with the lieutenant and his group out. That means youre 
getting whats called a battlefield promotion. Im going to put you in charge of 
the ass end of the recruit column. Make sure everyone keeps up. Its going to be 
six kinds of dark tonight with these clouds, so it wont be easy. Lucky for us, 
weve been slacking all afternoon. Can you handle that?
Valentine threw out his chest. Yes, Sergeant! But nervous sweat was running 
down his back.
Already a few recruits were returning to the area around the old barn, some with 
wet clothes plastered to their bodies. They broke camp. Usually the shouts and 
curses of the Wolves trying to get their green levy to move faster came from 
simple habit, but this time the words were in earnest.
They moved off into the deepening night. Before, they had done only night 
marches when arcing around Des Moines. The Grogs out of eastern Nebraska 
patrolled this area. They could follow a trail in day or night by sight, by ear, 
or by smell.
They moved at a forced march with Valentine bringing up the rear. They walked, 
and walked fast, for fifty minutes, then rested for ten. The sergeant kept up a 
punishing pace. 
Complaints started after the fourth rest. By the sixth, there was trouble. A 
recruit named Winslow couldnt get to her feet.
My legs, Val, she groaned, face contorted in pain. Theyve cramped up.
More water, less hooch, Winslow. The sarge warned you. Dont come crying to 
me.
The column began to move. Gabby Cho, who had been keeping Valentine company at 
the rear, looked at him won-deringly. Valentine waved her off. Get going, well 
catch up.
Valentine began massaging Winslows quadriceps and calves. He tried to stretch 
one leg, but she moaned and cried something unintelligible into the dirt.
Insects chirped and buzzed all around in the night air.
Just leave me, Val. When it wears off, Ill jog and catch up.
Cant do it, Winslow.
He heard the three Wolves of the rear guard approach. It was now or never.
Up, Winslow. If you cant walk, you can hobble. Ill help you. Thats an 
order. He reached out a hand, grabbed hers, and tried to pull her up. But Im 
not gonna carry you; youve got to move along as best you can.
The Wolves, rifles out of sheaths, looked at Valentine with raised eyebrows. 
They thought the situation humorous: a cramp-stricken recruit and would-be 
noncom trying to get her up by issuing orders with a voice that kept cracking.
Whats going on? asked Finner, who was in the rear guard. You two picked a 
helluva time to hold hands in the moonlight.
She wants us to leave her, he explained.
No, she doesnt, one of the Wolves demurred.
Okay, Winslow, Valentine said, drawing his gun. Ive given you an order. The 
word still sounds odd, he thought. And youre not obeying it. Im not leaving 
you to get found and made to talk about us or where were going. Do people 
really talk like this? So I guess Ill have to shoot you. He worked the guns 
action and chambered a bullet.
Val, youve got to be joking.
He looked at Finner, who shrugged.
Laboriously, she got to all fours. See, Finner, I can barely crawl!
Valentines bullet struck the dirt a foot to the left of her ear, sending 
pebbles flying up into her face.
She ran and he followed, leaving the three Wolves chuckling in the darkness.
Samuels met them at the rear of the column. Christ, Sarge, he tried to kill 
me, Winslow said, telling her end of the story. The sergeant planted a boot in 
her scrawny behind.
Keep up next time, Winslow. Valentine, he barked, fist and palm crashing 
together.
The two men waited while the file drew away. Dont ever use your gun, except as 
a last resort on the enemy. Not out of consideration to that non-hacker, but 
cause the Grogs can hear like bats. You get me?
Sorry, Sergeant. Only thing I could think of to get her moving. Her legs were 
cramped up, she said.
Next time, kick em in the ass, and if that doesnt work, you come get me.
I thought you said I was responsible for keeping them moving, sir.
Sergeant Samuels considered this, then fell back on old reliable. Shut up, 
smart-ass. I didnt give you permission to pull a gun on anyone. Get back in 
line. Keep em moving.
Finner, drawing near with the rear guard, had a few words with the sergeant. 
Samuels doubled the column, returning to the front.
Hey, Valentine, Finner said, jogging up to him. Dont worry about it. You 
tried to get her on her feet, when most guys in your spot wouldve turned to us. 
Dont let the sarge BS you about the gunshot; a single shot is tough to locate 
unless youre next to it. Plus, that thing doesnt make all that much noise. I 
told the sarge that if I thought there was a problem, I wouldnt have let you do 
it.
What did he say?
He said I shouldnt think too much, it was dangerous for a guy like me. He 
added a few comments about my mother, too.
A cloud, shaped like a snail with an oversize shell on its back, began to cover 
the rising moon.
I think hed take a bullet for you though, Jess.
Damn straight.
The lieutenant was not at the rendezvous. The tired recruits and tireless Wolves 
rested for four hours. At dawn, the sergeant sent Vought on his horse with three 
Wolves to scout the other side of the two-lane metal bridge spanning the 
Missouri. The land sloped upward as the wooded hills began beyond. Safety.
One of the rear guard, at a copse of trees half a mile up the highway, waved a 
yellow bandanna.
Samuels clapped Valentine on the back. Cmon, son, you deserve to see this 
after last night. Everyone else, get across the bridge.
He jogged off northward along the edge of what was left of the road, and 
Valentine followed.
They reached the stand of trees. One of the Wolves had a spotting scope resting 
in the crotch of a young oak, pointed down the highway. Valentine could make out 
figures in the distance, but he was unwilling to believe what he saw.
Samuels looked through the scope. They must have got wind of us last night. Not 
sure how many of us there are, so theyre going back to report. Take a look at 
this freak show, Valentine.
He put his eye to the scope.
The Enemy.
They were apish figures sitting astride a long pencil of flesh. The mount was 
like a shiny, slug-skinned millipede. Hundreds of tiny legs moved too fast for 
the eye to follow, re-minding him of a finger running across a piano keyboard. 
The riders, five in all, had armorlike gray skin that reminded Valentine of a 
rhinoceross hide. Their shoulders were wide almost two ax-handles across. They 
carried guns that looked like old Kentucky long rifles held pointed into the air 
like five waving antennae. Valentine wondered if he could even aim one of the 
six-foot weapons.
Theyre even uglier from the front. Those are fifty-caliber single-shot 
breechloaders, Valentine, and theyre handy with them, Finner elaborated. They 
can blow your head off at a thousand yards if youre fool enough to be visible 
and not moving.
Those are Grogs? Valentine couldnt tear himself away from the eyepiece.
The sergeant retrieved the scope. Those legworms are fun to stop, too. Brain is 
at the tail end, kind of like Finner here. Nothing up front but a mouth and some 
taste buds, I guess. Also like Finner here, come to think of it. Nothing short 
of a cannon will keep a legworm from coming at you. Good thing theyre kinda 
slow.
We try to pick off the riders, but the lead one always has a big riot shield, 
thick as tank armor, another Wolf said. We have to get them from the side. One 
thing you do not want to ever see is about fifty of them coming at you in line 
abreast.
That happened at the Battle of Cedar Hill, the sergeant put in. We lost.
They made it across the Missouri on a Sunday. The sergeant led them in a prayer 
of thankfulness that their long journey was almost complete.
The next few days had briefer, harder runs mixed with walks and ten-minute 
breaks. They stayed away from the roads, and the Grog patrols stayed out of the 
hills, as each side considered this border region bushwhack ground. Around the 
campfire one night, Samuels told Valentine a little more about his father, how 
the Lifeweaver Rho had created a special body of men to fight the Reapers and 
their allies: the Hunters.
He told us that these things had come to Earth once before, and some of Rhos 
people had taught men how to fight them. Wed forgotten it, except maybe as 
legends and myths garbled over the years. They took certain men and made them a 
match for what they were up against. Rho said he could do the same now, if we 
were willing to accept the bargain. But it would change us forever; wed never 
be the same people again. Your father was willing. Soon he had the rest of us 
convinced. That was the beginning of a lot of hard years, son. But when you get 
to the Ozarks, youll see it was worth it.
The lieutenant was waiting for them at Round Spring Cave. It was a road-hardened 
group that was welcomed by the officers in charge of training new blood in the 
Ozark Free Territory.
A welcoming banquet was spread out under the trees. Six weeks worth of 
traveling on foot made the feast even more welcome. There was fresh bread, 
watermelons the size of hogsheads, meat from the fatted calf, the fatted hog, 
and the fatted chickens under the summer sky. Valentine ate an entire cherry pie 
at one sitting for the first time in his life. Another little cluster of 
would-be soldiers had arrived the day before, youths gathered from the Missouri 
valley in the Dakotas. They swapped good stories and bad in the 
pseudo-hard-bitten fashion of youth.
Gabby Cho shared a picnic table with Valentine under a spread of pine trees. The 
fresh, clean scent reminded him of Christmases before the death of his family. 
Valentine was experimenting with iced dandelion tea sweetened almost to syrup. 
The tea, ice (in summer!), and apparently plentiful sugar were all novelties to 
him.
We made it, Davy, Cho said. She looked a little older now to Valentine; she 
had chopped her long black locks after the second day of hot marching out of the 
Boundary Waters. I wonder whats next. Youre in with these Wolf guys. Any idea 
whats up?
Not sure, Gab. Id like to spend a few days sleeping.
Cho seemed unsure of herself. Whyd you join up?
Valentine shot her a questioning look. Cho had remained distant on the whole 
trip south whenever any personal topic arose. She politely rebuffed the other 
recruits attempts to get to know her.
He rattled his ice in the pewter mug, enjoying the sound and the cool wet feel. 
You probably think revenge, because of the whole family thing. You know about 
what happened, right?
Yes, David. From some of the guys at class. I asked the Padre about it once. He 
told me to ask you, but I didnt want to do that.
Well, its not that.
Are you sure? a voice in his head asked.
I know now my dad was with these Wolves. Maybe he would have wanted me to do 
it, too. He must have thought it was worthwhile; he spent a lot of years at it. 
He paused at a rustle overhead. Squirrels, attracted by the masses of food, were 
chasing each other around in the tree branches, sending flecks of bark falling 
onto the pair below. They were cute, but they made a decent stew, too.
I want to make a difference, Gab. Its obvious, somethings not right about the 
way things are. You know the Jefferson stuff we used to read, about being 
endowed by our Creator with inalienable rights? Its like those rights of ours 
have been taken away, even the right to live. We have to do something about it.
As simple as that?
As simple as that, Gabby. He finished off the iced tea. What about you?
Did you know I had a baby? she blurted.
Valentine absorbed the news in awkward silence, then cleared his throat. No, 
you just disappeared from school. Went north with your family, I thought.
We kept it quiet. The father was a patroller She read Valentines eyes. No, 
it wasnt like that. I knew him. His name was Lars. Lars Jorgensen, she said, 
giving him the feeling that she had not said the name in a long time.
He used to give me stuff. Nice clothes, shoes. I never thought to ask where it 
came from. Looted stores in Duluth, I figured. One day he gave me a watch, a 
real working watch. I could tell there had been engraving on it, even though he 
had tried to scratch it off. I told him not to give me any more presents. He 
disappeared when I told him about the baby coming.
Whos got the kid? Your mom, or?
Scarlet fever got her. Last winter. Remember the outbreak? It hit around where 
you were living, too. It took Her words began to fade.
Jesus, Gabby, Im so sorry.
She wiped her eyes. I think about it too much. I talked to the Padre after it 
happened. I thought maybe I didnt take care of her right, not on purpose, but 
because of how I feel about the father. I just didnt know. The Padre put it 
down to a lack of qualified doctors. Or if theyre good, they dont have the 
equipment or medicines.
She took a cleansing breath of the Ozark air. The Padre said that lots of 
people he knew put this kind of thing behind them by helping others. He gave me 
a lecture about the need for strong bodies and good minds, got talking about the 
Cause. Well, you know him.
I wonder if I do. He didnt talk like that to me. I think he knew you would 
go south when the time was right, she said, smiling her old Ive got the right 
answer smile from school. I wanted to tell you all this for some reason. I 
feel like someone has to know the real me here.
The recruits got the word from Capt. Steam Engine Fulton. He gathered them on 
a little slope in a ring of trees. In this natural amphitheater, he informed the 
mass of youths from Minnesota, the Dakotas, and a smattering of Great Plains 
outposts that they would form a reserve regiment for now. They would receive 
uniforms. They would be armed and taught how to use those weapons. They would be 
paid. But for not their main duties would be as a disciplined labor force, to be 
moved about the Free Territory helping the residents at harvest, improving 
roads, and learning about how things were organized on the Ozark Plateau. The 
harder they worked, the more there would be to eat over the winter.
The bloody minded and the phony tough guys groaned at the news. But Valentine 
grinned at Cho. A gun, a uniform, and something he had heard about but never 
seen: a paycheck. He couldnt wait to get started.
Three
The Ozark Plateau, the fortieth year of the Kurian Order: An island of sanity in 
the eye of a hurricane of death, the scattered farms and towns of the Ozarks are 
a civilization under siege. The heartland of the region is bordered by the 
blasted ruins of Little Rock to the south; in the west by a line extending from 
the western Ouachitas and Fort Scott to Springfield, Missouri; in the north by 
the far-flung foothills of the Ozarks and the Mark Twain Forest; and to the east 
by the Saint Francis River. Known by some as the Ozark Free Territory, and by 
the more military-minded as the Southern Command, the region supports three 
quarters of a million survivors. They are mostly farmers and ranchers connected 
by a network of poor roads and unreliable rivers flowing through the worn-down 
remnants of Americas oldest mountains. Heavy stands of oak, hickory, and pine 
give these hills a bluish tinge, fed by cool streams winding through limestone 
gorges. The small mountains have bare patches of exposed felsite and rhyolite, 
rocky scars that symbolize the flinty hardness beneath the exterior of the 
inhabitants.
New farming centers have sprung up to replace the old. Little clusters of homes 
huddle together like medieval villages, stone walls with narrow loopholes facing 
the world; doors, windows, and porches facing the neighbors. The squatty 
settlements, perhaps built by men whose motto is
Built for Safety, Not for Comfort, are linked by walls that do not divide home 
from home, but separate houses from the Outside. Corrugated aluminum barns and 
Quonset huts in the center of the ring of homes shelter livestock and machinery 
from the elements and thieves.
Some areas are electrified, and a substantial portion use natural gas. A ham 
radio network maintains communication. Telephones are back in action, but 
service is unreliable. The suspicious and tough-minded residents dislike 
strangers, and they sleep with rifles and shotguns handy. Pack traders traverse 
the area with stock on muleback or in gaily painted wagons, bringing basic 
necessities and few luxuries. Both necessities and luxuries are paid with 
barter, sometimes with greenbacks. Perhaps a measure of the success and 
fortitude of the inhabitants of what used to be southern Missouri and much of 
Arkansas is their acceptance of paper currency as being worth something. But as 
gold coins can be changed at two thousand or more dollars to the ounce, perhaps 
paper moneys value is not what it once was. A regular judge advocate general, 
civilian relations (called the Jagers  in a tone suggesting the word has an 
obscene connotation) Court rides circuit and brings some measure of order and 
law to the lives of the residents.
A few towns operate in the region, home to the artisans and technicians that 
keep society together. There is still singing in Branson, and a riverboat casino 
is in operation on the White River, paying out prizes in a system of Byzantine 
complexity. A governor resides in Mountain Home, Arkansas, trying to keep the 
roads open and mail running on shoestring budgets.
The Soldiery, as the residents know them, are concentrated in the Ouachita 
Mountains to the south, and in the broken Ozark ridges to the north. Ceaseless 
long-range patrols circle the area, picking up information and refugees from all 
points of the compass. Strong cavalry reserves train constantly in the center of 
the region, ready to go to the border to slow invasion or destroy a raid. 
Although the Ozark Free Territory is relatively safe, it is not impregnable, as 
small holders and settlements in the boundary areas learn the hard way.
The uniform combined the comfort of burlap with the durability of cheesecloth. 
How innocent cotton minding its own business could be turned into such a 
scratchy, sagging patchwork amazed Valentine. And the rifle! It was a 
single-shot breechloader, operated by a lever that flipped out the expended case 
of the bullet (woe to the recruit who failed to collect the hot brass thimble!) 
as it opened the chamber for the insertion of another round. At least, that was 
the theory. In practice, a few shots heated the action sufficiently to soften 
the thin brass encasing the heavy bullet, and Valentine became better at 
clearing jams than shooting the quickly fouled weapon. It kicked like a mule and 
aimed with the ease of a steel shovel. However, it had few moving parts and was 
within the manufacturing capacity of the Ozark Free Territory. The pay was the 
biggest joke of all. The recruits received multicolored military scrip, usable 
at the scattered-to-the-point-of-inaccessibility Southern Command Trading Post 
commissaries and accepted by a few pack traders desperate enough to take it in 
return for merchandise that failed the caveat emptor test everywhere else.
Fulton pushed them through two months worth of drill in an exhausting six 
weeks. A few recruits bristled at the discipline and gave it up after the first 
week, either trying the dangerous trip home or finding work on the farms and 
ranches of the Territory. The majority finished their training under the 
supervision of bellowing NCOs. They ran and memorized the simple Common Articles 
that governed them and the Territory. They ran and sat through lectures about 
recent United States history, about the other knots of the resistance in Oregon, 
Arizona, the Appalachians, and New England. They ran and practiced with their 
rifles, as well as the captured support weapons and the simple cannon produced 
in inadequate factories. They ran and learned about camp life: brain tanning, 
drying and smoking meat, planting, foraging, and where to find medicinal herbs. 
They ran and learned about running.
Labor-Private Valentine learned to recognize the divisions of Southern Command: 
Guards, Militia, and Hunters. The largest body of professional soldiery was the 
Guards. They provided a solid core for the defense of the Ozark Free Territory. 
Sometimes the NCOs and officers were veterans of the Lifeweaver-trained Hunters. 
The Guards reinforced the Militia, the first line of defense for most 
communities. Most able-bodied adults, especially in the border areas, belonged 
to the Militia. They drilled with the Guards one day a month and stood ready to 
assemble at the call of drum, whistle, or siren. The Hunters carried war into 
the Kurian Zone. Trained by the Lifeweavers, they were divided into the Wolf, 
Bear, and Cat castes, each with a unique duty to the Cause. At talks given by 
members of the castes, Valentine learned that the Wolves carried out long-range 
patrol duties and maintained communication between the other Commands across 
North America. The Cats, rarely seen in the Territory, served as spies and 
saboteurs across the country, often leading double lives deep in the Kurian 
Zone. The Bears fought as the shock troops of the Cause, the Reapers most 
fearless and skilled enemies. A Hunter usually started as a Wolf, and some of 
the best stayed as Wolves rather than moving to a different caste. There were a 
few that knew all three of the Hunters Arts, as they named the Life weavers 
disciplines. But all fought and sacrificed together to bring mankind back to a 
place in the sun.
Valentine experienced the uneasy symbiotic relationship between the military and 
civilians when the labor regiment broke up into work squads and were dispersed 
to the surrounding farms for the harvest. The military could not understand why 
civilians seemed to begrudge every mouthful that went into the bodies of the men 
prepared to give their lives to protect them. The civilians failed to see why so 
much of what they produced, barely enough to feed the community in a good year, 
disappeared into a machine that often failed to keep them safe, and showed 
flashes of competence and efficiency only when gathering the agreed-upon 15 
percent tithe.
The harvest came and went in a whirlwind of dawn-to-dusk labor. Valentine, in 
charge of Cho and eight other recruits between visits by an overworked officer, 
helped a dozen hardworking families in an enclave near the Arkansas-Missouri 
border. They built and repaired houses and barns, helped get in the crops, and 
then butchered and preserved the summer-fattened livestock. Most of the grain 
and corn filled a pair of silos at the center of the little defensive ring of 
homes called Weening, but they also hid a reserve in a series of clay-lined pits 
set between Weenings barns. They covered the pits with tarps and dirt, and 
hoped the village dog and cat population would protect the edible buried 
treasure from scavenging rodents.
Harvest Feast followed the weeks of frantic work. For three days the recruits 
participated in athletics while daylight lasted, then joined the farmers at long 
tables laden with roasts, hams, turkeys, chickens, side dishes, and desserts of 
every description at dinner. Valentine sat next to Cho and gorged himself, then 
retired distended to the Militia barracks above the town stable for the nightly 
farting contest.
With the food put away, literally and figuratively, a brief period of repair and 
maintenance ensured that the blockhouse homes and barns would keep their 
inhabitants in some measure of comfort for the winter. All the while, the oaks 
and hickories of the area turned red gold, until a period of dry, windy days 
whipped the leaves from their tethers and left the twigs dead and empty.
Rumor suggested that Valentines team would soon pull back into winter camp in 
the Ouachitas. The labor crews in some of the neighboring villages had either 
left or were getting orders to do so. The farmers generosity began to run out 
as soon as the last root cellar was filled and barrel of salted pork nailed 
shut. A family named Ross gave Valentine a padded overcoat stuffed with goose 
down and coated with a waxy waterproofing. Valentine had spent some of his few 
spare hours that fall raising the Ross children out of semilit-eracy in 
well-remembered Father Max fashion, first reading to the kids from borrowed 
books and then having the children read the passages back to him.
Weening abutted Black River, a sandbar-clogged stream that flowed through a 
tunnel of black gum, oak, and river birch. Each night, even as the evenings grew 
cooler, Valentine waded out into one of the chilly, deeper pools for a bath. He 
had added another inch to his frame in the year since joining the Cause, and his 
long-limbed physique was leaving its boyish scrawniness behind. Lean muscle 
coiled up his arms and across work-widened shoulders brushed by his glossy black 
hair. His square-cut face was harder, and his bronze skin darker than he had 
ever seen before, but his eyes retained a youthful twinkle. Life in the Free 
Territory suited him: the work among the people of Weening was rewarding, and he 
had the memory of the Ross children swelling with pride as they sounded out 
compound words for him and their parents. He was happy.
One November evening, with a chill in the air promising an even cooler dawn, he 
waded into the scrotum-tightening current for his nightly bath. A few frogs 
started up their musical croaking, but it was far from the ear-filling chorus of 
the summer nights. A heron, standing sentinel on a snag in midstream, eyed him 
suspiciously as he plunged into his twilight revivification. He resurfaced with 
a Cooeee! torn from his lungs at the exquisite shock.
Val, youre going to stop this nonsense by Christmas, I hope, Gabriella Cho 
called from beneath the tresses of a riverbank willow. Im all in favor of men 
that bathe. In fact, I wish youd give lessons. But the river, in this 
temperature?
He laughed, breathing hard in the cool water. I cant pass up the chance for a 
swim in November. We couldnt do this in the Boundary Waters, not at this time 
of year. You should try it.
She stepped into the veiled moonlight, holding a wicker laundry basket. Ill 
stick to dipping a piece of me at a time in a washbasin, thank you. Its slower, 
but I can do without the double pneumonia. Anyway, I brought you a treat, you 
nut.
Valentine waded up and out of the stream, toes pleasantly digging into the cool 
sand. He felt no embarrassment at being naked in front of Cho; theyd shared too 
many rough camps for him to worry about modesty. She knelt, unwrapping one of 
the bundles from her basket and then standing up again with the air of a 
magician performing a trick. The brick-heated towel she draped around his 
shoulders warmed him deliciously.
Thanks, Gabby, this feels great! To what do I owe the royal treatment? He 
began to dry himself off, goose-pimpled skin luxuriating in the welcome heat.
Cho retrieved the other towel, stepped behind him, and affectionately tousled 
his hair. Its winter quarters for us soon. I hear theyre going to split us up 
into apprenticeships or something in camp.
Thats the rumor, he agreed as she dried his back with a series of strong 
strokes. He found it easy to be agreeable with his skin tingling the way it was.
Youve filled out a little, Davy, Cho observed. You used to be such a reed. 
Too much time cooped up in Father Maxs library.
Valentine felt a spark. Are you going where I think youre going? he wondered, 
applying it equally to the direction of the conversation and her rubdown. Now 
aware of how close she stood behind him and drinking in her rich feminine scent, 
he thought with a little nervous thrill how easy it would be to turn around and 
embrace
A shriek from the buildings on the other side of the belt of trees broke the 
moment like a thrown brick shattering a window.
Fire! echoed a second, more intelligible yell.
By the time Valentine pulled his pants on and stepped into his boots, a 
ting-ting-ting-ting sound rang from the metal tube in the gate watchtower that 
served as Weenings alarm gong.
Flames, Val, and Jesus, whats that?
Something flapped across the night sky over the stream, bigger than a vulture, 
banking to make another pass over the ring of houses.
The two friends ran for the River Gap, a narrow alley between two homes that 
served as the smaller of the two entrances to the village. Cho ran three paces 
ahead of Valentine, who was still fumbling with his pants.
A shot flashed from one of the long rectangular windows just under the roof of 
the house overlooking the River Gap.
Cho staggered as the whipcrack hit Valentines ears, a leg yanked out from under 
her as if someone had pulled it with a trip wire.
Valentine waved his arms above his head. Dont shoot, dont shoot, its us! A 
second shot whistled past his ear.
He dropped to the earth, crawling for Cho. He found her writhing in the 
undergrowth, clutching her injured left leg. Oath after oath spat from her 
contorted mouth.
Val, she gasped. Val, my legs broken, I think. Help meOh Christ, its 
bleeding bad.
Dont shoot anymore! Valentine shouted into the flame-lit night. He pulled off 
his belt and cinched it around her thigh as a tourniquet. Send help out here, 
damn it, you shot her!
More shots rang out from somewhere, not aimed at them, thankfully. Valentine 
tried picking Cho up, but an agonized scream dissuaded him.
A scared-witless voice called from the window: That you, Mr. Valentine?
He started to reply with profanity strong enough to blister paint, but cut it 
off. Im coming in, we need to get some help out here. Dorian Helm, right?
Yessir. Im sorry, but when you came up so
Never mind. Cmon out here, I want you to keep an eye on her. Get a good look 
at what happens when you shoot without knowing what youre shooting at.
Tell him to bring some water, Cho groaned up at him. David, the bleedings 
slowed. Please, God, let them have chloroform or something.
And water, Helm. A canteen, anything, he shouted at the house. No response. He 
turned back to Cho. I hope he heard me. Just hold on for a little while; the 
two of you stay under these trees. Those flying things are busy lighting fires.
Knock a couple down for me, Val. What a dumb way to get hit, she said from 
behind closed eyes. Her lip was bleeding; she must have bitten it in pain.
Hang tough, Gab. Back in a few.
The Helm boy, sixteen at most and wide-eyed with fear, let him in the tall metal 
gate that barred entrance to the west gap.
Mr. Valentine, Id never the Helm boy began, but Valentine had no time for 
him after seeing that the kid had recovered his wits enough to bring a blanket 
out for Cho.
He reached the center of Weening without further shots aimed at him. Smoke 
streamed from the top of one of the silos, where two men climbed an exterior 
ladder, laden with blankets wrapped around their shoulders. Flames licked at the 
side of the main bam, the largest building in the center of the ring of walled 
houses.
Two of his fellow reservists stood before the shed that contained their rifles. 
They were taking potshots at the bat shapes circling above. He ran for the shed, 
hunched over in expectation of claws digging into his head or shoulders any 
second. He retrieved his rifle and thrust a handful of cartridges into the 
pocket of his beltless pants, which threatened to drop to his ankles.
Theyre throwing Molotov cocktails, I think, Val, Polluck, one of the would-be 
soldiers in Valentines squad, warned. You can see them bum as they come down.
How many of them are there? he asked, searching the skies. Thirty feet away, 
some of the residents worked the hose attached to the powered pump, directing a 
thin stream of water at the fire threatening the barn. At the other side of the 
village, a mountain of a farmer, gray-haired Tank Bourne, held his automatic 
rifle at the ready under his porch. The weapon looked like a toy pressed against 
his massive shoulder. Bourne aimed a shot at a shape arcing around the barn, 
diving at the firefighters, short leg-claws extended like an eagle after a fish. 
Valentine and his comrades guns rang out at almost the same instant. The volley 
of shots brought the attacker crashing to earth.
Another flapper appeared on the slanted roof of the Bourne house, crawling down 
the shingles with leather-draped arms toward Bourne. Valentine chambered a fresh 
round, sighted, and fired. Bourne heard either creature or bullet, and came out 
from under the porch roof. Bourne pumped shells into the abomination. It turned 
over and rolled off the roof.
Thats two down, Valentine said, his heart pounding in his ears.
The main haylofts on fire! someone shouted from the water pump.
Framed in the growing red-orange-yellow light of the burning hay, an ungainly 
shape waddled toward the upper doors from deep inside the loft. Tottering on 
short bowlegs, it pulled itself along with long arms like a webbed spider 
monkey. Two triangular ears jutted like sharp horns from its angular head.
Tank Bourne rested on one knee, feeding a fresh magazine into his rifle. 
Valentine and the reservists shot, apparently without effect as the bat-thing 
launched itself into the air. With a series of audible flaps, like clotheslined 
sheets whipped by the wind, the beast disappeared into the smoke above.
Bourne waved them toward the already burning barn. We have to get the stock out 
of there!
The hay, now well alight, threatened to take not only Weenings central 
structure, but much of its livestock, as well. Bourne, Valentine, and a handful 
of men dashed inside, throwing the lower doors all the way open. Rising heat 
whipped the wind inside. The men pulled, pushed, and cajoled the stupefied 
cattle, which stood frozen in their stalls, away from the flames. Weenings few 
horses needed little encouragement, but added to the Noahs Ark confusion in the 
great barns lower level as they danced and collided in their rush for the door. 
Once they coaxed a few cows into moving, the rest took to the idea with a will 
and followed the horses, bellowing their panic into the night air.
The pair who dared climb the ladder, covered by every available gun, fought the 
fire on the roof of the silo. Valentine prayed there wouldnt be an explosion. 
Bullets felled two more bat-things as they tried to pluck the men from the 
heights. They extinguished the most immediate threat to the village. Layers of 
corrugated iron and shingles bought enough time for the coughing men to beat the 
fire into submission with water-soaked blankets.
As the gunfire died down, women and children emerged to help combat the blaze 
with bucket chains and another canvas hose. The main barn could not be saved, 
but the smaller buildings, coops, and pens that stood near it in the center of 
town stayed wet thanks to brave souls who dared the heat of the burning bam to 
douse them with buckets of water.
Bourne, rifle held ready at his chest, still watched the skies. Those Harpies 
havent been in these parts in years, he told Valentine. When I was with the 
Bears, we caught a couple hundred of them in daylight. Burned them out of an old 
bank they were sleeping in. We shot them out of the sky in daylight easy. 
Theyre big, slow targets, compared to a duck on the wing.
Slow? Valentine asked.
Yes, theyre better gliders than they are fliers. Especially if they are loaded 
with grenades. Theyre pretty smart, at least enough to know when to attack and 
when to try to get away.
Would they fly in the day?
I doubt it, too much chance of a patrol seeing them.
Valentine felt his pulse quicken. They hit us within an hour of sunset. How far 
could they fly in that hour, Mr. Bourne?
Tank looked at him, bushy eyebrow raised in interest. I see where youre 
heading, young man. Hmmm, theyd be flying against the wind out of the east. I 
dont think theyd be more than fifteen miles away. Tens more likely.
Valentine belatedly remembered Cho. Ive got a wounded man on the west gate. 
Can you help me get her in? After that, I want to find out which way they went 
when they flew off.
Theres a stretcher in the tack shed where you keep your gear. Ill help you 
bring her in, but we dont have a doctor anywhere hereabouts.
They found the young Helm boy propped up against a tree, eyes gaping and empty. 
His neck had a ragged hole in it just below the Adams apple. The wound looked 
as if someone had probed his chest cavity with an oversize drill.
Cho was missing.
Whatever took place at the west gap had happened so fast that the boy couldnt 
even get off a shot with his carbine, which lay fully loaded and broken in half 
on either side of his body.
Theres a Hood nearby, Bourne observed coldly. Poor kid, he was dead before 
he knew what was happening.
Could Cho still be alive?
Maybe. It fed off Dorian here. Broke his neck then went for the blood. Chewed a 
hole in his neck and stuck its tongue right into his heart. Ever seen a Reaper 
tongue? Pointed at the end, like a big rubbery syringe.
Guilt hammered at Valentine with a string of precisely aimed blows. You left Cho 
unprotected in the open, watched by a kid who shouldnt even have been 
responsible for covering the west gate from a loophole. You pulled him out of 
his house and left him in his own backyard to get his heart pierced. Two people 
are dead because you couldnt stand hurting an injured buddy by moving her. Nice 
work, Valentine. The Kurians need a few more like you giving orders.
All the more reason to make them wish they had tried someone elses friends, a 
stronger part of him countered.
At the watchtower over the main gate, three farmers gulped at the roasted 
hickory nut drink called coffee for lack of a more accurate term. Valentine 
asked them for their best guess about which direction the Harpies were last seen 
flying and got three slightly different answers. The consensus seemed to be a 
little north of east.
Most of the town still worked to keep the blaze from spreading. The exception 
was the Helm family; the father retrieved his sons body while Mrs. Helm sat on 
the steps of her porch with her arms around her other two children, dully 
watching the flames consume the great barn.
Valentine climbed down from the watchtower. Bourne and the other eight 
reservists waited by the Militia stable tack shed. Recently turned earth next to 
the little wooden shack exposed two stout cases. Bourne gingerly examined the 
contents of one of the open cases.
How is it, Tank? Valentine asked.
Still usable. We turned it this summer when we blasted the new drainage ditch 
from town. Quickest way I know to get rid of tree stumps.
If I promise not to ask where you got it, will you spare us some of that bang? 
Valentine knew the dynamite had probably been lifted from a Southern Command 
supply cave, perhaps with the aid of a small bribe to the resident 
quartermaster.
If it means paying the Harpies back in their own coin, Ill tie up a couple of 
five-stick bundles and have them fused before you can say nitroglycerin. Part 
that worries me though, kid, is you wanting to take off right now. Wandering 
around in the dark with a Hood around, looking for something you arent sure 
where it iswell, its like playing blindmans buff in a room full of buzz 
saws.
Valentine squatted down and looked at the dynamite. I want to hit them while 
they think were still busy with this fire.
Yeah, I buy that. One thing you got going for you, anywhere these things are 
holed up, its sure to smell like a well full of dead skunks. They shit as much 
as pigeons, and you up everything proportional. I know they eat like crazy and 
their handlers arent too particular about what they feed them.
Valentines entire team volunteered for the duty, but in the end he took two. He 
asked two others to borrow horses and ride for the nearest Command post. The 
rest would guard against further attack in case the Harpies came back to finish 
the job. He just prayed the Reaper didnt decide to come back.
Valentine took Gil DelVecchio and Steve Oran with him. Steve Oran, a brassy 
young man who enjoyed hunting, had ventured many times into the borderlands east 
of Weening in search of game. Oran had the best knowledge of the land and 
excellent eyes. Hed once explored as far as the Saint Francis River, which 
marked the belt of uninhabited land surrounding the Ozark Free Territory. Gil 
was a powerfully built farm boy from the Missouri Valley in the Dakotas. He 
exuded strength and could be relied on to keep his head in a fix. DelVecchio had 
been one of the two men to climb the silo: his sweaty skin was still stained 
with soot.
The three forced down a quick meal as they loaded up two days supplies in 
rucksacks. With weapons, ammunition, dy-namite, and almost no camp gear, they 
could move quickly even in rough terrain. Valentine brought his pistol, with six 
bullets left in the magazine, and the best compass and map Bourne could provide.
They hiked out the main gate a few minutes after midnight, turning down an offer 
by the other Helm boy to go along as guide. Valentine told him he would help his 
family more by fighting the fire that threatened their house. He mentally added 
that while the killing machine that took his brother was probably elsewhere by 
now, perhaps striking again in the confusion of another Harpy attack, there were 
too many other risks in the eastern dark for Valentine to chance losing both of 
a mothers sons the same night.
The Reaper was much on Valentines mind as the three men moved east. Oran picked 
the trail; Valentine followed several paces behind, making sure he stayed on 
course; and DelVecchio walked just behind, rifle ready for instant use. The Hood 
obviously worked with the Harpies, but would it decide Cho was a valuable prize 
to be taken for questioning? Her nondescript uniform differed little from any 
other impoverished residents, and she carried no weapon. She was grabbed as a 
weak target that could not put up much of a fight, to be consumed at a later 
time.
Valentine prayed Cho had lost consciousness from pain and shock. He could not 
bear the thought of his closest friend being carried east to a dreadful end, 
screaming out her pain the whole way.
By three in the morning the men reached the wide Saint Francis River. A few 
ruined buildings that had been reclaimed by the wilderness more or less stood on 
its hilly banks. Valentine looked into the skull-like emptiness of a brick 
house, the interior nothing but humps of collapsed roof and saplings, and 
thought of the world-that-was. Fifty years ago, little cabin cruisers and 
fishing boats must have floated up and down the river, its banks under control 
and sandbars dredged. But with man occupied elsewhere, Nature had reclaimed her 
own. At a rest halt, he began to despair of their hunt. The Harpies could be 
anywhere.
Val, theres a light on the river, Oran reported.
The three climbed a little promontory and looked north at the distant speck of 
light. It was near the western bank of the hundred-yard-wide river, but whether 
it came from boat or shore could not be seen at this distance. Who would be fool 
enough to burn a light right at the border? A guide for the returning fliers? 
Valentine wondered, suddenly hopeful.
They decided to check it out. Valentine and Oran readied their rifles and picked 
their way north, keeping under cover. When they got close enough to see that the 
light in fact came from a boat, they rested for a few minutes before creeping 
forward again.
Its a small barge and a towboat, said Oran, who had the best night vision of 
the three, and therefore used the binoculars. They lay in a little hollow, 
peeking at the river from behind a fallen tree. Looks like five men visible on 
the towboat. Ones got a gun. No one is on the barge. Its riding light, must be 
practically empty. The light is on the barge, electric, not a lantern.
The towboat was attached to a ruined concrete piling projecting out of the lake, 
perhaps the last remnant of a dock.
Oran leveled the binoculars at the barge. They got it anchored at the front and 
back. If anyones in it, theyre staying hid.
A gust of wind off the river made the men wrinkle their noses. They exchanged 
glances.
I think weve found the nest, said Valentine.
They hashed out a plan. Valentine would take a bundle of dynamite and swim to 
the ship from the north end of the barge. When he set it off, the other two men 
would start sniping at the tugboat, with hope that it would be lit by the 
burning barge, and use the other bundle of dynamite on it from the shore. Gil 
said he was sure he could throw the bundle the thirty feet from the shore to the 
boat.
Here, Val, DelVecchio said, pulling a hand ax from his belt. You might need 
this. Who knows what might be in that hull?
The weapon was light and handy, more of a fighting tomahawk than a tool. 
Thanks. Well meet back here, Valentine ordered. If youre being chased, just 
go west like hell, dont wait for me.
Hope you dont puke easy, if youre going close up to that thing, Oran 
commented, tension written in boldfaced capital letters on his face.
Lets not waste any time. I want to get this over before dawn. Maybe that Hood 
sleeps in the barge.
Valentine stole past the lounging figures on the tug. If five men were up and 
around at this hour, perhaps ten more might be crammed below. Or were they out, 
somehow helping the Harpies? Once he had the bulk of the barge between him and 
the towboat, he crawled through vegetation to the water. The dynamite, matches, 
and his pistol rested on his back, in a pack that might keep the water out for a 
moment or two, if he was lucky.
Valentine kicked off his shoes and crawled into the cold water. It reminded him 
of his bath, and how Cho had dried him off afterwards. He took the comforting 
wood handle of the tomahawk in his hand and half floated through the water 
toward the barge, moving like an alligator with just eyes and nostrils out of 
the water, the pack making a sea-monster hump on his back. He felt as alive and 
alert as if he had just finished a light breakfast after a long nights sleep, 
rather than having been awake for eighteen hours.
It was a good thing he hadnt eaten recently. When he slithered close enough to 
really smell the barge, a horrible musky odor mixed with a sharper 
turpentine-like smell assaulted his nostrils. The hazy moonlight revealed 
details of the ancient barge, a mass of rust and paint and makeshift welds with 
M-33 painted on its side in three-foot-high letters. He shifted the tomahawk to 
his mouth, holding it between his teeth with straining jaws, and breaststroked 
into the river. He made for the stern anchor line. The gentle current assisted 
him with its chilly flow. He reached the cable, grateful for its hand-filling 
thickness. He climbed it, still gripping the ax in his teeth like a dog with an 
oversize bone.
The deck of the barge was as beat-up as its sides. It had a single hatch open to 
the sky. The battery-powered lamp, a conglomeration of what looked like a car 
battery and a truck headlight, pointed up into the night but seemed to bathe the 
whole top of the barge with an intimidating, revealing light. Valentine wished 
he had told Oran and DelVecchio to start firing when they saw him reach the 
barge; he could use something to draw the mens attention to shore. Still 
dangling, he gently placed the hatchet on the deck of the barge. Now or never.
He hoisted himself up on deck and crawled for the hatch. Expecting a shout at 
any second, he peered into the reeking hold. He could make out little in the 
dark, but there seemed to be floor six feet or so down.
He rolled over the edge and landed barefoot in sticky filth, ax ready. The hold 
stank like a slaughterhouse, and he had to fight down his gorge as he stood up 
in a cramped little area.
A gutter ran the length of the deck, filled with noisome excrement. The hollow 
interior was empty.
No. As his eyes adjusted, Valentine realized that a panting shape leaned against 
one wall. It was a Harpy, wrapped up in its own wings as though in a leathery 
cocoon. A trickle of blood pooled beneath its rump. Wounded, maybe dying. The 
debris on the floor included a melange of bones. A cluster of human skulls 
decorated a metal pillar, part of the barges rusting structure holding up the 
deck. The heads looked like a yellowish bunch of coconuts. There was a door 
forward out of the hold. A body lay at the bottom of stairs descending from the 
door: pale, naked, and headless. But it was nevertheless familiar.
Valentine had found Cho.
An awful kind of warmth filled his stomach. He no longer minded the reek. He 
padded toward the sleeping Harpy with slippery steps. He could make out slit 
nostrils and a toothy, pointed jaw decorated with bristling catlike whiskers 
protruding from the tent of folded wings. Wet drool dripped out with its rapid, 
shallow breathing. He raised the ax and buried it in the face with a 
bone-crushing blow. The thing never knew what happened, falling nervelessly 
sideways. Valentine leaped on top of it, bringing the blood-and-brain-soaked 
tomahawk down again and again with a series of wet smacks. Flecks of blood 
splattered his snarling features.
A familiar flapping sound came from the hatch, and the light reflected from the 
deck lamp was obscured by a winged shadow. Valentine crossed the hold to the 
forward stairs to the door, keeping clear of the hatch. He could sit there, 
light the dynamite, and blow a few Harpies to kingdom come.
Shots echoed from outside. DelVecchio and Oran must have panicked at the 
returning Harpies and tried to prevent them from reentering the barge. Valentine 
somehow ignored Chos body, took his pistol, and tossed the backpack onto the 
stairs. A Harpy flopped into the hold, one wing injured.
Welcome home, fucker, Valentine cursed, putting a bullet into its stomach. The 
spent cartridge case pinged off the metal interior.
The Harpy screamed out a horrible, burbling kind of call. Language or pain, it 
brought answering shrieks from outside. Valentine knew he was drawing all kinds 
of ugly from the skies as well as the tugboat, but he wanted Chos body to have 
a lot of company feeding the crayfish and gars. He heard, for the first time in 
his life, the chatter of a machine gun fired in anger. The tugboat crew must 
have a support weapon mounted on deck. He prayed that DelVecchio and Oran were 
smart enough to pull out now and head west.
He pounded on the roof of the hold, dislodging a shower of grit. Dinner, 
dinner, come and get it! he shouted.
The wounded Harpy pulled itself toward him, gremlin mouth open in vicious 
anticipation. Other flappers dropped into the hold.
Valentine took two steps backwards toward the door and found the bundle of 
dynamite and tin of matches. Grabbing a bunch of matches, he struck them against 
the rough side of the stairwell. They flared into life, illuminating the dank 
little closet space. Valentine lit the fuse, dropped the matches to the floor, 
and picked up his pistol. He fired a shot into the vague shapes collected in the 
hold. He placed the hissing dynamite on the first stair and pushed at the hatch.
Locked.
He bashed at the hatch with his shoulder, closing his eyes to the expected 
oblivion that would blow him to bloody fragments, but the rusted lock gave way. 
He threw the door open and dashed onto the deck, then dived for the water on the 
river side of the barge. He felt a bullet pluck at him as it passed through his 
shirt at the armpit.
He was under water when the explosion hit. The boom sounded muted, but its force 
thumped at him even through the cushioning protection of the river, knocking the 
breath from his body. He surfaced, gasping for air.
The shattered rear half of the barge upended as pieces of its hull splashed into 
the river all around. The towboat was a mass of flame, the machine gun silent. 
The Harpies incendiary bombs must have been on the towboats deck in readiness 
for another attack. Valentine got his bearings and submerged again, swimming for 
shore. No doubt a few very unhappy Harpies still circled above. His fingers 
struck the river bottom.
As his brain cleared, he realized that he was unarmed. His pistol was at the 
bottom of the Saint Francis, dropped when the concussion from the explosion 
racked him, and the tomahawk was probably landing somewhere in Mississippi. He 
gathered himself and ran out of the water and onto the river-bank.
Picking up a river-smoothed rock in each hand, Valentine hurried under the 
protective overhang of the trees. He felt defenseless as a rabbit with raptors 
circling above but made it to the little hollow without trouble. What was left 
of the tugboat was floating downstream in flames.
He crept to the place where he had left the other two and whistled softly.
An answering warble came out of the darkness. The pair joined him.
Quite a show, Val, complimented Oran, returning Valentines rifle. DelVecchio 
put the other bundle of dynamite back in his pack. Bourne could use it on more 
tree stumps or trade it for corrugated tin to build a new barn.
It felt good to have a rifle in his hands instead of rocks. Oran, you need a 
break. Ill take point on the way back. You can keep us on course, and Gil, you 
cover.
Sure thing, boss.
The light of the burning towboat faded as it sank behind them, and the three 
started for home. Not knowing how well the Harpies could see, hear, or smell, 
they stayed under the trees. Nothing dived at them or circled above. Later they 
sang softly as they walked through the shadowed woods, like young athletes 
returning home from a successful match. Beneath the bare-boughed canopy, 
Valentine felt safe from any of the surviving Harpies. But the trees made the 
Reapers attack that much easier.
It stepped from behind a tree, plucking the gun from DelVecchios hands and 
sending it spinning into the night. With its other hand, it picked him up by his 
backpack, holding the giant young man at arms length like a filled diaper.
Valentine and Oran spun around, flicking the safeties on their rifles. The 
Reaper put the frantic DelVecchio between them like a shield.
Drop him, was all Valentine could think to say.
No! Wait! No! DelVecchio was screaming. Dont let him dont shoot.
you might as well shoot, foodlings, the Reaper whispered, its voice all hissing 
air and menace, youll all three be dead as soon as i take you.
God, let me go, DelVecchio gibbered. Val, get it off me!
Valentine thought his heart was going to break out of his chest, it pounded so 
hard. His tongue felt dry, and his eyes seemed misted over. Only a burning 
sensation from the region of his kidneys prevented him from fainting dead away. 
He waved at Oran, motioning him to spread out. The Reaper couldnt hold 
DelVecchio in two directions at once. Oran, eyes fixed on the hypnotic yellow 
eyes of the pale, black-clad figure before them, did not respond. Valentine 
stepped backwards, rifle at his shoulder.
The thing turned its gaze to Valentine, bringing Oran out of his trance. Seeing 
Valentine stepping away, he turned and ran off into the night, discarding gun 
and pack.
run! ill catch you, the Reaper breathed after him. hide, ill find you. It 
turned to Valentine, shifting its gaze in a quick, lizardlike movement, shoot, 
and ill pull your legs apart, one joint at a time, as easily as youd yank off 
a flys wings.
Valentine continued pacing backwards, lowering the gun barrel somewhat. He 
stepped behind a thick tree trunk, aiming his gun.
The Reaper laughed at the gesture, a sound indistinguishable from a cats 
spitting fury: pha pha pha!
useless. It looked at Gil, the young man quivering in its grasp, you got one 
thing right, foodling, the predator said into DelVecchios ear as it drew the 
thrashing figure close, i am a god!
DelVecchio screamed as it turned him around, pointed teeth tearing a hole in his 
neck. Gil pushed and flailed against the creatures grip, screaming the blubbery 
underwater screams of a man with a severed windpipe.
Sorry, Gil. Hope youd do the same for me, Valentine muttered, exhaling and 
squeezing the trigger.
The .45 shell found DelVecchios backpack. The dynamite exploded in 
pinkish-orange light, throwing Valentine on his back with a warm, irresistible 
punch. Valentines ears roared, and his head filled with light as he plunged 
into unconsciousness.
It was almost dinnertime when the exhausted residents of Weening heard a shout 
from the guard tower.
Walker coming in. A moments pause while the watchers in the tower employed an 
old telescopic sight. Its Valentine. Alone.
The residents gathered, the still-smoldering barn behind them, to greet the 
strange apparition.
Barefoot, pants in tatters, shirt reduced to a few ribbons, and pale with 
fatigue, David Valentine walked into Weening. He held his rifle in one hand and 
bulging backpack in the other. He examined the crowd, looking for a face.
Mr. Helm, he croaked, reaching into his backpack. We killed the thing that 
got your son. And Gab. And Gil. Steve, I dont know about.
He pulled out a skull covered in sticky soot from the fire hed used to burn off 
the flesh and hair. In everything but color it resembled a human skull, with an 
oversize forehead and an unusually long jawbone. The charred bone was bluish 
black and looked as if it had been carved from a block of onyx.
Randall Helm refused the offering and instead put his arms around the weary 
eighteen-year-old and walked him home.
That evening Bourne opened a jug of homemade whiskey and he, Valentine, and Helm 
took turns solemnly chiseling the names gilman delvecchio, gabriellacho, and 
dorian helm into the polished obsidian skull of the Reaper, still a little warm 
from its hours in the boiling pot. By the time the jug was recorked, the skull 
was mounted, slightly askew and off-center due to alcohol-impaired judgment, 
over the main gate of the village.
It stands there still.
Four
Ouachita Mountains, February of the forty-first year of the Kurian Order: The 
snow is retreating up the rugged, rocky hills of the Ouachitas, but an Arkansas 
winter still sits firmly in the saddle. In the narrow valley between two low 
mountain ranges pointing like cleft fingers at the blasted ruins of Little Rock, 
a little collection of cabins marks the temporary home of Fort Candela. It is a 
fort in name only; the soldiers are scattered across twelve square miles of the 
valley floor. There is electricity most of the time and fresh food some of the 
time, but warmth and companionship by the cabin hearths always.
The erratic war is blessedly far from the men and women quartered in this 
valley. They concentrate on making and repairing equipment, cutting and sewing 
new uniforms, eating, drinking, gambling, and trading. And most important, 
training. This winter, like every other for the past twenty-odd years, recruits 
get paired up with seasoned veterans, until the green soldiers can do what the 
vets do and know what the vets know. Specialists and artisans travel through, 
giving lessons and once in a while taking on permanent apprentices if a recruit 
shows unusual ability at veterinary work, perhaps, or in making quality leather 
goods.
The officers in charge of Fort Candela make decisions and act on them. One 
recruit has hopelessly bad vision, another drinks too much, and another cannot 
keep up on practice marches. The culls are offered support jobshonorable 
service in paid labor outfitsor are returned to civilian life. Those who do not 
try for home are absorbed by the labor-hungry farms and towns of the Ozark Free 
Territory, but a few malcontents become bummers and inevitably a matter for 
the law.
For the rest, the question becomes Guards or Hunters. Seven out often go to the 
Guards, the military regiments that provide a defensive core for the Ozark Free 
Territory. Guard service is rewarding: The soldiers get the finest uniforms 
Southern Command can produce, ample ammunition for marksmanship training, and 
frequent parties and barbecues, games and riding contests. Many of them are 
mounted, adding to their dash and swagger. They also get plenty of opportunities 
to mix with civilians. No New Years dance is complete without a handsome 
contingent of young Guards in polished boots and crisp charcoal-gray uniforms, 
kepis with regimental-colored neckerchiefs hanging to precisely the base of 
their tunic collars. The Guards are the well-ordered, well-disciplined, 
reassuring face of Southern Command, who can and do fight, giving their lives in 
defense of wives, children, and sweethearts.
The othersthe men and women who will become cold-eyed Hunters ranging outside 
the friendly reaches of the Ozark Free Territory to slay the minions and 
Quislings of the Kuriansare brought before the Lifeweavers.
A glossy black house cat named Sailor Tom ruled the cabin with an iron paw. Six 
men shared the bunkhouse nestled in a hollow between two spurs of Fourche 
Mountain, but none disputed the felines claim to the warmest chair by the stone 
fireplace or the best tidbit from the steer quarter hung in the cool room. The 
heavy cat looked like a witchs familiar with a lynx somewhere in the family 
tree. He strutted around the cabin on muscular rear legs, half-wild and all 
attitude. Sailor Tom asserted his authority with a rising corkscrew growl that 
blossomed into a biting, clawing fury aimed at anyone foolish enough to ignore 
that first and only warning. He gained his nickname when one Wolf declared, If 
that torn spoke English, you just know hed be cussing like a sailor. The men 
tolerated the bad-tempered cat and pointed him out to recruits as an example of 
tenacity to be imitated. The men depended on stored food to get them through the 
winter, and Sailor Tom exterminated trespassing mice, rats, squirrels, and even 
rabbits with samurai spirit.
The cats realm encompassed a two-room, sooty kingdom full of beds and furniture 
as roughly finished as the men who occupied them. A fireplace of watercourse 
stones dominated one entire wall at the sitting part of the bunkhouse, and a 
two-hundred-years-old-and-still-going-strong potbellied stove warmed the 
sleeping part, a musky warren of bunk beds and old blankets hung for gloomy 
privacy.
Four veteran Wolves and two recruits shared the cabin. Pankow, Gavineau, Big 
Seth, and Imai saw to it that neither David Valentine nor Marquez, the other 
Wolf Aspirant, enjoyed a moments peace. Anytime they were not actually in the 
field or attending a lesson as part of their caste training, the four Senior 
Wolves dedicated themselves to seeing mat the would-be Hunters idled as little 
as possible. Not just with training. Marquez found himself held responsible for 
the firewood supply and general cabin maintenance. The firewood might seem an 
easy task for a man in the middle of a forest, but the Wolves insisted he fell, 
and consequently haul, the timber from two miles away. If he so much as looked 
at one of the bushy pines surrounding the cabin, the trainers accused him of 
wanting to expose their temporary home to the enemy.
The Wolves assigned everything else to Valentine. Everything else included 
cooking, washing up, laundry, stocking the pantry, mending, disposing of Sailor 
Toms half-eaten corpus rodentia, and the morning ersatz coffee. The men 
accepted a certain amount of slackness and inefficiency in all his 
responsibilities excepting the last. No matter that Valentine may have returned 
from a night orientation march exhausted at the first pink of dawn, if the 
coffee was not steaming and ready to be poured at the customary rising hour of 6 
a.m., he was thoroughly cursed and punished. This required a fell run up Bald 
Knob, a forty-degree-grade hill bare of trees, under the disapproving eyes of 
the four coffeeless Wolves.
Valentine learned from all four, but his principal mentor was Evan Pankow. The 
child of a representative from Ohio, the then seven-year-old congressmans son 
had watched his privileged world disappear in a few insane weeks when the Raving 
Madness virus swept the United States. Young Evan was one of the few people 
immune to the virus. While this protected him from a death that claimed better 
than three quarters of the United States population, his genes were useless 
against the war and chaos that followed. He followed a stream of refugees into 
the tidewater of Virginia, where he got his first taste of the Kurian Order. He 
witnessed an albino man with yellowish eyes and a soft voice claiming to be a 
crisis governor kill an entire family in a hotel room. The boy, forever after 
avoiding the Reapers, was flown southwest by a woman who had also witnessed the 
crisis governor in action. Pankow had lost his parents, and she had lost a 
son, leading the two to form an increasingly real mother-son bond.
The pilots name was Jamie Kostos, a former journalist who wrote some of the 
first pamphlets examining the Kurian Order. Her early writings, accurate in fact 
but mistaken in analysis, brought her to the attention of the Lifeweavers. 
Through her, Evan became a student of the Lifeweavers and a Wolf.
In his twenties, Pankow helped found Southern Command. Now fifty, with a seamed 
face and world-weary eyes that reminded Valentine of a Karsh portrait of Ernest 
Hemingway he had seen in one of the Padres books, Pankow devoted himself to 
training a new generation of Wolves to carry on the struggle.
One late-February afternoon, with snow camouflaging the mud surrounding the 
little cabin, Pankow lectured his Aspirant about, of all things, tea.
Its way too easy, when youre outdoors and on the move, to just eat rabbits 
and such, Pankow said, running his ungloved hand across the soft needles of a 
mountain spruce. Especially in cold weather, you get hungry for meat and fat, 
and forget about everything else. But youve got to get your greens. You know 
what vitamins are?
Yes, I do, sir. Its those letters, A, B, C, and so on, David responded.
Yeah, well, when I was a squirt we got them in stuff like breakfast cereal, 
little candy pills: damn near everything said vitamin fortified. Now its not 
so easy, it being winter. Take these spruce needles. In the spring, the little 
buds taste pretty good; you can just chew them. But if we pull some of these 
needles and boil them up into tea, you get as much vitamin C as from an orange, 
even. Ever had an orange?
Valentine shook his head.
Too bad. Sweet and juicy like a watermelon, but tart, too. Anyway, your greens 
arent a problem in summer; any fool can pull up a dandelion, chew its leaves, 
and roast the root, but winters a different story. You dont get your vitamins, 
you end up losing teeth, getting fevers. Youll catch some virus and die even if 
the scurvy doesnt take you. Trappers in Canada used to die of it; rabbit fever, 
it was called. They were starving their bodies to death while stuffing 
themselves with fresh meat every night. So never just eat meat, on the trail or 
at home. Add a lot of greens if you value your eyesight and your teeth.
We should just raid more food off the Kurians, Valentine suggested.
Pankow scowled. Thats not so easy. But before you can fight, you have to be 
healthy in mind and body. I know it seems hard, what weve been having you do, 
but soon your bodys going to be like a whole new machine. Were trying to get 
you as strong as possible so nothing quits on you once you start keeping the Way 
of the Wolf.
When will that be?
Not for me to say. Not for you to say, not for the captain to say. Its up to 
the old Wizard. He might be watching you now, he might be advising the governor 
in Mountain Home. One thing is for sure, no one who meets him comes away the 
same as he was before.
Back at the cabin, like a demon invoked by mention of his name, word from the 
Lifeweaver waited in the form of a small printed list. The cabin was empty save 
for Seth and Sailor Tom, both napping in front of the Franklin stove.
Amus called an Invocation, Big Seth explained from his modified bunk. 
Reinforced wooden wings accommodated his six-foot-six-inch frame and supported 
an elongated mattress of his own making. Starting Saturday and running for a 
week. One hundred fifteen fresh Wolves in this batch, thank God.
Nice to see the roster growing this year. Manys the sum-mer we had less than 
the year before. Lets see the list, Pankow said, reaching for the typed sheet 
of paper.
Marquez made it. Bad news, Valentine, he said, watching Valentines face fall. 
You made it, Valentine. In fact, youre last on the list.
Valentine felt ambivalent at Pankows joke, but a little pride still crept into 
his voice. At least I made it, even if Im dead last.
Dont take it that way, son, Big Seth interjected. It isnt good or bad, 
being last. Just means they may want to take more time.
Doing what? Tattoos, a Vulcan mind-meld, what?
Pankow laughed. Hell, Valentine, where did you come up with that? Little before 
your time, and they havent done reruns in over forty years.
My dad liked to read science fiction. The man who brought me up after he died 
taught me to read my dads books. But what is this transformation you all keep 
hinting about?
Big Seth and Pankow exchanged a look. Pankow shook Valentines hand.
Youll just have to meet Father Wolf and see for yourself. Magic, son, is a 
little hard to explain.
The week dragged on, and Valentine made it pass more quickly by devouring the 
few books in the cabin. A heavy snowstorm came, and the Wolves relaxed the tough 
schedule shared by the two Aspirants. Valentine gratefully retreated to his 
bunk. Pankow gave him a pamphlet written by his foster mother. Printed in heavy, 
slightly smeared type and cumber-somely titled Fallen Gods: The History, Theory, 
and Practice of the Kurian Order, it was fifty pages relating the history of the 
Lifeweavers, their schism over the use of vital auras to attain immortality, and 
the Kurian takeover of Earth.
The Kurians failed in their first effort to take Earth because it was chaotic, 
badly planned, and they had not even consolidated their victory on Kur itself, 
where knots of Lifeweaver resistance slowed them. Humanity owes these brave lost 
souls a four-thousand-year debt of gratitude. Mankind in its primitive, isolated 
state was less vulnerable to the spread of the Ravies plague and quicker to 
accept the word and help of the Lifeweavers.
We hunted the horrors that came over from Kur, closed the doors, and having 
eradicated the threat promptly forgot about it two hundred years before 
Stonehenge was built. Vampires became rumor, then legend, and the Caste of the 
Bear trickled down into human legend as the berserkers of the Norse sagas.
Certainly a Kurian or two remained on Earth, lurking in untraveled corners of 
the globe. And Kurian-de-signed spawn, now known generically as Grogs and 
individually through slang and names out of mythology, no doubt survived to 
trouble humanity now and again as it pushed back the borders of the unknown.
But though the Gates of the Interworld Tree were closed, the Kurians in their 
red-clouded underground world learned in the long years of their exile how to 
open new ones. When and where the first of the new portals were opened is a 
matter of some dispute. Even the Lifeweavers are unable to say. It could have 
been as early as the Dark Ages in the Balkans, or as late as the eighteenth 
century. Opening the portals requires enormous sacrifices of vital auras to 
achieve, but after the first Kur came through the new Gate or Gates, humanity 
aided the Kurians in this all too frequently.
Humanity took the first step toward its own overthrow. Over the years, the 
Kurians recruited human allies, perhaps by striking Faustian bargains. The 
Kurian moles gained positions of trust and authority in society.
With the new millennium, the dragons teeth sown in the last hundred or so years 
of mans history were ready to grow. In the first week of June 2022, they sprang 
the trapdoor on the vital auras of Earths seven billion inhabitants.
The door to the cool room opened noisily, and Gavineau entered the cabin. He 
walked over to the hearth, apparently not seeing Valentine, and took the jug of 
busthead down from its place on the shelf. Gavineau collapsed in the 
leather-webbed camp chair by the empty fireplace, took a long pull, and stared 
at the cold ashes. Sailor Tom took advantage of the warm lap, and Gavineau 
scratched the cat between the ears without looking at it. Valentine considered 
greeting him, but didnt wish to be given something to do. He returned to his 
booklet.
THE OVERTHROW 
The world was already a miserable place in the spring of that cursed year. The 
New Depression was at its height. Stocks fell, jobs were lost, and consumer 
consumption fell in a corporate death spiral as the aging technoczars were 
revealed to have feet of clay. Financial institutions underreacted, the 
government overreacted, and a society living on borrowed time paid for with 
borrowed dollars failed. Hard times and hunger came to the Western world, which 
was all the more of a shock because the generation that survived the last 
financial collapse had virtually died out.
Ancient hatreds smoldered and burst into flame. Europe saw its first real war in 
generations over food tariffs; China used Americas preoccupation with its 
economy to overrun Taiwan. Russia and Japan, both backing different factions in 
Europe and the Pacific Rim, started a naval war that the United States, in its 
last great overseas commitment, stopped by cordoning off the two powers.
Civil unrest over the use of American wealth and resources abroad with so many 
suffering at home erupted into violence. Paramilitary groups took a hodgepodge 
of economic, political, and even racial grievances to the ultimate court of 
violence. A few polarizing and charismatic leaders further unraveled the 
tattered American social fabric.
The Earth itself added its cataclysmic voice to the dissonant chorus of human 
suffering. A worldwide string of earthquakes and volcanic eruptions leveled 
cities and made ash-covered wastelands of regions near the volcanoes. Particles 
in the atmosphere changed the climate more to the Kurians liking. As if the 
tectonic damage was not enough, a plague added to the chaos. People called it 
rabies, but its twenty-four-to seventy-two-hour incubation cycle and 
mind-altering effects made the cure seem more like a job for exorcists than 
doctors. Wild mobs tore through the cities in a biting and clawing frenzy that 
shattered civic order.
Not even suspected at the time was that both events were long planned. Kurian 
technology allowed the fallen Lifeweavers to use the Earth itself as a weapon, 
and the disease, which we know today as Raving Mad-ness, had appeared on Earth 
in the first Kurian invasion. The pale, robed Reapers began to walk the night.
The Reapers strode into the maelstrom, alternately cowing and killing. They 
commanded legions of Grogs, genetically altered creatures designed to break up 
opposition. As fearless in battle as army ants, but far more cunning, the Grogs 
come in many shapes and sizes. The most common form is a large rhino-hided ape, 
with hands and brains capable of using weaponry from assault rifles to armored 
personnel carriers.
The military and civil forces of the United States, already unable to deal with 
the plague and widespread destruction, succumbed as spare parts, ammunition, and 
especially morale ran out. A few Kurian agents and collaborators in the command 
structure helped orchestrate defeat on a grand scale. In the final extreme, a 
scorched-earth policy destroyed military bases and their equipment to keep them 
out of the hands of the Kurians. A few nuclear and chemical weapons were used in 
the last gasp of the war, but this added to the suffering rather than slowing 
the Kurian takeover. The end came with a bang and a whimper. The president shot 
himself when he learned his family had caught the Raving Madness virus at a riot 
in Quantico, and the vice president fled with a few leading members of congress 
to Mount Omega after she read the presidents final executive order. In it, the 
despairing president declared, like the captain of a sinking ship, that the 
situation was every man for himself.
The United States, and as far as we can tell the rest of the world, belonged to 
the Kurians within a year.
Valentine could understand why Kostos ended her life a hard-drinking woman. The 
facts of life of the New World Order came more easily to Valentine, who had been 
born well after the Kurian takeover. No memories of the vanished security and 
assorted technological delights of the past haunted him, just a wistful 
curiosity. He sometimes felt a schism between himself and Pankows generation, 
including even the Padre. They cherished and fought for the past, a flag with 
stars and stripes, a way of living that would probably never return. Valentine 
wanted to win back his future.
A creaking from the sitting part of the room and a disgruntled miaow from Sailor 
Tom made Valentine glance up from the old red pamphlet and look at Gavineau. The 
Wolf set the jug on the floor and shuffled over to his bed, a sad and sick look 
visiting his face with every intention of staying the night.
You okay, Don?
Hey, Val, he slurred. Didnt see you there. Pankow giving you some slack?
He rode up the Happy Trail today, Valentine explained. The Happy Trail Getaway 
was a saloon where the bartender was friendly to the Wolves and the girls were 
even friendlier, if the words were kind and the price was right, the price being 
anything from a new pair of shoes to an old song, depending on the charm of the 
man. I think hes letting up on me with the Invocation a day away. All I had to 
do was draw him a hot bath and put an edge on the razor. He told me I couldnt 
eat anything, and just to take it easy. Wouldnt tell me why I couldnt eat, 
though.
Valentine, Marquez is dead. Cant think of any other way to say it.
The Aspirants thoughts about-faced and came to attention in a hurry. What?
Gavineau sat on his bed, a bunk away from Valentines. A sheet of laundry hung 
between them.
It just happens sometimes, boy, said Gavineau.
He made it through the Invocation fine. Its not like you run an Indian gantlet 
or something, slurred Gavineau. He got out of the cave and just lost it. It 
can affect you funny. I remember I got out of mine and all I could smell was 
wood smoke on everything. He looked around like he didnt know where he was and 
took off at a run. Jumped right off the damn cliff. I remember two years ago one 
kid quit eating after it. Wouldnt touch any food, always saying it was diseased 
or filthy or something. He starved himself to death, just threw up when we 
force-fed him. Usually the guys who come over funny are just jumpy for a couple 
of days, then they come round. Bad business with Marquez. A couple others 
volunteered to go down and get the body. I only saw it from three hundred feet 
up.
My God, what made?
Hey, David, dont let it get to you, he said. He just wasnt wired right, and 
sometimes not even the Wizard can spot that. Youll be fine.
Gavineaus drunken prediction was something Valentine reminded himself of again 
and again as he climbed the mountainside with ten other Aspirants, the last set 
supposed to meet with the Lifeweaver known variously as Amu, the Wizard, and 
Father Wolf.
Named Winterhome Mountain, the 2,200-foot cap of rock and snow looked like a 
sharks tooth from some angles and a sagging tepee from others. The cave was a 
little more than halfway up, set back from Marquezs fatal cliff by a sloping 
meadow. Five goats grazed there, some stripping bark from the stunted mountain 
pine and others pawing at the lingering snow fo expose dead bracken underneath.
Two totem poles flanked the crescent-shaped entrance to the cave. Carved wolf 
heads, ears erect and eyes alert, crowned the poles. Carved names covered the 
rest of the pole, some with dates written afterwards. Valentine decided these 
must be the tollpoles, mobile gravestones for Wolves who died in battle. Not so 
bad, Valentine thought, a few hundred names for twenty years of fighting.
Just inside the cave eleven more poles, filled with tightly packed names, formed 
an arch the recruits filed under like a wedding party passing under crossed 
swords. Valentine paused and ran a finger over the carved names on one of the 
poles. Would his name join the long list?
The tunnel widened into a teardrop-shaped cave with a curtain at one end. What 
might have been a tapestry decorated the curtain; Valentine couldnt make out 
much in the dim light trickling in from the entrance even after his eyes 
adjusted. The two Wolves guiding them motioned for them to sit.
Just keep quiet, and let him work you one at a time, one of them warned. 
After the ceremony, theyll be kinda twitchy, so keep still and quiet when they 
come out.
The curtain moved as a wet black nose appeared. A canine head the size of a 
champion pumpkin lifted the curtain, revealing blazing blue eyes that reminded 
Valentine of a husky from the Boundary Waters. A wolf that could be mistaken for 
a pony by its size strode into the ring of Aspirants sitting around the edges of 
a cave. It had striking white fur, with black tips visible only up close. It 
sniffed each man, stepping sideways on paws the size of horseshoes.
Thank you all for earning your places in this cave, a rich, cultivated voice 
came from the wolfs mouth, which did not seem to be forming any words. The wolf 
quivered and blurred, to be replaced by a smiling old man. Forgive the dramatic 
entrance; its an illusion that impressed your ancestors. I continue it out of 
love of tradition. Ahem. I hope you all know who I am.
Amu, said some of those present. The Wizard, said a few others. Valentine 
just nodded. There was something noble and strong about the man, Valentine 
thought, but with just a hint of tired lunacy in his frosty blue eyes. Valentine 
for some reason thought of Cervantess Don Quixote.
My name is not as important as who I am, a matter entirely different from a 
simple name. For I am going to be your Father. You all have a biological father 
who started your life, and most of you believe in a spiritual father who will 
take you unto him after death. I am here to be a third Father. I will give you 
rebirth.
Eleven separate faces digested this.
Yes, I am speaking in riddles. Riddles are simple, usually after you hear the 
answer. But I am a busy man and would prefer to deal with each of you 
individually. Michael Jeremy Wohlers, the Wizard said, standing in front of a 
husky, curly-haired youth. Ill see you first.
The prospective Wolf shot to his feet, narrowly missing crashing his head 
against the ceiling. How did?
I didnt, interrupted the Wizard, opening the curtain and gracefully pointing 
with his chin to the inner cavefti. You did.
Valentine spent four increasingly sore hours waiting his turn. Hungry, anxious, 
cold, and confused seemed a strange way to go through this invocation ceremony. 
He watched each of the ten other recruits emerge one at a time from behind the 
tapestry and stare about at those remaining as if they had never seen them 
before. Pete, the Viking giant who came down from northern Minnesota with 
Valentine, looked around at the remaining Aspirants suspiciously, as if fifteen 
minutes ago he had not been shifting from one aching buttock to the other with 
the rest of them.
Pete, howd it go? Valentine asked. The blond jumped away from Valentine like 
a horse startled by a firecracker. His head connected with the cavern roof with 
the audible thump of a dropped melon, and he crashed to the ground, unconscious.
Told you to keep quiet. If he aint up by the time youre done, youre carrying 
him out, one of the Wolves said.
Pete began to groan and rolled onto all fours. He retched, vomiting clear liquid 
across the floor of the cave.
Oh, thats just fine, the second Wolf said. Now the other three are sure to 
puke.
Pete staggered to his feet and lurched out of the cave, rubbing the back of his 
head.
And puke they did. As the last two returned to the cave, they each added their 
own puddles of bile to the floor of the cave before fleeing to the open air 
outside. Valentine wondered if this was the reason for the orders not to eat 
anything.
Youre up, kid, one said.
Through the looking glass you go, Alice, added the other.
He pulled the tapestry aside and stepped through. Behind him, he heard one Wolf 
say to the other, Glad this happens only twice a year.
The tunnel wound downward, illuminated by nearly guttered candles set into the 
irregular sides of the cave. Valentine counted twenty paces before a second 
heavy piece of cloth blocked his progress. He didnt know whether to just open 
it, say his name, or tap on the material. He cleared his throat.
Come in, come in, Valentine the Younger.
He entered, bending beneath the low rock arch.
The cave was warm and well lit, with a clean, inviting smell, which Valentine 
identified as balsam. The warmth and light came from an apple-size glowing ball 
that floated a few inches below the caves eight-foot ceiling. It was bright but 
somehow did not pain Valentines eyes, even when he looked directly at it. The 
room reminded Valentine of the inside of an igloo, were the igloo constructed 
out of grayish ice.
Father Wolf sat cross-legged in the center of the room on a woven rug. The floor 
of the cave was a mass of pine needles and small branches, with more patterned 
rugs thrown over the boughs. Five four-legged wolves snored in a companionable 
heap near the door.
My bodyguard, you might say, said Amu. Long ago, in another part of your 
world, I traveled with twenty of them. It made more of an impression on those 
simple folk: they lived in fear of wolves. I have grown rather fond of them, and 
should our enemies discover me here, I would remask myself and slip out with 
them. Sit down, please.
Valentine sat, grateful for the cushioning needles and rug after the hard floor 
of the outer cave.
What do you want me to do? Valentine asked.
The question would be better put as what do you want to do. Why did you leave 
Minnesota? You did not come south just for a change of geography.
I want to do my part.
The Wizard smiled at this. Simply put. I hear something a little different from 
each young man or woman. They want to defend hearth and home, liberate their 
enslaved fellow men, and kick the invaders back into their kennels.
What is needed from you, and what you can give me if you are true to yourself, 
is an outlet for your hatred. Hatred makes for good killers. The word is 
anathema; your religions rightly discourage it because it makes poor mortar for 
a society. But, young Valentine, your race is being eaten. You should be 
consumed by hate; your every breath should be drawn to curse your enemies. It 
gives you energy and a purpose and a determination that only love matches. The 
more you love your fellow men, the more you should be aflame with hatred for 
your foe. Your culture is so full of the image of the reluctant warrior that it 
is an archetype. The man who kills regretfully, who goes into battle terrified 
but gets the job done and then shows mercy to his enemy afterwards. That kind of 
man will keep the Free Territory upright for a while. But he will not win the 
war. Not against this enemy.
There is a beast in you that Im going to help you release. If you agree, that 
is. I give fair warning, though. It means a vicious life and perhaps a hard end. 
You will live only to kill our enemies until you yourself are slain. Few of my 
warriors retire to marry as your father did. So if you want a role inside the 
human family, Im giving you a chance to walk out of this cave and down the hill 
with your humanity intact. You can serve with honor in the Guards, living up to 
the image of noble crusader, or go back into hiding. There are many ways to do 
the right thing. Stay with us, though, and you will become the thing the enemy 
fears in the night. The prey will become the predator.
Valentine wondered how many refused the offer. How many men wanted to be 
killers? He had expected physical or mental tests, not a moral one. He thought 
of his father but could not make the connection between the Wizards animalistic 
killers and the quiet man who was shot to death in his own backyard.
Why dont the Lifeweavers fight? I would think that with your technology, magic 
Ive heard it called, youd be able to beat the Kurians.
The Wizard seemed a little surprised. Usually I ask the questions, but I will 
do my best to answer yours: We are not any good at it. It would be like you 
defecating in your pants. You could do it if you put your mind to it, but you 
would not enjoy the experience, and until you had a chance to clean yourself, 
you would probably be preoccupied. We toilet-trained ourselves far too long ago, 
we are not numerous, and my ability to change into a wolf does not mean I could 
bite like one.
You Homo sapiens, on the other hand, are almost perfect killing machines. You 
are flexible, aggressive, intelligent, and inventive. We examined life-forms on 
twelve worlds, and you half-savages revert to your terrible earlier selves with 
greater alacrity than any other. So we help you fight your battles, and in doing 
so you fight our war for us. Or am I speaking in riddles again?
No, I understand. Its your method I question. Instead of arming us with some 
kind of advanced technology, you turn us feral. That seems a strange way to help 
us win a war.
The Wizard abruptly disappeared, only to emerge from the dome-shaped caves 
other exit, carrying what looked like a small mirror on a stand. I am sorry, 
he said to the startled young man. I had to get this, and I didnt want to 
interrupt, so I left you talking to an image. You said you understood, David. It 
is clear that you do not. Im giving you the most powerful weapon on the planet: 
yourself at your full potential.
I thought I was supposed to make up my mind.
You did, David, you did, he said, sitting again opposite the young man. The 
moment you thought of your father, and his death, and wondered if he was the 
kind of man I want you to become. You may not have felt it, but to me your fury 
was white hot. You can hide your rage from yourself, but not from me. It is so 
big, I wonder where you put it so you can sleep at night.
The item the Wizard placed between them looked like a plate-sized round mirror. 
It hovered at face level between them, held up by the same mysterious force that 
kept the light globe near the ceiling. Valentine saw in it only his own 
reflection, but fuzzy and out of focus, conforming to his general outline.
What is this? he asked.
Amus face appeared in the mirror. The Lifeweavers visage melted and shifted as 
though his skin were made of clouds boiling in the wind. You could say its the 
surgeons scalpel, David. I will use it to operate on you. There is a cup in 
front of you. Drink up.
Valentine looked at the woven rug. A wooden cup, round like a hollowed-out 
coconut, sat before him. Had it been sitting there all the time? Valentine 
sniffed at it suspiciously.
Just a little something to facilitate the ceremony. It is tasteless.
Valentine drank. Just before consciousness faded, he looked into the 
mirror-thing. First he saw his face, then the Wizards, then a wolfs. The 
images flickered together: Wizard-Wolf-Self-Wizard-Wolf-Self-Wizard-Wolf-Self. 
Only the eyes were all the same. But they were not his. Not Amus. The Wolfs. 
Valentine found himself fixing on the eyes of the three faces as they morphed 
from one manifestation to the next, all sharing the same ice-blue stare.
The young Wolf awoke to an overwhelming farrago of sounds and smells. The pine 
needles, musty rugs, dried lichen on the walls, and living wolves all vied to 
overthrow his brain. He could hear their heartbeats as with a stethoscope. Their 
breathing sounded like a gale. Too much! Too much! his brain shrieked at him. He 
leaped up and hurled himself away from the sleeping pack as if flung by a 
catapult, bruising himself with the force of the impact against the wall.
David, stay calm. Your senses are just sharpened up a little, that is all, Amus 
voice in his head whispered in a soothing monotone. I will help you through your 
first days; then you will learn on your own. You must learn to switch your 
senses between two levels, hard and soft. You have to learn how to hear with 
soft ears and smell with soft nose first. You will use the hard ears and hard 
nose later, to sense over distance.
Where are you? Valentine asked, hearing the echo of his voice in the outer 
cavern where he had waited before being called.
I have linked us. I cannot understand you very well. I am not as gifted as some 
in this type of communication with human thought-shapes. I just get impressions 
about your emotions. You need to take a deep breath, fill your lungs with air, 
and relax. Draw everything back into your center. Soften your eyes, let them go 
out of focus; soften your ears, let them relax and listen to the sound of the 
empty air in front of you; soften your nose and smell the heat of the light 
cube. -
Valentine tried to relax, but the smell and sound of the slumbering wolves kept 
beating down the barriers. He felt dazed.
You are doing very well. I think you are a natural. Try to walk out of the cave 
the way you came in.
The musty old tapestry at the door reeked abominably, and he hurried past it. 
His legs were suddenly working too fast and he crashed into the cavern wall like 
a mechanized toy bouncing off an obstacle in its path. He steadied himself, but 
the flickering candles sounded like whip cracks in his ears.
Center! Center! the voice implored. No, you still dont have it. Let me help 
you.
Valentine felt himself steady, the cacophony of sensations fading into the 
background. He made it to the other curtain, but as he pushed through it, the 
acidic vomit smell overthrew him. His gorge rose and joined the slick mess on 
the floor.
Serves you right, one of the Wolves thundered. Valentine leaped forward in 
alarm, but could not keep control of his spastic body and missed the exit. He 
ricocheted off the unforgiving stone and came away bleeding at the forehead. The 
coppery-smelling fluid infiltrated his nostrils, took over his sense of smell.
Breathe, breathe, bring it back to your center. Try crawling outside. You are 
fine.
The young Wolf did not feel fine.
Hell, I think Father Wolf turned him all the way up, he heard one man whisper 
behind cupped palm.
On hands and knees, Valentine crawled through the cave, toward the light 
outside. He could smell the blood trail behind.
The Wizard thought that Marquez was something special, too. Sent him right off 
the cliff, the other muttered back.
Valentine, remembering what had happened yesterday, brought himself back down 
with a determined effort. The world seemed almost normal. He climbed to his 
feet.
Good, good. Outdoors can be a little much; just keep breathing into your center 
and drawing everything back to that place inside you. You will learn in time. A 
good bloodhound controls his nose without even realizing it, the way you focus 
your eyes. You will be able to do the same soon.
Valentine made it into the daylight. Clear blue filled the sky overhead, a 
rarity on Kurian Earth. The snow seemed to gleam, and even across the valley, 
Valentines visual acuity was such mat he literally could not see the forest for 
the individual bees. It smelled as if he were standing in the center of the 
worlds largest goat farm, despite the fact that the three goats stood a hundred 
yards away. Downwind.
He centered on his own. David, try to find some goat droppings. The voice in his 
head still made him uncomfortable. Although his nose told him he was in a sea of 
goat shit, he localized it with an effort and walked toward the still-warm 
source, pausing less and less frequently as he drew nearer. He found he could 
play with his ears as easily as his eyes. He located a creaking branch, and 
listened to one of the goats pull up fodder from beneath the snow.
There you are, he thought at the end of his pungent treasure hunt, standing over 
the rounded mass.
Now, David, you are doing excellently. Follow the trail the goats left. Not by 
using the tracks in the snow, but with your nose. Shut your eyes as much as 
possible. Hear and smell your way down the mountainside.
It occurred to him that none of the other Wolves had explored the field in this 
way. He would have known, since most of them had left within the last few hours 
and there were only a few irregular, staggering footprints in the field. He took 
a deep bream, closed his eyes, and began to smell for the bail left by the 
odiferous goats.
And fell flat on his face. A tree root hidden in the snow snagged his foot. 
Usually he was agile enough to catch himself if bipped, but his usual reflexes 
had gone AWOL. He had the disquieting sensation of being in a different body. 
The only memory he could compare it to was his rare all-day fishing expeditions 
in Minnesota: taking a small boat into a lake and then feeling a little unsteady 
on his feet when he returned to dry land.
He got up, closed his eyes again with an effort, and began walking with an 
unsteady tread like a drunk doing a Frankensteins monster imitation. He found 
he could hear the location of trees by the sound of wind in the pine needles. He 
sensed a branch ahead and leaned back to avoid it, and fell flat on his back.
The goats showed a penchant for investigating clumps of thorny bramble. After a 
painful rake across his lips, he cursed and opened his eyes.
No peeking, Amu admonished.
Valentine sucked the blood from his punctured lip, took a deep breath, and tried 
again. He leaned forward and found the going easier with his hands placed ahead 
and his nose closer to the trail. Even when he bashed his head straight into a 
tree trunk, coming away with sticky pine bark tangled in his hair, he managed to 
keep his eyes closed. He found himself able to concentrate on the trail, letting 
the other senses fade into the background, like a reader absorbed in a book 
using just her eyes and her brain.
The odor became stronger, and he let out a yip like a foxhound. He began to 
lope, ignoring the bruises and scrapes as he bounced down the slope. He heard a 
panicked bleat from something ripe and warm, and he leaped. The goat collapsed 
under him, kicking.
The animals struggles brought him out of his trance. He found himself with a 
mouthful of goat hair, feeling as if he had just woken from a vivid dream. He 
released the unfortunate herbivore.
Sorry, Billy. I got carried away.
Terrible! the Wizard shouted into his brain. Had you been following someone with 
a gun, they would have shot you like a frothing dog. You mustnt go feral. Do it 
again, but this time see if you can find one of your fellow Wolves as they 
disperse. Just follow him, dont let him see you. Open your eyes now and then if 
you must, but try to work with your former semi-dormant senses as much as 
possible. Practice, because when its for real, there are no second chances, 
David.
David Valentine, Wolf of the Southern Command, got his new, awkward, battered 
body to its feet, closed his eyes, and stalked on.
Five
The Yazoo Delta, summer of the forty-first year of the Kurian Order: The wet 
crescent between the Mississippi and Yazoo Rivers is one of the most 
uncomfortable pockets of the globe. The swamp-and-canebrake Delta, returned to 
its original waterlogged existence by the breaking of mans levees on the Father 
of Waters, is virtually empty of human habitation. The Yazoos flow moves 
imperceptibly through the bayous, making it impossible to tell if a current 
exists at all among the soggy sloughs. The water is so choked by vegetation, it 
seems like earth, and the earth among the tangled roots of cypress, willow, and 
water oak is spongy and hard to separate from the water. From water beetle to 
cougar, the teeming wildlife lives an amphibian existence among the Spanish moss 
and cattail thickets. It is a patch of humid desolation, taking its name from an 
Indian word for death.
This empty land is a fine training area for the young Wolves of the Ozark Free 
Territory. From the Yazoo Delta, they can keep an eye on Mississippi River 
traffic and explore outside its football-shape, 188-mile length into the 
burned-out shells of Memphis in the north and Jackson in the south. It is the 
most impenetrable and least guarded of all the empty borders of Southern 
Command, and the handful of Wolves in the Delta keep on the move, often going an 
entire season without supply or communication from the Territory.
David Valentine traveled here as a newly invoked Wolf and learned the Hunters 
Arts under two unremitting teachers: Nature and a longtime Cat named Eveready. 
In nature, Valentine learned to apply the lessons of his winter on how to find 
food, water, shelter, and fire, what might be called the four primary elements 
of human existence. From Eveready, a man who accepted no rank in Southern 
Command because it would mean an end to his one-man war against the Kurians as 
well as his jealously guarded independence, he learned how to unify his 
judgment, senses, skills, and tools into a single weapon. The young Wolves under 
Evereadys tutelage practiced their art, improvising weapons to hunt everything 
from submerged alligators to treed raccoons. They took not only nourishment from 
their kills, but also hide, bone, and sinew for use in making clothing and 
tools. A few of the more atavistic-minded fashioned lucky charms from their 
trophies. Eveready, owner of perhaps the longest necklace of Reaper fangs in the 
Old South, encouraged the practice.
What Eveready taught even better was the art of concealing lifesign. His 
apprentices spent more time learning mental discipline than they did physical, 
mastering a form of self-hypnosis that cloaked their auras against the inhuman 
searching powers of the Reapers. Their skill at this determined whether they 
would hunt the enemy or be hunted like the game they brought home to camp.
The camp used a pair of ancient water oaks as its roof. The stumpier of the two 
oaks suffered a curious deformity; the main trunk ended twelve feet up and 
branched into six limbs that curved out of the trunk first sideways and then 
upward, resembling a cupped palm with too many fingers. The Wolves had rigged a 
patchwork of tents into these branches, making an area beneath that stayed dry 
as long as the wind kept down.
Wind would have been welcome in the humid air of the swamp, where runoff came to 
die. There was an air of death, decay, and corruption to the flooded Yazoo Delta 
that no graveyard could match. Mists and fogs haunted the neophyte Wolves, and 
mysterious wildlife voices croaked and hooted and gibbered from the bulrushes. 
Even their camp resembled an abattoir, with their packs and water bottles hung 
from the low branches like trophies on a gamekeepers gibbet.
Valentine sweltered in his cocoon of mosquito netting in a shallow sleep brought 
on by heat exhaustion. His usually pleasant hammock had been transformed into a 
torture chamber by the temperature and humidity. Naturally he preferred to keep 
himself, like his clothing and his pack, off the ground and out of reach of the 
various multilegged crawlies and snakes that might be attracted to a warm, 
motionless body on the damp earth. Only the earliest hours of the morning 
brought a lessening of the heat. He would give anything he owned for a swim in 
one of Minnesotas clear cool lakes in this Delta summer. But even if he had 
been physically comfortable, he would still have passed a fitful night. The old 
dream about his family home had come back.
Evereadys predawn return cut off his old nightmare. The Cat had walked off into 
the east within an hour of picking the spot for their camp days ago, leaving 
orders to wait and not to use guns while hunting. Eveready declined to explain 
whether this was because of nearby danger or just the parsimony brought on by 
visiting a supply station twice a year.
Everybody up, Eveready announced, laboring into camp with a heavy sack across 
his shoulder. His ancient M-l carbine was slung across his chest, stock glowing 
with its usual loving polish of well-oiled wood. Burton, who had the third 
watch, started to pour water into the coffeepot. Forget that for now, Burt, 
the Cat rasped. You boys arent going to want breakfast when you see what Ive 
brung home. Hand me that water, boy.
Valentine tried to rub the gum from his eyes as he watched Eveready drink. 
Though the black-skinned man was a Cat, one of the caste whose members operated 
alone deep in Kurian-conquered territory, there was nothing catlike about him. 
Eveready was a grizzled old warthog: all tough-minded determination on a thick 
body beneath a thicker hide. Barefoot, with ragged black trousers that ended at 
calves as wide as horse hooves, the rest of his body resembled a barrel with 
arms added as an afterthought. Chest muscles strained from an equally ragged 
vest cut from the heavy ablative cloth that the Reapers wore, and his neck was 
festooned with dangling teeth pulled from the Hoods hed exterminated. The 
Wolves had never seen him eat anything but oversalted game stews and 
applesValentine believed Eveready knew the location of every single apple tree 
and grove within a three-hundred-mile arc of the Yazoo Deltaand this eccentric 
diet had left him with ageless vitality and shining white teeth. He was bald as 
the man in the moon but hid the fact with a battered baseball cap with a Saints 
logo. Eveready could climb like an ape, float like an alligator, and leap like a 
deer, all without making enough noise to cause a mouse to startle.
Easing himself out of the hammock, Valentine shook his head and took a pull from 
the water bottle he bedded down with to save a trip out of the mosquito netting. 
He pulled on his moccasins after eyeing the insides. Though they had hung from 
his hammock, the ingenuity of the Yazoo wildlife at curling up for a nap where 
least expected had been brought home to Valentine by a painful centipede bite 
earlier in the summer.
What did you bring us, Santa? Alistar, one of the Wolves, asked.
The Wolves gathered, and Eveready dumped the stained sack in the center of the 
campground. At first Valentine thought it was a trick of the rapidly growing 
light, but the sack seemed to writhe as it hit ground.
Valentine, get your chopper, Eveready ordered. Valentine retrieved his parang, 
a fourteen-inch broad hunting knife swelled at the center like a pregnant 
machete. It had a heavy wood handle with the tang capped at the end, combining 
the sharpness of a skinning knife with the utility of a hatchet.
Eveready used his own smaller clasp knife to cut open the bag, which Valentine 
saw with a kind of cold horror really was squirming on its own in the center of 
the ring of five men. The big Cat dumped the sacks contents.
Fuck me! Burton said, and pulled at the beard he had been growing all summer.
Flopping in the dawn was a pale humanoid torso. Where arms and legs should have 
been, only tarry stumps remained. A second sack fixed by cording circled around 
the neck and hid the things face. Burton half laughed, half retched at the 
sweet corruptive odor that made the Wolves take a step back. Sixteen-year-old 
Hernandez, the youngest of the new Wolves, crossed himself.
Never seen one this close, boys? Eveready asked. The four shook their heads, 
disgusted and fascinated at the same time.
There are these big hunting cats in a place on the other side of the world, 
boys. India, it was called. Big stripy orange things called tigers. You wouldnt 
think they could sneak up on anything, unless you saw them moving through tall 
grass on our televisions, that is. But a momma tiger would teach her baby to 
kill by swatting something so it was half-dead; then the cub would kill it. Now 
that aint exactly what Im doing with you cubs, but I want you to get a good 
look at a Hood up close, minus his robes, in such a way that youll live through 
the seeing of it. Sort of a National Geographic, courtesy of old Eveready.
The thing rolled on its back and made an inarticulate glubbing sound.
Bastard cant talk too good, Eveready continued, reaching into his forage 
pouch. I yanked this out. The Cat handed over the Reapers limp, 
sixteen-inch-long tongue, and the Wolves passed it around dubiously. It reminded 
Valentine of a snake, scaly with a beaklike point at the end. Thats the straw 
it sticks into you. See the scales? They come up in you like barbs, keep you 
from pulling away. Not that you have much chance if this honeys got you in his 
arms.
How how did you bag it? Valentine asked.
I was scouting a little railroad town southeast of Big Ms ruins. Holly 
Springs. Sources told me this fella came into town about midnight, doing the 
usual checkup with a company of Quislings out of Corinth. Any time a Reaper 
comes through, a few folks try to leave town real quick, and this thing goes 
after them when it was getting on toward dawn. The Quislings were too busy in 
the henhouses and pigpens to notice much. A hungry Reaper is hard enough to keep 
up with and maybe they didnt want to be around when he fed. So these refugees 
are heading for tall timber on horseback, and the yellow eye here is after them. 
He got one jifst as the sun came up, fed, and I caught up with him when he got 
all dopey from the drinking. It was a pretty bright morning for a change, so his 
eyes werent working too well, either. I emptied old Trudy into him from about 
ten feet, he said, patting his carbine affectionately. Shot a leg more or less 
off where it was showing under the robe, and took the rest off with my cavalry 
saber before he knew what hit him. I hacked around at his throat and pulled his 
tongue out from beneath the jaw, Colombian-necktie style. Sacked him up, then 
caught up with the horse belonging to the poor bastard he caught. Then I about 
broke my ass getting west.
Eveready chuckled. I wouldnt care to be that Quisling commander in Holly 
Springs. The Big Boss in Corinth will send some Hoods out to settle things, with 
me and them both.
You covered some miles, Alistar said. Wheres the horse, rode to death? We 
couldve traded it, at least.
Eveready shook his head. There was some border trash camped out by a crick a 
few miles northeast of here. I gave the horse her head, just took the saddle and 
bridle off, and she scented the other horses and wandered off. I carried the 
saddle aways, but it was too much lugging the ghoul and all that leather, too. I 
didnt want to be too slow; this guys friends might home in on him.
Hard on the group by the crick, if the Reapers catch up with that horse, 
Valentine suggested.
They aint no friends of yours, son. Thats why Ive been warning you boys 
about these borderlands. No law and order. Theres the bad order of the Kurian 
spaces, and the law of the Free Territory. In fact, youd be surprised at how 
orderly some of those Kurian towns are. Everybody with identity cards and 
permission slips and papers just to go to the outhouse. But between em where we 
are is up for grabs, and these bastards will rob you and leave you for dead as 
soon as theyd say Good morning. I figure any Hood pursuit is welcome to em.
Now lets get down to business. Gimme your slaying blade, Valentine. Now watch 
this, Eveready lectured as if he were in a classroom with glossy black 
experiment tables instead of a patch of soggy ground forty miles from nowhere. 
He opened a vertical cut along the things stomach. See how that black goo 
comes up when the air hits it? Its something in these things blood that makes 
an instant suture. If you ever get any on your hands, get it off quick, and 
whatever you do, dont get it in your mouth. Put some of this stuff on a dogs 
tongue, and itll kill the man holding the leash. Its not so bad though; even 
when youre hacking one up, the goo doesnt fly around that much. Its too 
sticky. Make sure you pull your blade out quickly, though; if you leave it in 
for a few seconds even, this stuff will sometimes glue it right in place. Take 
my word for it, you dont want that to happen.
The Reaper thrashed around in pain, and Valentine stuck his foot on its chest to 
hold it in place. The smell sickened him. He felt thankful for his empty 
stomach.
The sumbitch is moving around too much, Eveready decided. Lets finish him. 
But I want to look him in the eyes for a second, he stated, cutting the cords 
around the things neck with the sharp edge at the tip of Valentines parang.
The Reapers face was a mess. Two gummed-over bullet holes in the cheek and 
forehead stood out against the deathly pale skin. Black fangs snarled at them 
from above the butchered neck. Its eyes were not the pink of a true albinos but 
rather black, with slit pupils and yellowish reptilian irises. It hissed, 
glaring hatefully at the five humans around it. Valentine felt hard pressure 
against his foot as it tried to wiggle loose despite its injuries. Valentine 
looked into its eyes and felt lost in the black depths. Was there such a thing 
as blacker than black? He felt himself compelled to lift his foot off the 
things chest.
Steady there, David. You look like you might keel over, a voice said from 
somewhere near the Gulf Coast.
Valentine tried to raise his eyes from the black slits, failed.
Dont give in to the darkness, a part of his consciousness urged. Its only the 
black eyes of the crow, picking at your fathers brains. He raised his eyes up 
to the lightening sky and planted his foot even more firmly on the mutilated 
torso.
Thats better, David, Eveready said, patting Valentines shoulder. You got to 
watch those eyes. For a second there, you looked like a bird staring at a snake. 
You werent seeing the Hood, it was the Kurian behind it.
Eveready leaned over its face, taking a small cylinder from his pocket with his 
left hand. It was a crusty old battery, of a type invented just before 2022 that 
had a very prolonged shelf life. A symbol of a black cat leaping through an 
electric hoop could be seen on the casing.
Here I am again, hungry Prince, Eveready taunted at the snapping face. Old 
Eveready got another of your drones, you murdering pig. I know it feels good 
when your little bloodsucker here takes a life. How do you like it when I do 
this? He waved the battery label as close to the snarling face as he dared and 
brought the curved blade down on the things neck with a grunt of effort.
The body quit moving under Valentines foot. He glanced down, afraid to meet 
those baleful eyes a second time. A fresh wave of moldy-crypt odor wafted from 
the corpse of the Reaper, causing Burton to empty the remains of last nights 
dinner from his stomach. Alistar sank to his knees, trying not to join him.
Eveready thrust the parang into the dirt and picked up the head, cautiously 
draining the black syrup from the neck. Holding it by the scraggly black hair, 
he displayed the trophy up for the Wolves to get a good look. See how the teeth 
are black? We call that stuff carbonite. Its not a scientific name or anything; 
I think its out of a movie. Stronger than steel, and Kur builds the Hoods so 
they use the stuff for their skeletons, teeth, and nails. Stops bullets pretty 
good. I saw one take a faceful of double-ought from about two feet one time. The 
eye and nose holes are baffled, not open like in a human skull, so the sumbitch 
was just blinded, and mebbe couldnt smell too good either. But it kept coming 
for us. And while I left this bastards fingers behind, they have these pointed 
black car-bonite fingernails that can claw through a safe door, peeling it back 
layer by layer.
The Cat wedged the old battery into the Reapers mouth and stuck the head in the 
crotch of a nearby tree. Its eyes rolled around in their sockets. Its dead, 
dont let that unsettle you. Just nerve impulses or something.
Returning to the body, Eveready continued the autopsy. He began to peel back 
layers of skin with parang and skinning knife, sticking small broken branches 
through the skin to keep the wounds open. The black tar had stopped flowing with 
the creatures death, but an abundance of oily clear liquid seeped out of the 
cadaver. Alistar was still on his knees and looked about to go to all fours, and 
Hernandez was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. None of them would eat 
that day, Valentine suspected.
Okay, a whole bunch of a human being is taken up by equipment to process 
different kinds of food into our blood. These monsters dont need all that; they 
have as simple a digestive system as can be. But they have this big bladder 
inside; see that thing that looks kind of like a honeycomb? He opened up the 
spongelike organ, bigger than a bovine liver. Those little sacks fill up with 
blood like a camels hump, and pass through this thing, which is kind of like a 
big placenta, to its bloodstream. And see those two thick cables going down its 
sides? Those are nerve trunks; its got more than one. Yours goes up the 
backbone; if that gets snapped, youre dead. You can break its back and maybe 
itll just walk funny, cause its got these other nerve trunks. All wired to a 
couple of balancing organs in the head, gives them ungodly reflexes and agility. 
Little clusters of nerve cells at pressure points help that. Their spines are 
much more flexible than yours, like a cats, and their knees are hinged so they 
can bend backward, coiling just about every major muscle in their bodies for a 
jump.
Everythings heavier than ours: bone, skin, muscle. Makes them crappy swimmers. 
They can move through water, but they really have to thrash, so you can hear 
them coming with all the splashing. I keep telling the jokers in the Free 
Territory to dig wide moats around everything they build, something they cant 
jump over, but they dont want to make the effort. If you ask me, if a hundred 
Kurians got organized, they could go through Southern Command like a bullet 
through a paper target.
Valentine raised his hand. Since Eveready was showing this unsuspected 
schoolmarm side, it seemed the appropriate thing to do.
Why dont they?
Overrun us, you mean? One of the things we dont know. We do know that each 
Kurian boss or Prince or Master or whatever has grown his thirteen Reapers to 
feed him and run his show. We think it hurts them when one of their puppets gets 
killed. Theres some kind of special link that allows the vital auras absorbed 
by the Reapers to feed the Kurian that controls them. Over the years, the 
stories about Kur got confused, that is if our ancestors ever had them right to 
begin with. We combined the two creatures, the Reaper and its Master, into one 
vampire legend. But thats got nuthin to do with nuthin as my old man used 
to say. The Masters dont like to have all their Reapers together in one spot. 
We think if all of em buy it, so does the Kurian. Those Kurians are selfish 
pricks, too. They dont risk their Hoods helping out other Kurians. You see it 
in the different ways their little principal-ities are organized. Maybe they 
even fight among themselves, like Mafia gangsif you know what those were. We 
can only hope. Theyre not too creative. They dont seem to invent anything. The 
Lifeweavers got a philosophical answer to that; they say that the Kurians have 
degenerated over the millennia, becoming like addicts who cant see beyond the 
next fix. Nothing matters to them but keeping the vital auras flowing. Even when 
they invaded, they laid the groundwork well, but once it started, it was like 
the Oklahoma land rush: they all grabbed a spot and started harvesting well, 
us.
But all that is for the thinkers and strategists and leaders. You boys have got 
to be the killers, so just remember this one thing: the only damage that puts a 
Hood permanently out of commission is a central nervous system disconnect. That 
means severing the head or blowing it to bits. And since they duck faster than 
most folks can swing, let alone pull a trigger, it aint easy. You got to get 
them when theyre dopey, after theyve fed or in good daylight. You get them out 
in the sun without their robes, they get so sick you can slice them up easy as 
pie. Sometimes they get laid up in a trance, either daytime or nighttime, and 
thats a good time to hit em, too. My theory is that a Kurian Lord cant really 
control more than one Reaper at the same time, and the others either go on pure 
instinct, feeding off whatevers around until theyre gorged and pass out, or 
they fall into this trance while the Kuriali is controlling a different Hood.
Sir, Hernandez piped up. You said there would be others on this ones trail. 
Are we gonna jump em?
A small smile broke out across Evereadys ebony features. Son, you got more 
balls than brains. You aint even blooded Wolves yet. For the last time, save 
the sir stuff for the ones that have to hear it to believe in themselves. Im 
here to teach you how to keep hid so the Reapers dont find you. Fighting a 
Reapers a job for a team of Wolves. Yassuh, about ten-to-one odds is what you 
need. And thats ten well-armed, experienced Wolves. Even I dont take on an 
up-and-running Reaper if I can avoid it. I got all these teeth by being 
patient, he said, fingering the rope of polished fangs across his hairy chest. 
You need to hit the enemy when he aint looking for you, not when he is. A 
stand-up fight is work for the Bears, and even they die faster than the 
Lifeweavers can replace em sometimes.
Nope, its been a fun summer, but I want to get you all back across the Saint 
Francis alive and well. Hopefully a little bit wiser, too. Schools just about 
out, boys.
Getting to the Saint Francis meant they first had to cross the Mississippi. 
Wide, muddy, and sandbar-choked at this time of year, the Father of Waters was 
no easy obstacle to overcome. Quisling traders and river patrols frequented it 
in battered boats and bulky barges, pulled by diesel tugs.
The afternoon after the grim session with the Reapers body, the party started a 
leisurely journey westward. The Cat encouraged them to concentrate on keeping 
lifesign down, but Valentines doubts prodded and pulled him out of his 
sublimation with hard staves. What if he failed to keep himself centered, as the 
Cat liked to call it, and drew the hunting Reapers to his comrades like sharks 
to a blood trail? The others seemed so confident, talking about how they would 
take their first Hood, discussing ambushes and cross fires and carefully planned 
traps. Valentine had barely survived his first encounter with a Hood, and heard 
again and again in his mind the terrible screaming of the steady, stolid 
DelVecchio as the Reapers needle-tongue found his beating heart.
The plentiful wild rice and bullheads of the Delta fed the five men on their 
bayou-bridging journey to the river. The Wolves had grown so experienced in 
navigating the trackless morass that they hardly thought twice about wading or 
swimming a bayou in pairs and trios, one group always covering the other as they 
moved southwest. They reached the great river on a hazy afternoon two days 
later. Upon sighting it, Valentine forgot his doubts in the breadth and majesty 
of the current. Or perhaps it was just the change in the air after the miasma of 
the backwaters.
Two choices, boys, Eveready announced from a team-huddle squat. We build us a 
raft, or we go find the one we sunk after crossing over back in the spring. 
Might take a day or two to find the spot; were just a little south of it now. 
If we build a raft, it means chopping wood, and that can be heard a long way 
off. Also, we wont stand a chance if we run into a patrol except to swim for 
it. If we go to the old boat and raise it, well have something a little more 
navigable. But Ive got my doubts itll even be there after all these months. 
The river men and patrols spend all their time along the banks, and chances are 
one of them already thumped it with a pole or a paddle even if it is still 
underwater.
The Wolves decided to vote, with Eveready as tiebreaker. Valentine was the lone 
vote for building a raft, as he saw little reward and a good deal of risk in 
blundering along the bank in search of the old aluminum fishing boat that had 
brought them across the first time. The others remembered a little too well the 
want-of-a-nail lecture theyd received before departing for the Delta. It 
concerned coming home with weapons and gear issued, under pain of having to 
spend the next year on stable and livestock duty.
So they turned north.
Traveling the banks of the Mississippi made even the bayous seem like afternoon 
picnicking. The flooded and unattended banks turned the great river into a 
twisting mass of horseshoe loops and tadpole floods. Eveready took what 
shortcuts he knew and always kept an eye to the river. Although they could spot 
a patrol boat long before the Quislings had a chance at seeing the Wolves, every 
appearance of one of the noisy, fiberglass cabin cruisers made them get under 
cover while it plodded back and forth across the river. The first day there were 
two such sightings, each one wasting over an hour.
Valentine was jumpy the whole march. The others noticed it and put his mood down 
to bitterness over the vote on how to get across the river.
Aint nothing here worth the bogeymen keeping an eye on, Hernandez asserted.
Cmon, Val, Alistar added. With that old gumbo stirrer up on point, weve 
never even been spotted, let alone walked into an ambush. The gumbo stirrer in 
question waved from the crest of a small hillock ahead. Eveready had spotted 
something, and the Wolves obediently waited as the Cat went in for a closer look 
at whatever it was.
The sun was at the final landing in its descent of the staircase at the horizon. 
Valentine wondered at the simplicity of the age Eveready and his own father had 
been born into, when a red sunset meant only a beautiful end to another day 
rather than the beginning of eight hours of shadowed threat.
Valentine tried listening with hard ears as Eveready moved up the crest of the 
little hill at a level so just the Cats head could be seen from the reverse 
slope of the hill where the object of his attention lay. Evereadys sure 
footfalls snapped no branch or twig detectable to Valentines senses, raised to 
atavistic acuity. Eveready stopped, having found the best vantage, and stood for 
a full quarter-hour, staring motionless into the lengthening shadows.
Burton, who had already acquired the veterans knack of sleeping at any 
opportunity, was softly snoring by the time Eveready returned. Alistar jostled 
him into wakefulness with a push of his moccasined foot.
Is it that dogleg pond where we sunk the boat?
Its a boat, all right, Eveready said. But not ours. Big wooden canoe, pulled 
up and overturned. There werent any leaves or twigs or anything on it, so I bet 
its just been there a day or two. And Id just about bet Trudy against one of 
your Free Territory buckchits theres oars sitting under it.
The Wolves exchanged grins, but Valentines was forced, almost more of a 
grimace. Good boats didnt just get left on their own, even if they were wooden 
canoes. A canoe would be an impractical boat for a long patrol, and a tiring one 
for a trip upriver. And he knew, without knowing how he knew, that his 
uneasiness came from something having to do with the canoe in the same way that 
a plague-sheet hanging on the door of a house meant death inside. Something cold 
and fearful tickled at his mind.
I say we move quick, before the owners come back, Alistar said, rubbing his 
palms against each other.
Its a risk, but Id like to be across tonight, Burton agreed. Hernandez just 
nodded, and the three turned to Valentine.
Evereadys eyes met his. Its a gamble, David, but I think its okay. You 
feeling all right? You look like something you ate doesnt agree with you.
Trust the Cat, who lived by and for his stomach, to chalk up Valentines unease 
to indigestion.
Just a feeling. Old Padre, the guy who raised me, used to call it a vibe. There 
were good ones and bad ones. I guess Im getting a bad one. This place doesnt 
feel right.
Alistar made a sound that might be interpreted as clucking.
Eveready ignored it. Son, when I used to have hair on my head, if it went up, I 
backed off. I wouldnt be alive today if I didnt pay attention to the part of 
me that was quivering like a bowl of Jell-O. Which reminds me. When the four of 
us are back at Newpost Arkansas, Im going to do some trading at the butchers 
and make you all some apple Jell-O. My mommas own recipe, with custard creme on 
top.
Well hold you to it, Valentine said, steadiness returning to his voice. 
Lets have a look at this boat of ours.
From Evereadys little hillock, it looked easy enough. The canoe was pulled up, 
well out of the rivers reach, on a little backwater of the river. A long 
peninsula of land, probably an islet at some times of the year, pointed westward 
beyond the boat: rising and then falling away rapidly like the profile of a 
wooded sphinx.
Valentine, after a quick look at the overturned boat, gazed at the spur of land 
pointing into the river. Something about that ominous shape troubled him. But if 
Eveready, veteran of thirty years guerrilla fighting against the Reapers, 
thought it was safe, why shouldnt he trust the wisdom that had not yet put them 
into danger?
Later, he castigated himself for his silence. The Wolves spaced themselves out 
and readied their weapons. Eveready unslung his carbine.
Im going to take a little look-see. You four relax, stay centered, keep your 
lifesign down, breathe deep. We got lucky. Itll be dark as were trying to 
cross, and the moon wont be up for a while. But I want to make sure, just in 
case Vals radar is working better than my own.
Valentine nodded, struggling with an encouraging smile as he tried to put into 
practice what Eveready preached. He envisioned his body glowing with a warm red 
aura. As he centered himself, he envisioned that aura changing color to blue. 
Then he began to contract the blue, drawing it inward with each breath. As he 
inhaled, the blue glow shrank to a small, softly glowing ball in the center of 
his body. The world around him seemed to fade.
Eveready approached the boat in two great loops, moving to the low edge of the 
sphinx-peninsula and then back to the base of their own hill before scouting the 
boat more closely. He even pointed his rifle under it as he approached, but as 
the last of the daylight faded into twilights gloaming, he waved the Wolves 
down.
The canoe was wider than most, well fashioned out of overlapping planks. Someone 
had put a great deal of time and effort into making it; the wood shone with a 
polished luster. Two men could sit abreast on its two fore-and-aft seats, and 
there was room for their packs under the thwarts. The canoe would have held 
twice their number. Four oars, matching the wood, lay underneath. They decided 
that the four young Wolves would row two to a side, and Eveready would sit in 
the center with rifle ready. Darkness grew as they inspected their prize.
Lets get out into the current quick, Eveready ordered. If someone starts 
shooting, the wood is thick enough to stop a bullet fired from anything but 
point-blank, so just dive into the bottom and let the river take us away. Ill 
row by myself if I have to. This old Reaper vest stopped a bullet in my back 
before. Southern Command, in its wisdom, saves this stuff for the Bears, when 
they can get our guys to turn in the spoils of war, that is. Manys the old Wolf 
that has one of these under his leathers where the officers dont see it. Not 
that Im advising you young men to break regulations, now.
While Eveready stood guard, the four Wolves overturned the heavy canoe and slid 
it down the gentle gravelly slope. Hernandez pushed a driftwood log out of the 
way and hooked his hand on to the bow of the canoe as the team heaved 
then-transportation into the Mississippi.
Hey, did you see this? Hernandez asked.
Valentine peered through the blue-black night at the bow of the canoe. An 
insigne had been branded into the wood, scarring the delicate grain with four 
black bent bars. Something about the spiderish design tickled Valentines 
capacious memory
Thats a swash-sticker, I think. Only its backwards, Al-istar said, in a 
hushed tone.
The Germans and Japanese had them on their planes and stuff in World War Two, 
right? Burton added, uncertainty in his voice. His schooling, like that of his 
comrades with the exception of Valentine, had been sporadic.
Just the Nazi Germans, Valentine said. But Alistar is right, its the wrong 
way around.
Eveready came down from his post. Into the boat, boys. Try not to splash around 
when you row. I dont like being this close to the bank.
Eveready, this mean anything? Valentine asked, pointing at the palm-size 
design on the bow.
Eveready squinted his aging eyes at the swastika. Good as his distance vision 
was, he struggled with his reading eyes. For the first time in the entire 
summer, the big Cat looked afraid. It means trouble. Lets not waste time; we 
dont want the owners to find us. He clicked the safety off on his ancient gun. 
Another first, and far more unsettling.
They clambered into their allotted places and took up the oars. A few lusty 
strokes took them away from the bank. The canoe seemed to glide on a sea of oil.
Breathe and row, breathe and row, Eveready half chanted, kneeling in the 
center of the canoe. Valentine glanced at him from the right forward seat. He 
and Burton, the most muscular of the Wolves, provided the power for Al-istar and 
Hernandez at the back. Eveready searched the sphinx-shape to their right, rifle 
at his shoulder.
Valentine relaxed into his breathing and rowing. Reducing lifesign was a matter 
of falling into yourself, concentrating on a single tiny point in the center of 
your being, like a candle glimmering in the middle of an enormous lake.
The candle flickered.
He felt his hackles rise, a curious corkscrew electricity running up his 
backbone, as if Death had run a playful forefinger up his vertebrae. A cold, 
hard spot appeared in his mind, coming from the head of the sphinx. Unable to 
say what it was, he knew only that he feared it.
Eveready, he said, voice low in his concentration. The very top of the hill. 
Maybe by that big windfall trunk I think somethings up there.
The matchless night vision of the Cat searched the hilltop peak as the boat shot 
toward open river. Valentine dug his oar blade into the water as if trying to 
dig a hole for the boat to hide in.
Val, I think youre right. Its up there, but not moving. A Reaper. Hard ears, 
boys. This is a sound you need to know.
Fingernails on the blackboard. The cry of a stricken hawk. Sheet metal squeezed 
in a compactor. Each would remember the banshee wail differently, loud and fresh 
and terrifying, to their dying day.
Madre de Dios, Hernandez gasped, missing a stroke. Shit! he added, Im 
sorry, I dropped my oar.
Use your rifle butt! barked Valentine.
Other, distant wails answered the ghostly cry.
Five, counted Eveready. One for each of us. Hope thats luck, not planning.
The clouds thickened and dropped, bringing the horizon to a few feet from their 
faces. Aghast, Valentine brought his palm to the sky, barely able to see its 
outline.
How the hell do they do that? Burton asked, puffing between strokes.
Id rather know how they knew we were going to hit this stretch of the river, 
Valentine said as he paddled.
Even in their current perilous situation, Eveready had lessons to teach. 
Theyre disrupting your minds, not the weather. This could even mean a Kurian 
himself is around or working us from his Seat of Power. Ive heard they can make 
a city seem to go up in flames, or a building catch real fire, just by willing 
it.
Theyre reading us somehow. One or more of you might be giving off lifesign. 
While the swamp is full of it, if one of them were close to us, they might have 
picked up on ours, kept their distance, and just plotted where we were going. 
Well never know for sure. The good news is that while they can swim the river, 
itll take em a while. We can be across and separate, and head for the New 
Arkansas Post like hell. Theyll go after whoever they can pick up on, and with 
luck the rest of us will make it back.
Jesus, thats cold, Burton gasped.
Makes sense to me, Alistar said.
Valentine swallowed his fear. Cant do it, Eveready. Were Wolves
I was a Wolf before you were born, son, and
Then you should know, Valentine interrupted right back. We stay as a team, 
whether its two or two hundred. Only the dead get left behind.
Whoevers giving off lifesign is dead already, Val, Eveready argued, trying to 
pierce the black curtain behind them. Maybe not tonight, but some other trip in 
the future.
We dont know theyre reading lifesign. Maybe they tracked us the old-fashioned 
way. There are sniffer-Grogs, Im told.
Sorry, kid. Ive got experience, and you dont. Gotta be lifesign.
Valentine broke the glum silence. I say we put it to a vote. Every man for 
himself, yea or nay. If we decide to stick together, we put you off on the west 
shore. Alone, the way you like it. Valentine feared he might have pushed the 
old Cat too far. Maybe the vote would go four to one against him again, but he 
needed to try.
No, no votes. Not with five Reapers on your tail, rasped Eveready.
This isnt about you anymore, said Burton. Its for us to say.
Have it your way. Idiots. You know, if one Reaper catches up with you four, 
just one, youll all be dead in twenty seconds. Five seconds each.
Okay, lets take a breather, Valentine ordered, turning himself around in the 
boat to face his fellow Wolves. Tradition. Youngest first. Hernandez? Every man 
for himself: yea or nay.
Valentine expected the sixteen-year-old to glance around at the others, or at 
least Alistar, for approval. But he looked squarely into Evereadys eyes. His 
hero. The man he called sir despite Evereadys repeated commands to knock 
it-off.
Nay.
Valentines heart leaped. He could have hugged the skinny youth. Alistar?
The tawny youth, who thought himself the leader of the Wolves through this 
summer, shook his head at Valentine, a half-sneer on his face. Yea.
Fuck you, Al, Burton spat. Nay. And fuck you again, in case you didnt hear 
me the first time.
Nay, added Valentine, trying not to grin in triumph. Al-istar, you can get 
off with Eveready, if you like.
You bet your ass I like.
Can we get moving, Valentine? Eveready asked.
The four rowed with renewed vigor. Valentine, feeling the energy of vindication 
in his limbs, dug his paddle deep into the water. Burton poured out his fury on 
the other side, and the canoe sped through the night.
Within five minutes, the western shore loomed out of the darkness. Alistar 
buckled on his pack, and Eveready jumped out and held the canoe steady. 
Hernandez started to put on his pack.
Wait, Hernandez. Were staying in the boat, Valentine ordered.
Whats that? Eveready asked.
Valentine put his oar behind his back and stretched. Burton, lets switch 
places so I can use some different muscles. Eveready, you said they dont swim 
too fast, right? We head downriver, with the current. Well hear any patrol 
boat. Go all night if we have to, then start moving overland at dawn.
Hell, kid, if you had a plan, you should have said so. Youre still taking a 
risk that the Reapers dont have another boat.
You said five. This boat fits five easy. Can you still draw one off?
Eveready smiled, apple-whitened teeth the brightest thing Valentine had seen all 
night, like a beacon of hope. If one is still following me by sunrise, it wont 
live to see another nightfall.
Alistar, last chance, Valentine called to the receding figure.
Youll be bled out before dawn, Valentine, Alistar said. He turned. 
Hernandez, this is your last chance, too.
The teen shook his head. Sorry, Al. The pack stays together.
Alistar tightened his straps, managing to put contempt in the gesture. Hope you 
make it anyway. Ill wait for you at Arkansas Post.
Eveready stepped closer to Valentine. David, give me your gun.
Valentine reached into the bottom of the boat and brought up the single-shot 
breechloader. Whys that?
Were gonna swap. I dont know if you have more guts than brains, or more 
brains than guts, but Trudy can pump five shots into a Reaper faster than you 
can count. You shot her pretty good this summer. You may need her tonight.
Arent you worried youll never see her again?
Just dont let some Quisling mother take her off your body. Bury her at sea 
when shes empty. You know what I mean?
The men exchanged rifles and ammunition. I know what you mean. See you in hell, 
Cat.
Ill be waiting, Wolf. Eveready shook his hand, then gripped his fingers in a 
curious gesture. David, if you make it, tell your CO about how you sensed that 
Hood. Thats unique. Theyll want to know more about it, and you.
Ill worry about getting home first. Take care!
Eveready, still standing in the water, turned the canoe and pushed them 
southward.
Get running, Alistar, its every man for himself, Eveready said. You heading 
north or south?
Valentine listened with hard ears.
I thought we could make the run together, Alistar said, deflated.
Not a chance. I have to move fast and alone if Im gonna draw one of these off. 
Take off, boy. I hope you make it, but I cant have you around me.
As they drew away, Valentine heard a shout from the Cats muscular throat, 
perhaps strong enough to be heard across the river by the Hoods ears:
Halloo! Hoods, come on over. Evereadys in the house, and he wants to par-tay. 
Bring it on, you balless bastards. I got forty-five sets of teeth around my 
neck, motherfuckers. I wanna make it an even fifty!
The canoe glided southward, propelled by current and oars. Valentine realized he 
was achingly tired; they had marched all day on light food. Water was not a 
problem; the center of the big muddy gave them all they could desire, clear and 
cool.
Hernandez, turn in. Just relax for a couple hours in the bottom of the boat. 
Burt, youll be after him. Take the stern for now. Ill take the third shift.
Hernandez almost collapsed into the center of the boat, asleep in a few seconds 
with his head pillowed on his pack.
Jeez, he didnt even put his blanket down, Burton observed, after gaining the 
stern.
Valentine paddled on. Anyway, you give off less lifesign when youre asleep. 
Just in case it was him.
I thought it was me, Burton said.
Funny, I thought the same thing, Valentine admitted. Both men chuckled. The 
canoe shot southward.
Splashing an overactive imagination at work?
Did you hear that, Burt? Valentine whispered.
Hear what?
Hard ears, Wolf. To the left. Didnt he say they made a lot of noise swimming?
Burton quit rowing as both men concentrated their ears to the left. Over the 
wind and noise of the river, a vigorous splashing could be heard.
Oh, hell. Sorry, Burt. Looks like I guessed wrong.
Lets pump it, Val. We still got a chance. The fuckers a ways off, still. 
Hernandez, he said, knocking the sleeper with his foot. Nap times over, you 
got to do some rowing.
Hernandez yawned, pushing one arm into the sky and rubbing his eyes with the 
other. Jeez, that felt great. How many hours did I sleep?
About two minutes. Get up here and row, Valentine ordered.
What?
Burton tossed the oar toward him. Reaper is swimming for us. Dont drop your 
oar this time.
Propelled by terror, the three men pushed themselves to a stroke every two 
seconds. Valentine used his hard ears to locate the splashing, which began to 
fade first to the left, and then astern.
Were leaving him behind. I think, Valentine said through gritted teeth.
A few minutes would tell the tale. Valentine counted strokes. At 214, he 
realized the ominous splashing was getting louder.
Hell, a Hood, Burton swore, puffing. How fast is it going?
Faster than us, Hernandez said.
Valentine could not resist looking over his left shoulder every few seconds. The 
moon was up, but high, thin clouds muted its three-quarter face. Their strokes 
began to slow as exhaustion set in. Valentine saw a pale figure, arms whirling 
like paddle wheels, splashing along behind them.
I can see it now, Burton said, resigned.
A horrible image of the Reaper closing remorselessly on them flickered through 
Valentines mind. It would swim underwater the last few feet, push up and turn 
over the boat, then tear each of them to bits in the water. He looked back at 
the steadily gaining swimmer, moving through the water at a speed no Olympian 
could match, pale back visible in the moonlight.
It had removed its robes to go faster through the water.
Take a rest, Valentine ordered, picking up Trudy. The magazine held thirty 
rounds. Another magazine rested in a leather pouch on the offside of the stock.
What do you mean, take a rest? We gonna shoot ourselves? Hernandez asked.
Im going to take a crack at him with Trudy, Valentine explained. It took off 
its robes to go faster through the water.
Jesus help you shoot straight, Hernandez babbled.
Valentine carefully tucked himself against the stern. He sat down, bracing his 
back against Burtons seat. He brought the rifle to his cheek and set the sights 
for a hundred yards. The two other Wolves panted as Valentine tried to quiet his 
own respiration and steady his trembling muscles. Exhaustion or fear? he 
wondered.
Breathing out, he fired three times, pausing for a second between each shot. The 
thirty-caliber carbine shell had a fair kick, but braced as he was, knee against 
the side of the canoe and back braced by the bench mounted behind him, the 
recoil was negligible.
Machinelike, the Reaper swam on. At this distance, Valentine couldnt make out 
splashes to see if he was hitting. He let the distance close another twenty 
yards, then fired three more times.
The Reaper dived.
Valentine scanned the surface of the water. How far could it go without air?
The wooden stock felt comforting against his cheek. He lowered the barrel 
slightly.
The thing breached twenty yards closer, and Valentine shot five times, missing 
in his panic. It disappeared underwater again.
Calm, calm, his mind told his body, but the body refused to cooperate. He 
quivered, unable to control the nervous tremors.
Jesus, its close. The fierce, pale face surfaced twenty yards away, gulping 
air. Valentine shot, splashes erupting within inches of the head. One shot tore 
a black gash in its cheek. The head disappeared.
Now, row, row for your lives! Valentine shouted. He braced himself for the 
expected upheaval, as the thing tried to make it under the boat.
The canoe gained speed. Barely an arms length away, the Reaper breached, coming 
halfway out of the water like a porpoise. Its mouth was open. Black teeth 
gleamed in its hellish fury.
Trudy spat as fast as Valentine could pull the trigger. Black holes appeared in 
the Reapers chest as the spent cartridges bounced off the wooden sides of the 
canoe and into the water. The thing fell backward, thrashing more feebly. It 
rolled over and floated, facedown.
Valentine looked wonderingly at the smoking weapon and said a silent prayer for 
Evereadys safety. Trudy had saved their lives.
Valentine angled the canoe toward the western shore with the earliest light. 
There was always the chance that a river patrol would stop them. From here on, 
getting back into the Ozark Free Territory was just a matter of bearing 
northwest for a couple of days.
Burton looked back into the river. I dont believe it. Hes still coming.
The Reaper swam on, using a sidestroke motion. So bullets were useless, after 
all. Valentine suppressed an urge to press the barrel of the rifle under his 
chin and blow his own brains out in defiance.
Lets get ashore, he said, defeated.
The others carried their packs in one hand, rifles in the other. Valentine 
pushed the canoe off into the current and climbed up a short ledge to the 
riverbank proper. Burton was already heading toward a fallen tree.
The Wolves knelt down behind the log, too tired to run. Two single-shot 
breechloaders and a full magazine in Trudy, Valentine thought. Plus our parangs. 
Enough?
The Reaper paddled toward shore, leaving a wake that aimed at their tree like an 
arrow.
The haze dissipated into a cloudless morning. The sun shone yellow and bright, 
inching above the horizon.
Valentine looked at the sky in wonder. Only rarely, outside of winter, was it 
this clear overhead.
Were saved. Saved by the sun, Valentine breathed.
The Reaper reached shallower water. It, too, raised its head to the sun, but in 
pain rather than praise. Thin black hair lay plastered over its chest and 
shoulders. Bullet holes formed a reverse question mark shape on its chest, and 
one arm hung askew.
Valentine stood up, copying Evereadys taunt. The Reaper cocked its head, 
shutting its eyes to squeeze out the daylight.
Are you coming for us? Valentine shouted.
The Reaper straightened. Its ears were working better than its eyes. It 
staggered, hammered by naked sunlight.
not today, it seems, but some night, in a lonely place, youll be taken, it 
hissed.
But not by you, Valentine said, raising his rifle.
The thing dived backwards, disappearing beneath the water.
In some ways, Valentine thought, its almost better than killing it. It ran. It 
was afraid.
They made New Arkansas Post in four days. The little wooden fort on a bare hill 
overlooking the Black River was built like something out of an old-time western, 
right down to the sharpened logs serving as crenellated walls. More supply depot 
and stable than actual fort, it still contained the welcome sight of a cantina.
Eveready was waiting for them on the cantinas porch in a rocking chair, happily 
munching an apple, finishing everything but the stem. Two new fangs hung from 
his necklace. He chided Valentine about not finding the time to properly oil 
Trudys stock after exposing her delicate wood to water.
Lewand Alistar was posted as missing a week later. His family received 
notification the following spring, during the recruiting swing through the 
Council Bluffs area of Iowa.
Six
Pine Bluff, Arkansas, fall of the forty-first year of the Kurian Order: At the 
beginnings of the fertile, flat corner of southeastern Arkansas, the crossroads 
town of Pine Bluff thrives. Strategically located on the chord of an inhabited 
arc covering the borderlands in that quarter, a permanent garrison regiment of 
Guards frequently offers its hospitality to Wolf patrols into Louisiana and 
Mississippi.
Independent farmers from as far away as Drew County come to barter with the 
Southern Command Commissioners. The town itself boasts eight churches, a high 
school, blacksmiths and boatwrights, teamsters and tailors. The Guards stable 
their horses at the old Livestock Showgrounds, and no less than a full regiment 
known as the Bluffs protects the Old Arsenal, the largest and arguably the best 
munitions plant in the Free Territory. The Old Arsenal produces everything from 
bullets to bombs, protected by the heaviest concentration of pre-Overthrow 
machine guns in Southern Command. In town, the Molever Industrial Wood Products 
plant has switched from making pallets to sturdy wagons and river barges, and 
numerous craftsmen exhibit their wares each weekend at the Sixth Avenue Street 
Market. On evenings each weekend, the Saenger Theater Players sing, dance, and 
act out famous scenes from old movies and plays. The aged theaters cool 
limestone and Florentine decor make an opulent break from the meanness of 
everyday life. Shakespeare makes an occasional appearance on the billboard, but 
more often a tear-streaked heroine shakes her fist at the sky against a fiery 
red backdrop, vowing never to be hungry again, or a pair of lovers affirm 
deathless devotion as they cling to wreckage behind billowing sheets meant to 
represent an icy sea.
There is a sense of stability, order, and permanence to the place that the 
settlements on the other borders lack. The tracts of relatively empty Louisiana 
and Mississippi wetlands protect it from quick forays, and the Guards are 
experienced at fighting river-borne incursions. Their clothes are a little 
better, the food is a little more varied, and the buckchits are more welcome 
here than in the remoter regions of the Free Territory. There is a regular 
newspaper and more regular mail, and even a social stratification of sorts has 
taken hold, for better or worse. The complacency here is a true achievement, one 
paid for in blood on the other borders.
David Valentine received orders to join Zulu Company at Pine Bluff shortly after 
making his report to the officers at New Arkansas Post. With the gift of an aged 
horse from the post commander, a haversack of food from the supply sergeant, and 
a parting bag of apples from Eveready, he rode west up the scenic, if 
broken-down, western highway. Once known as US Highway 65, now called the 
Arkansas River Trail, it is one of the better all-weather pikes of the Free 
Territory. Making easy stages out of respect for his slow-stepping mount, 
Valentine reached the shores of Lake Pine Bluff.
Valentine smelled the sentries before he saw them. The tobacco and wood-smoke 
odor meant there were men in the little earthen bunker even if nothing could be 
seen in the gloom beneath the head logs. A pair of horses stood side to side 
swishing flies in the morning breeze inside a little split-rail corral 
overlooking the broken road. Valentine sniffed again and suspected halfhearted 
enforcement of latrine discipline in what, to the Guards anyway, must seem 
wilderness.
Head bobbing and ears forward, his horse quickened its walk. The roan gelding 
was old and wise and knew the smell of horses on a good diet.
A slight figure in a charcoal-gray uniform, comfortably barefoot with riding 
boots off, appeared from the dugout and waved. Valentine turned his horse with a 
gentle nudge of his moccasined heel.
Good morning, stranger, said the youth, teal blue kepi and neckerchief 
proclaiming his membership in the Bluff Regiment. Whats your business up in 
town?
Valentine brought up his forearm, palm outward, in the old Indian greeting. Not 
quite a salute, but friendly enough.
Good morning, responded Valentine, but as most of his mornings began at the 
first pink of dawn, it seemed a little late for the salutation. Im three days 
out of New Arkansas Post with orders to report to the Commanding Wolf. 
Whereabouts can I find Captain LeHavre?
I need to see your orders, the sentry said, holding out his hand.
Theyre verbal. The Wolves dont use much paper, Bluff.
Then I cant let you through. We can send a message to get one of your Wolves 
in for escort, but I dont have authority to let you through.
More like too much authority and too little brain, Valentine thought. A good 
empiricist, he decided to test the theory. Is that so? Whats up the road that 
a man with a single-shot rifle on an old horse might take out, anyway?
The soldier patted his rifle stock.
Maybe youre a spy, come to look at the arsenal. Count the machine-gun posts, 
map out the tanglefoot paths. Maybe youre going to set fire to a barge full of 
black powder and blow up everything on the dock
Enough of that, Johnson, a stern female voice called from the bunker. If he 
is a spy, he can turn around now. You just told him all he needs to know. A 
middle-aged, uniformed woman came out of the bunker and approached the road in 
the measured, confident stride of NCOs the world over. We heard a Wolf was 
coming in from downriver. I figured youd be on foot by now; any horse old 
Gregory would part with has got to be on its last trip. Is there news?
Not that Im aware of. Youre wrong about the horse, hes a nice ride, long as 
you dont ask more than he wants to give. Good thing, too, since Im bareback, 
Valentine said.
Youll find LeHavre up the road a few miles, just into town proper. The Wolves 
always camp at Old Harbor Woods, right at the north bend in the river. Theres a 
brick entrance off the road, says it was a golf course. Still is, actually, on 
the sheep meadow. Dont have time for the game myself. Youll see your little 
tepees around the old clubhouse. Tell Captain LeHavre that Brit Manning says hi. 
We were at Webbers Falls together.
You were a Wolf? asked Valentine, not even knowing in what state to look for 
Webbers Falls on a map.
No, but owing to your caste, we were ready for them when they tried to push 
into Fort Smith. Exactly ten years ago May. We bushwhacked them from the north 
while they were in the middle of ferrying across. So many Grogs ended up in the 
river, they say the Arkansas ran red. It didnt really, but it was still pretty 
hot there for a while. Two companies got caught on the wrong side of the river, 
and his Wolves saved our auras. You might say I thanked him personally 
after-wards, she reminisced, a sly smile crossing her weathered features.
Im sure hell remember.
You want some coffee, son? Just chicory, but its hot. Id offer you some 
lemonade, but my four boys here drank it all first two days we were here, and 
the rinds havent soaked long enough to make another batch.
No, thank you, Sergeant Manning. At my horses pace, Ill be lucky to make the 
town by dinner. Valentine offered a true salute, crisply returned. Thank you 
for the directions.
Captain LeHavres steady green eyes evaluated Valentine from his pulled-back 
hair to his stained knee-high moccasins, fingers drumming against his thigh. The 
company commander wore the look of a busy man who accepted only efficiency.
The captain and Valentine both stood in the sole leak-free room in the old 
Harbor Clubhouse. Its dark paneling hinted at a previous existence as either an 
office or a small library. Two comfortable armchairs and a table, piled above 
and below with a honeycomb of plastic milk crates, almost filled the warm little 
room. Black-and-white photographs, most bearing the marks of poor film stock, 
hung in rough frames.
LeHavre flaunted the swarthy good looks and heavy mustache of a romance novel 
pirate or ruthless western outlaw. His athletic build, spoiled slightly by the 
hint of a paunch, set off his forest green buckskins, so dark they looked almost 
black in the dim light of the windowless office.
Offering Valentine a warm handshake in the worse-for-weather main entrance to 
the clubhouse, LeHavre invited his new Wolf to the records room. Both men sank 
into the armchairs with the appreciation of the rarity of such comfort.
You might call this our cave, LeHavre explained with a casual wave toward the 
laden table. These papers are the closest thing we have to a headquarters. The 
milk crates just make moving easier. The rest I leave to the clerk. Coffee, tea, 
beer?
A beer would be very welcome, sir, Valentine responded gratefully. Its been 
a long summer.
LeHavre rose from the chair without using his arms, almost a levitating trick. 
Ill bring two cool ones from the basement, he said.
Valentine looked around at the pictures, wondering about a man who would treat a 
wet-behind-the-ears recruit like an honored guest. In less than a minute, a 
breathless brown-skinned girl, seven or eight years of rubber-band energy and 
frizzy hair, bounced into the room with a clasp-stoppered bottle. LeHavre 
followed the little dynamo. Meet David, Jill. David hails all the way from the 
Land of Ten Thousand Lakes. Which state is that, tadpole?
Minnesota, she said, showing a proud smile as she handed over the bottled 
beer. Hi, David. Did you swim in those lakes?
Er, some of them. Why, do you like swimming?
Does she like swimming! LeHavre interjected. I check her feet whenever I can 
to make sure they arent growing flippers. Dont I, tadpole.
Uncle Adam! she squealed.
David came on a horse. Can you take him to the corral? He looks like he needs a 
brushing.
Can do! Jill said. Nice to have made your act-tense, David.
Acquaintance, LeHavre corrected.
Likewise, Im sure, Valentine responded, shaking her hand.
Acquaintance, the girl repeated, a furrow crossing her brow. She solemnly 
returned the handshake and stepped backwards out the door.
Thats Jill Poole. Her father was a lieutenant of mine. He died in a fight 
about three years ago. I look in on her mom whenever were in the area. She runs 
a nice little boarding-house right by the river. Fine woman; she keeps a firm 
hand on the boatmen who stay. Its not quite a marriage, but I think of Jill as 
my daughter. Shes fearless around the men. Most of them remember Poole, and 
they indulge her. She loves making beadwork. Most of the Wolves in Zulu Company 
have a bracelet or something of hers.
LeHavre opened his bottle. To the people were fighting for, he toasted.
Prosit, Valentine responded, imitating a memory of his father. The cool froth 
flushed the dry road away.
My apologies, Valentine. Im sure you want to know about the outfit youve been 
ordered to join. Zulu Company is one of ten companies in the Arkansas Regiment, 
which makes up the smaller half of the Wolf Brigade. Theres only three thousand 
or so Wolves in all of Southern Command, counting Aspirants and reserves, and 
were the most numerous of the Hunters. Were in reserve now. But dont expect 
to spend a lot of time dancing at regimental balls. Maybe two thirds of the 
regiment is together when were wintering in the Ouachitas. We dont often fight 
shoulder-to-shoulder; the last time was when we stopped a Grog incursion out of 
St. Louis. Thats when Poole bought it.
Zulu Company has four platoons of about thirty men each, as of this month. 
Fifteen support personnel, mostly older Wolves who arent up to running fifty 
miles a day anymore, seven wives and two husbands who can keep up with the camp, 
and four transport teams of four men, making me responsible for a little over 
one hundred fifty lives. I have twelve senior NCOs, but Im short a lieutenant 
out of the three I should have. You want the job?
Valentine swallowed his mouthful of beer, which had turned into a grapefruit 
descending his throat. Me, an officer? Sir, Im not even twenty yet.
Napoleon was a lieutenant of artillery at sixteen, David.
And Alexander the Great was a king breaking up rebellions at twenty, sir, 
Valentine interjected. But Im not either. Ive never read a book about 
tactics.
The captain set down his beer and crossed the room to the desk. Valentine, Ive 
got a folder here. In it is what we call your Q file. Dont ask me what the Q 
means, because I dont know. Its got your reports, about what happened on that 
barge, and its going to contain your report on the Mississippi crossing, once 
the copy works its way here. There are some words from Wolves like Pankow and 
Paul Samuels. I also knew your father, slightly. I was younger than you are now 
in those days, and Id give my right nut to be half the man he was. I heard he 
was murdered when you were still a boy.
LeHavre returned to the chair. David, I know from people I trust that youve 
got brains and guts. You also take responsibility; most people try to hide from 
it. Youve shown some initiative in going after the enemy, and Eveready told me 
that youre smart about avoiding a fight, too. Which takes a certain kind of 
courage.
Valentine listened to LeHavres summation of his record as a Wolf. But LeHavre 
didnt know about the fear and horror inside the Harpy barge that had unmanned 
him into lighting his bomb without thinking it through. Or the stupid theatrics 
with a gun (a valuable pistol now submerged in the muddy river bottom thanks to 
his forgetting to hang on to it in the water) to get a cramped recruit on her 
feet. Or the luck of a clear sunrise that saved them on the shores of the 
Mississippi.
And one more thing, David. Our very own Wizard, Amu, recommended you to me. 
That counts for something; he reads people like a book. Dont misunderstand me, 
please. Being an officer is a tough tackle. You drink last, eat last, sleep 
last, and usually die first. No one notices your good decisions, and you have to 
bury your bad ones and then write home to somebodys parents that their son 
stopped a bullet carrying out your orders. Getting them to fight is the least of 
your worries; the Wolves know their business. But getting them ready for a 
fight, choosing where and when, and then getting them back safely takes a 
special kind of person.
Why did you become one, sir? An officer, I mean.
LeHavre sighed and pulled down the last of his beer. Long story, David. I 
wasnt even a sergeant, just a vet in charge of four kids younger than you. Our 
platoon went into the wrong town. Quislings had a hell of a fine ambush set up. 
Theyd killed just about everyone in what had been a friendly stop and filled it 
up with their people. Somehow they scared a family we knew into greeting us and 
making everything seem normal. Everyone was tired and hungry, so we dispersed 
for dinner and sleep. Thats when they hit us. The lieutenant and sergeants got 
it firstit seemed like the lead was flying from every direction but up. I made 
it out and got some other survivors together, dogs at our heels and Reapers 
screaming from the hills. Ive never been so scared before or since been pretty 
damn close a few times, thoughbut we made it back. I carried a wounded Wolf the 
whole way, but she didnt weigh much over one-fifteen. So they made me an 
officer. Funny thing to do for a guy who spent three solid days running from the 
enemy.
But that was a good number of years back. The Free Territorys changed from a 
backwater cluster of hard-luck farms to a real patch of civilization. The 
Kurians havent had any luck stomping us. Were not as big as some of the groups 
out east, even. I understand theres a band of Hunters ranging the Green 
Mountains of New England up to Canada and down through the Smokies about twice 
the size of us, and the freehold in the Pacific Northwest has more square miles. 
But out east, theyre more of a wandering guerrilla army; they dont have a spot 
to really call home. And in the west, well, its only a rough confederation out 
there. A couple of the strongmen paying lip service to the Constitution and Bill 
of Rights. A few even think the Hunters and the Lifeweavers are part of the same 
disease as the Kurians. Youd think the days of men fighting anything but the 
Kurians and their Quislings are over, but Im sad to say it just isnt so.
The captain shook his head, eyes downcast. Curse of Babel, I guess. We just 
wont work on the same team sometimes. But back to the here and now. Can I count 
on you, Valentine?
Has anyone ever counted on me? Valentine wondered. He thought of the gangly 
little girl, Jill, and her unknown mother. Can they count on me? Will I be able 
to prevent some black-fanged monster from making lifeless husks of them? He 
remembered the little Poole girls response to LeHavres request. Maybe LeHavre 
liked to be answered that way.
Can do, sir, Valentine said, hoping the enthusiasm did not sound too forced.
The captain walked him out into the pleasant afternoon. The worst of the 
summers heat had faded, and the clouds were piling on and thickening overhead. 
Five-pole tepees filled what was probably once a lawn and putting green.
Zulu Company is spending time in reserve, Valentine, LeHavre repeated. Your 
last winter you stayed in true winter camp. Four companies get to do that, 
another four are in reserve, leaving just two companies to stay in the Outlands.
Theyll be spread thin, patrolling and relying on the Cats for notice of 
anything major outside the borders. If something happens, or a good opportunity 
to hurt the Hoods comes along, we go out of reserve. But that doesnt mean well 
be sitting on our rears. As of today, youre Acting-Lieutenant Valentine on my 
authority. The colonel will confirm after your course work gets done. Were not 
the Guards, the civilian government doesnt have to give its rubber stamp. Im 
not giving you a platoon yet, though youll get your bars right away. But back 
to your duties. Youre going to be in charge of the support staff, transport 
teams, and the Aspirants. When you arent doing that, youll be running back and 
forth from the Officers Training College, which holds classes at the old UA 
Pine Bluff Campus on the west side of the lake. If you want my advice, youll 
memorize Sun-tzu and study the nineteenth-century campaigns of the Apaches and 
Comanches, and some Civil War histories of Bedford Forrest and Stonewall 
Jackson. Just read enough about the rest to pass your tests. Youll learn a lot 
about how to fight when youre outnumbered and outgunned. When youre reading 
about the Chiricahua, try not to remember that they were on the losing side. 
Itll be a hell of a schedule for you, but be grateful for it. Weve got 
officers all over the place who are just jumped-up sergeants, and thought 
theyre hell on wheels with the men, but sometimes the lack of formal training 
leads to problems.
Whens this going to start, sir?
It started the minute you accepted your commission, Lieutenant. The War College 
is always more or less in session. One more thing: Eveready said you got some 
kind of premonition that there were Reapers around. Answer me straight, was it a 
lucky guess, or did you really catch wind of something?
Valentine thought for a moment before answering. I cant account for it, sir. 
It wasnt based on anything I actually sensed, more of a by the pricking of my 
thumbs
 Something wicked this way comes? finished LeHavre. Thats interesting. 
Reapers make horses and dogs nuts, too. Well, the nearest thing we have to a 
center for study of the Kurians, by us humans anyway, is at the college here in 
Pine Bluff. Theyll be interested in your story. Theres a half-dozen people 
researching the New Order; they like to come out and talk to us after weve seen 
them up close. They always want to know which Kurian sent which Reapersas if we 
can tell. Lets get you quartered, and you can go meet them tomorrow when you 
enroll yourself at the OTC.
The following day, after a delicious cool night in a cot in the warmth of the 
junior officers tepee, which he had to himself because his tentmate was on a 
training patrol, Valentine rode through the bustling little town to the college 
campus. It was an uninspiring collection of solid little 1950s buildings 
dominated by a curious stunted tower: a clock that some tinkerer had restored to 
its function decorated it. Uniformed Guards sitting outside one brick building 
revealed the location of the War College. As he had business there, Valentine 
decided to make the OTC his first destination. Exchanging friendly nods with the 
lounging Guards outside, he  followed an old black-and-white plastic sign with a 
red arrow. A chalkboard outside the open office door read:
this week: maj. jonas brattleboromedicine in the field
(tues, wed, pm 114)
lt. p. haynesblack powder to the steel-jacketed bullet (fri, am 106 /pm rifle 
range)
Valentine entered the office. A breeze came through the open windows, but it was 
still uncomfortably hot, and the room had the sour smell of old paper. A young 
female Guard in a white cotton uniform Valentine identified as a cadets, her 
face as fresh as this mornings flowers, rose and smiled.
You must be the new Wolf from Zulu Company, sir. Nice to meet you, 
Acting-Lieutenant Valentine, she said. My name is Cadet Lambert, but the guys 
here call me Dots. Because Im kind of a born picture-straightener. I dot all 
the is and cross all the ts.
Youre well informed, Lambert. I didnt know you Guards paid that much 
attention to the Wolves.
Theres one other Wolf studying here right now, sir. Shes from Tango Company 
over at Fort Smith. She stays at the Poole Boardinghouse; shes a little older 
than you. Her name is Carol Pollisner. Usually the Wolves mustang up and dont 
have to do much formal classwork. Speaking of which, I have your packet all 
ready.
Thank you, Lambert. How the hell old are you, if you dont mind me asking? You 
look about twelve. He took a heavy pack of paper wrapped up in a tied linen 
folder from her hand.
Im fifteen. But I passed the Guard physical, and I ran the table on the 
written test. Im the Colonel Commandings staff assistant until I turn 
eighteen. I actually prefer Dots, sir.
Valentine whistled, knowing the number of push-ups required to pass a Guard 
Cadet physical. He opened the linen folio.
The OTC is mostly self-taught, Dots explained. Theres a reading list, and 
written test on each book. You have to do six months worth of lectures unless 
you can pass out of the subject by taking an oral exam. The classwork is easier 
unless youre some kind of genius. Each weeks lecture schedule is on the 
blackboard outside. Once you do that, and have your Certificates of Diligence, 
Responsibility, and Sobriety, you take the final oral exam. They hold those 
whenever theres three captains or above around. In fact, your Captain LeHavre 
is going to be serving on one a little later this month. I hear hes merciless 
on Grog Recognition. If you dont know where to shoot a Harpy to bring it down 
with one bullet, youre recycled.
Whats this thesis? Valentine asked, looking at the graduation requirements.
Thats one of Colonel Jimenezs pet projects. Hope you can write. He wants a 
fifty-page paper on any subject, strictly nonmilitary. Historys okay, as long 
as you keep off the wars and battles covered in the reading list. A week after 
you turn it in, you get questioned about it, so you better know whatever it is 
youre writing about. I did mine on the great mariners, Columbus and Cook and so 
on. A week later he was grilling me about how Columbus enticed his men to make 
the voyages, and how Captain Magellan might have avoided getting killed. I think 
Jimenez just does it to keep himself sharp.
Thanks, Dots. Ill read this over. Ill start on the lectures this week, if 
LeHavre will spare me.
The librarys on the top floor. You can check out books if we have two or more 
copies available, but that covers almost everything on the reading list, she 
said, already making notes in her desk book.
Which building is the student union, Dots?
She looked up with a raised eyebrow. Going to visit the Creeps, huh? Theres a 
campus map in your packet, but its just across the quad. Its a good place to 
learn about the Grogs, but I wouldnt let them talk you into trying for any 
bounty money.
Bounty money?
For all sorts of stuff. Reaper clothes or artifacts. Written records stolen 
from the Kurian Zone. They offer big money for live prisoners, but if its 
Quislings, they have to be officers. Their dream catch is a whole, live Reaper. 
They had one once, but it got out. LeHavre will look the other way if you grab a 
clipboard now and then, but dont ever try to throw a rope around a Reaper or 
hell probably shoot you himself.
Thanks for the tip, Dots. I have a feeling Ill be saluting you someday.
She looked pleased at the compliment. If you need any help, Im here every day. 
I live in the old dormitory.
Valentine exited past three Guards, who had quit skylarking and were talking 
over a broken-backed copy of War and Society. There were fewer than when he had 
entered; it seemed a couple of the number had duties elsewhere.
The stone on the student union read L. A. Davis Student Union and 1952, but 
someone had hung a carved wooden sign that read Miskatonic University over the 
door. Valentine entered the unlit building, which smelled of bad plumbing. A 
stairway leading up had a sign reading appointments only, and a second notice 
board, which at one time had been behind glass, read bounty inquiries, please 
ring over a small hand bell. Valentine climbed the stairway.
The second floor was a warren of rooms, some with doors completely missing and 
others with darkened windows. A faint, Poe-esque tap-tap-tapping sounded from an 
inner chamber. Valentine hunted the source of the sound, which he eventually 
realized was a typewriter. It came from a central office with three overburdened 
desks, festooned with pin-filled maps and drawings of Grogs.
Under a bright electric desk lamp, a rotund and hairy man typed with two fingers 
and an occasional thumb. The mountain-man mass of hair on his head and face made 
his age hard to guess, but Valentine put the man in his late thirties, as his 
temples and chin were just beginning to be flecked with gray. He wore large, 
octagonal tortoiseshell glasses that had probably been originally worn by a 
woman. A bare chest that would have done a grizzly proud, fur-wise, bulged out 
of a sleeveless jeans jacket.
Valentine knocked on the doorjamb and broke the typists concentration.
Hi, can I help you? the man asked in a friendly tone.
I think Im supposed to help you, Valentine said. Are you one of the people 
who researches the Kurians?
Yeah. I sometimes think research isnt the right word, though. Were more like 
witch doctors trying to explain why a volcano erupts and throwing in the odd 
virgin to see if that helps. I think we used to put New Order Studies 
Institute on our documents, mostly because it acronymed out as NOSI. But 
whoever we are, were them.
Valentine entered the office, making his way around the desks and floor-filling 
mounds of binders to reach the scientist. As the latter stood up to shake hands, 
Valentine noticed that his pants were around his ankles.
Oh, sorry, the man said. It was difficult to tell if he was blushing behind 
the beard. Warm up here, you know. I swear that lightbulb puts out more 
calories than candlepower. He brought his trousers up to their conventional 
position.
David Valentine, Wolf. Originally out of Minnesota. Pleased to meet you, 
Valentine said, taking the hairy-knuckled paw.
David Walker OConnor. From Indianapolis, myself. Ran away at the tender age of 
thirteen. I was brought here just because I knew about current conditions in 
Indiana, more or less, and stayed on. I read you took a Reaper outside of 
Weening about a year ago. What have you got for us now?
Do I talk to you? Its about a feeling I got when a Reaper was around. A couple 
weeks ago. A Cat named Eveready thought it was important enough that I should 
tell you.
OConnor scratched himself under his shovel beard. Lets go into the cellar. I 
need a break and a drink. You like root beer?
Yes, thank you. In fact, itll be a treat. Ive only had it once or twice.
The researcher grabbed a notebook and led the way out of the tangle of airless 
offices. The two descended into the cellar. At the base of the landing, a 
classic pawnshop barred door and window prevented further penetration. OConnor 
pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and selected one. The door opened with a 
squeal from the hinges.
With the flick of a switch, OConnor turned on a single bulb. Its pathetic forty 
watts did little to help the darkness and nothing at all to alleviate the musty 
smell coming from piles of clothing, trunks, and assorted boxes and crates 
heaped with artifacts.
A lot of it is junk, but it all helps put together a story, his guide 
explained.
Something shuffled out of the shadows: slab skinned, inhuman, peering at them 
with a gargoyle face. Valentine startled, reaching for his absent weapons.
OConnor put a comforting hand on his shoulder. Easy, Valentine. This is 
Grishnak. As you can tell, hes a Grog. A couple of the Team found him after a 
battle, badly wounded. We patched him up, fed him. Hes something of a mascot. 
He puts up with all our little experiments, dont you, Grish? He thumped it 
affectionately on the arm.
The Grog cocked its head from side to side, half closing its eyes.
Does it talk? Valentine asked, touching its thick horn-skin.
He gets by with a few meaningful grunts. Hes a bit of a firebug; we cant let 
him have matches or a lantern or any-thing. Loves to watch things burn; they all 
do from what we can tell. Hes a living table-scrap disposal. He thinks corncobs 
are a real treat. Potato peels, too. Would you like a root beer, Grish?
Valentine looked at the half-dozen badly healed bullet wounds in the creatures 
leg and abdomen. A long knife scar also ran across its shoulder and down its 
armored chest. It unrolled its tongue.
Grish loves root beer. Lets sit down.
Valentine listened to the small noises of the empty building. Theres more than 
just you to this Institute, I suppose?
An icebox devoid of ice sat next to a slop sink, and a card table stood under 
the inadequate lightbulb. Shelves held a few dishes and cups. OConnor drew 
three drafts from a scratched plastic barrel resting in the icebox. Theres one 
other scholarly fellow like myself around now, and he keeps even stranger hours. 
We have a couple of would-be students, but they have to scratch a living so they 
work in the day. The Grog held out both hands for its sweet drink and scuttled 
off into the shadows with its cup.
Just as well. Hes kind of messy when he drinks from a cup. I think Grishnak is 
pretty dumb even for a Grog. They have a language, but they dont use writing. 
They send little rune-stones in hollow bone tubes to communicate Qver distance. 
And the beads in their hair are kind of like military decorations, family 
totems, stuff like that. But back to the Institute. The rest of the team is in 
the field. Our elder sage is up around Mountain Home. I dont know if you heard, 
but five or six Reapers are on the loose up north, well within the Free 
Territory, and theyre causing quite a problem. Theyre moving around faster 
than word of them travels, and every time it seems like theyre cornered, they 
slip out. Theres bad weather up north, and thats hurting things.
He solemnly opened his notebook and licked the end of his pencil. Okay, 
Valentine, whats the story?
Valentine relayed the events at the Mississippi crossing for the second time in 
as many days. OConnor scribbled.
And you cant link the hair-raising feeling to anything you heard, saw, or 
smelled. Youre positive?
I guess I can compare it to let me see the feeling you get when youre next 
to a window on a very cold winter day. Like the heat is being pulled out of your 
body. I cant put it any better than that. Or a feeling I got once crossing 
under a high-voltage line in the dark; I knew something was above me, but I 
couldnt say what. How would you describe an itch to someone who has never had 
one?
I couldnt. Youve smelled a Reaper, right? Since your invocation as a Wolf?
Valentine nodded, relishing the smooth sweetness of the root beer. Very up 
close. Eveready held an impromptu dissection of one before we pulled out of the 
Yazoo. Smelled like an offal heap.
OConnor thought for a moment. He leaned back in the tube-steel chair, causing 
it to creak. Thereve been a couple of incidents like yours. Not just Wolves, 
either. A few people have a sensitivity to Reapers. A lot of animals are the 
same way. We think its because of smell, but weve seen too much weirdness in 
the last forty years to discount anything, including psychic powers. If it keeps 
happening, try to figure out at what range you sense them, if it makes a 
difference whether there are more than one, whether they can be distinguished as 
individuals, stuff like that.
Can they tell whos who by our lifesign?
According to the Lifeweavers they cant, unless theyre really close and its a 
good read. Lifesign varies with mood, whether the person has just eaten, stuff 
like that. Of course you guys learn to disguise it. Distance seems to matter 
most of all. Like you can recognize movement from a long way away, tell a man 
from a woman at a certain distance, and then distinguish individuals up close. 
Of course it helps if youve run into the person a couple of times. But back to 
your question, I think they can tell whos who under certain circumstances. 
Thereve been incidents where the Reapers have gone after a specific person. I 
dont know if it was bullshit or not, but we had a report from New Mexico about 
Reapers gathering from miles off to hunt one of the Wolves out there. I guess 
his squad split up, and they all went after the one. Of course, lifesign reads 
better in the desert, theres less interference from plants and animals, and 
they might have just been chasing the best signal. Odd coincidence that it was 
someone who had done them a lot of damage, though.
By the way, Valentine added, remembering. There was a funny design on the 
boat. Kind of a bent X.
Thats good that you noticed it. Can you remember it well enough to draw it?
Valentine reached for the pencil and beneath the researchers notes traced out 
the design.
Youre sure it faced that way. Not like this? He drew a Third Reich swastika.
No, it was facing the other way. Is it important? Valentine asked.
Hard to say. Its been showing up lately, so I did some checking. That symbol 
can be found on temples in the Asian subcontinent, on Buddhist artifacts, as 
well as over here in American Indian cave paintings. It appears in the ruins of 
Troy, on Egyptian walls, even in China. I will say this: whoever used it in 
prehistoric times sure got around.
Seven
Arkansas, spring of the forty-second year of the Kurian Order: Valentine spent 
the winter months in diligent pursuit of his commission as lieutenant. While 
learning about interior lines and maneuver in the face of the enemy in the 
classroom, he became acquainted with the idiosyncrasies of oxen and pack mules 
in the field. He would wheedle six different calibers of ammunition out of the 
arsenal during the day and construe Clausewitz at night. He finished a thesis on 
the argument for objective reality, defending Socrates against Protagoras and 
Gorgias after earlier arguing about the quality of the latest barrel of flour 
with the demanding camp wives.
An astute observer with a detailed memory, Valentine molded his conduct after 
the officers he respected. He admired LeHavres methodical planning of every 
company movement, each leader knowing his assignment so well the captain would 
often issue just two orders in a day of march: strike the tents at dawn and 
make camp at dusk. The company functioned as a well-tuned machine from the 
moment its commander hit the on switch. He appreciated Lieutenant Mallows role 
as senior in amplifying and following up on his commanders orders, and copied 
Brostojfs devotion to his men in supplying their every want. If he also avoided 
Mallows indecisiveness in the absence of clear and specific orders from the 
captain and Brostojfs binge drinking, it showed that he could learn how not to 
behave, as well. His men liked him and, what was more, respected him for the 
simple reason that he showed them respect.
The Guards attending the Officers Training College chided him for his drab 
deerskin clothing and his shyness. He avoided the boisterous weekend outings, a 
fixture of college life since education began, and kept quiet in class unless 
called on. He remained silent about his experiences even with the other Wolves 
who dropped in occasionally as students and lecturers. He grew to know the 
scholars of Miskatonic Hall, read some of their raw files concerning the 
Kurians, and listened more than he talked. These traits, but especially the 
last, proved rare among the alternately bitching and bragging young Wolves.
Still, he felt lonely and fell into the trap of pretending to prefer being 
alone, thus leading to further loneliness in a vicious circle of solitude that 
young men of a certain temperament build for themselves and then inhabit. But 
apart from the lack of companionship, he enjoyed his time as an 
acting-lieutenant more than anything else in his life up to that point. The 
constant challenges, physical and mental, stimulated him.
Zulu Company saw action twice that winter, but owing to his studies and lack of 
experience, Valentine remained back at the reserve camp with the sick and other 
dependents, commanding a squad of equally discouraged Wolves and being 
responsible for guarding the cumbersome wagons and baggage. Marksmanship 
contests for the noncombatants and rehearsing musical follies to welcome back 
the returning Wolves provided comic relief for the mens tensions, and every 
time one of his squad smuggled a woman into an isolated tepee, he pretended not 
to notice. By the first silent green explosion of spring, Zulu Company moved 
from Pine Bluff to the
Ouachita River, returning to active duty.
* * *
Sorry, Valentine, youre staying behind again. Captain LeHavre put down his 
piece of chalk. The slanted rays of the falling sun gave his features a warm 
golden cast.
Behind him, the blackboard (which was actually green) had a rough map of 
southeastern Arkansas and the Louisiana borderlands. Dotted circles traced 
locations the other two platoons would explore on the long-range patrol 
consuming the rest of the month. Next to the young Wolf, Brostoff and Mallow 
exchanged comments in an undertone.
Questions, gentlemen? the captain asked.
What are you leaving Val, sir? Brostoff asked.
His whole platoon. Just because hes staying doesnt mean hell be unoccupied. 
In a sense, while were out, hes the first line of defense of Southern Command. 
Once the rivers fall a little more, a hard-riding column could raid this place 
without us cutting their trail, let alone sighting them. The river needs 
watching, too. He needs men for patrols, running supplies down from Regiment and 
out to our caches, mapping and surveying these border farms.
Bartering for rice, too, Valentine, Mallow said. Well all be sick of the 
stuff by fall.
Beats going hungry. Time was there wasnt much more than trappers out here, 
LeHavre added. Now there are some farmsplantations more likeand if we can get 
them organized, we might count the land out to the Mississippi ours. It would 
take a couple thousand men to garrison it properly, though, and unless they 
provide some irregular forces, thats not going to happen. Youre a good talker, 
Valentine. Sound out a few of these locals and see if theyll accept arms and 
ammunition for a patrol service.
Valentine and his platoon saw the other two thirds of Zulu Company off the 
following dawn.
Give my regards to the gators, one of Valentines platoon japed.
Leastways well be doin more with our blades than whittlin, countered one of 
the men from the southbound files, spitting sunflower seed shells.
Valentines platoon worked the lines of the ferry the company constructed for 
the river crossing. Within weeks, the river would be wadable at a number of 
drifts, but LeHavre wanted to start exploring the southern borders with the 
Kurian Zone now.
Blooming dogwoods decorated the slow-moving river. Valentine rode across the 
river with the supply mules and surveyed the campsite from the opposite bank. 
Zulu Companys tepees and tents were hidden, set well back from the river. Even 
if the Quislings sent armed patrol boats up the river, they wouldnt know the 
Wolves were there once the raft and lines were hidden.
You might think youve got the easy duty, but its a serious responsibility, a 
voice said from behind.
Valentine turned. LeHavre emerged from the foliage, weighed down by map cases, a 
telescope, and the companys only submachine gun. The clouds had thickened, and 
the forest was a canopy of shadow.
This is a tricky corner youre in, Valentine. The Kurians could float up the 
Ouachita, raid in from Louisiana, or come across the Mississippi. They have a 
big garrison at Vicksburg and the barges to float them. Your first job is to 
protect Southern Command by looking out for that kind of thing. If they come in 
strength, send as much information back to Regiment double-quick. Cause trouble 
for em if you can, but your men are worth more than Quisling conscripts, so 
make sure you dont get cornered. Ive left you here for a reason, not because 
youre the junior. Fact is, another time Id stay myself.
Yes, sir. Hopefully itll be a quiet summer.
A third man joined them, the bulky senior NCO, Sergeant Patel. Everythings 
across, sir. Scouts are out and the column is ready to go.
Thank you, Sergeant. Ill be along in a moment. He turned back to Valentine.
Count on us being gone six weeks. Ill send you on a short patrol when we get 
back, so you can get some experience. Im going to leave Brostoff out all summer 
watching the rivers, but Ill be back with Mallow and his platoon.
The chickens will be fat by then, and Im sure I can find some good-size 
watermelon.
So young, and you already know how old soldiers think. Take care, Mr. 
Valentine, LeHavre said, returning Valentines salute with his usual grace. 
Dont let anything happen to Southern Command while Im gone.
Valentine forced a confident smile when LeHavre winked.
With the patrolling Wolves departing and the day fleeing, Valentine supervised 
the team dismantling the ferry. They floated the lines and stakes back to the 
camp-side and rolled the raft out of sight.
Theres a new occupied farm two miles north of here, Lieutenant Valentine, 
Sergeant Quist reported. Will we be paying them a visit?
Keep the men out of the henhouse, if you value your rank, Quist. You know how 
the captain feels about that sort of thing, Valentine said, clouding over like 
the sky above.
Didnt mean that, sir. They know better. I meant a social call. Get things off 
on the right foot. Well be moving up and down the river, and we dont want a 
gut full of buckshot by accident. He might want to trade for some grub, too.
I see. Im sorry, Quist, wrong conclusion. Ill make it the first thing 
tomorrow morning. Ill take Bozich; having a woman along will seem less 
threatening. Michaels is the senior Aspirant now, right? Ill take him, as well. 
Youll have to handle things while Im gone, Sergeant.
It began to rain, and Valentine walked the perimeter of the camp. He enjoyed a 
warm rain, the feeling of privacy it afforded. He smelled the sentries tobacco 
smoke even in the wet before seeing them, considered issuing an order against 
smoking on duty, then rejected the idea. The veterans knew when it was safe to 
smoke, and the newbies could be taught. Shelter, food, firewood, and security 
occupied his mind as he wandered through the drizzle, an ear always cocked for 
sounds in the camp. He used his nose as much as his ears, smelling which way 
cooking smoke and latrine odors drifted in the prevailing winds. There were 
Grogs who could hear and smell better than the Wolves. He would have to set 
still-watches on the river, build some kind of redoubt in case of sudden attack, 
and arrange for safe storage of ammunition and food supplies. Some kind of 
netting in the overhead trees might be a good idea, he thought, remembering his 
encounter with the Harpies in Weening. That made him think of Gabby Cho, and his 
good mood vanished like a lump of sugar in the rain.
The farm Quist had spoken of consisted of a single well-built barn, still under 
repair. Only a foundation remained where there had once been a house. The barn 
stood above a wet inlet from the Ouachita, and rice paddies flourished in the 
cleared land.
Valentine led Bozich and Michaels up the path from the river. Bozich had a hard 
face but warm eyes; LeHavre was thinking of making her a sergeant. She was the 
most diminutive of the Valentines Wolves, but had stamina in inverse proportion 
to her size and carried a carbine with a telescopic sight. Michaels still had 
pimples and wheezed sometimes, but a little asthma would not necessarily 
disqualify him from future service. More important, he took his duties as senior 
Aspirant seriously.
The Wolves smelled cows and goats in the barn, but no pigs. It appeared that the 
farmers, whoever they were, lived above their animals, and pigs were not ideal 
livestock for sharing accommodations.
Dogs barked, and a tousle-headed girl in the yard scrambled up a ladder at their 
approach, calling Momma! Momma! Momma! like a wailing siren. A hairy face 
appeared at one of the lower windows, and the Wolves stopped.
Its sojers, somebody yelled. Valentines ears picked up at the sound of a 
shotgun breech being closed.
Two men emerged, both bearded, one a little more grizzled than the other. The 
elder held the shotgun Valentine had heard. Both wore faded rags, patched and 
clean but obviously pre-Kur salvage.
Yall out upcountry? Command boys? the younger asked, within jumping distance 
of the barn door.
Course they is, the armed one said. Wearin skins an deer-booties.
Were camping a couple miles downstream. Thought wed pay a call, Valentine 
said, hand well away from his holster.
One of the barking dogs decided nothing interesting was going to happen and 
flopped on its side with a sudden motion, almost as if it had been shot. Bozich 
and the Aspirant snickered, and the dogs owners exchanged a look.
That dog beat all. Goes to sleep like hes droppin de-yad, the unarmed man 
said, showing a gap-toothed smile.
The ice was broken, and the men called out their families. Concrete Barn Farm, 
as the occupants styled it, consisted of two brothers, Rob and Cub Kelly. Their 
families and another unmarried young man worked the rice paddies, gardens, and 
fishing streams.
We-uns think whats ours is ours, Rob Kelly, the younger of the brothers, said 
later, as the men and their wives sat with Valentines team on the foundation of 
the house. Perhaps it had once been a front porch.
Cub nodded in agreement. Couldnt take it up by yall. Taxation, regulations. 
Law stopping by with empty bellies. Dont plant, dont pitch, but want it all 
the same. Paw took we-uns outer there.
Bozich opened her mouth, but Valentine shook his head.
Youre on your own down here, thats for sure. Lonely country, though, should 
the others come through.
Rob Kellys wife tightened her mouth.
Our boys keep good watch, the younger Kelly said. We-uns too small fer them 
to bother with. We-uns jes tell Steiner and his Beasts ifn anythin dangerous 
shows up.
Whos this Steiner?
His-uns got a few places in country. Half days hard walk.
Ive got a box of shells for that twelve-gauge if one of your sons will take me 
to him. Looks like you could use some paint for that barn, too. I might be able 
to find some.
Cub Kelly looked suspicious. Of course Valentine had seen only two expressions 
on his face, suspicious and taciturn. He made up his mind and nodded to his 
brother.
We-uns got a deal, sojer-man.
Cub Kellys scarecrow-lean, half-naked son Patrick spoke as little as his 
father. All tan skin and searching eyes, he guided Valentine through a series of 
swamp trails. The boy carried a sling and a bag of rocks the whole way. 
Valentine watched the youth kill a watchful hawk atop an old utility pole. He 
retrieved the limp mass of talons and feathers, saying, Sumpin fer the boilin 
pot.
Bozich whistled at the sight of the Steiner place. A cluster of buildings sat on 
a mound in the center of miles of rice paddies. The whitewashed buildings were 
in good repair, with aluminum-covered roofs surrounded by walls, and the walls 
in turn surrounded by a wide moat.
The Wolves observed it from a little hummock of land marking the end of the 
trail and the beginning of the paddies. A small cemetery filled the hill, neat 
little crosses in rows, interspersed with rock cairns. Some of the graves were 
tiny, in clusters, telling the usual tale of high infant mortality in a rural 
region, lying next to cross after cross with died in childbed burned into the 
wood. After a moments study of the communitys dead, Valentine turned back to 
the living.
Have you heard about this? he asked Bozich.
We knew there were some big plantations out here, but this beats all. These 
arent border squattersthis is years of work, sir.
Wonder how you get in? Drawbridge? Valentine said.
A boat on a line, sojer, Master Kelly said.
Thanks, son. You can take your hawk home to the pot now. Tell your pa he needs 
anything, were always ready to trade.
Sure, sojer, the boy said, tying his sling around the legs of the hawk and 
trotting back into the brush.
Theres the boat, Michaels said. Under where the wall goes down to the 
water.
Valentine surveyed the walls with his binoculars. The stone for them had been 
quarried; they were fitted together with no small skill. He saw another head, 
binoculars held to the eyes, staring back at him. Theyve seen us, too. No use 
looking timid, lets go find the landing.
The three Wolves zigzagged across the earthen dikes separating the rice fields. 
It occurred to Valentine that anyone attacking the compound would have to take a 
circuitous route to rush the walls if they did not want to flounder through the 
mud.
Think these folksll feed us? Bozich asked. The Kellys werent too 
hospitable.
Well learn soon enough, Valentine said. Michaels, you stay outside of rifle 
range. Theres a funny smell to this place.
Bozich sniffed the air. Smells kinda like pigs I hope, Mr. Valentine. Really 
clean ones?
Smells like Grogs to me. Doesnt look like theres been a fight. But be ready 
for anything. If night comes, Michaels, and you dont hear from us, you 
skedaddle. You hear shooting, you skedaddle. Understand?
Yes, sir. Ill bring help.
Youll tell Quist to alert Southern Command is what youll do.
Dogs barked as they approached, not just the yips of mongrels, but the deep 
baying of hounds. A man appeared at the wall. He looked at them from behind a 
firing slit.
Hi-yi, strangers. Whatever youre selling, we dont need any.
Were buyers, not sellers. Wed like to speak to Mr. Steiner. We dont have an 
appointment.
You dont have a what?
Never mind, can we come in?
There was a pause.
He says hell come out.
Steiner was a sizable man with a shock of red hair grow-ing out of freckled 
skin. After a glance at the visitors, he rowed himself across in a small 
flat-bottomed boat.
Valentine guessed him to be about thirty-five. He wore rawhide sandals and a 
short wide-necked tunic that made Valentine think of pictures he had seen of 
Romans. It looked cool and comfortable.
My guess is yall are Wolves out of Southern Command. If youre looking to buy 
rice, I already sell mine up in Pine Bluff. Ive got an agent there. And dont 
go quoting your Common Articles, this spread isnt part of Southern Commands 
ground. We built it, no help from you, and we hold it, no help from you. Last 
jumped-up bushwhacker that tried that ten percent routine walked up threatening 
and ran off yelping.
Valentine held the mans gaze. You think you hold it, no help from us. How long 
youd keep it if the Free Territory werent still standing is another question. 
But Ill concede the point to save an argument.
Im done talking, said Steiner.
Quite a spread youve got here. You must have room for fifty families or more. 
Is this a refuge if the Kur come through?
Thats our business, Running Gun.
Were a couple of tired Running Guns, Mr. Steiner. Hungry, too. Part of my unit 
is camped near the Ouachita, and Im just trying to get to know the neighbors. 
Im impressed. Ive never seen a settlement quite like this in the borderlands. 
Id like a better look.
It took a lot of hard years, mister.
Valentine, David. Lieutenant with the Arkansas Wolf Regiment.
Steiner considered. Mr. Valentine, we dont take strangers in normally, but you 
seem a better sort than your usual Com-mand type. Ill offer you a tour and a 
meal, but I dont want your men showing up weekly, making speeches about how 
totin a gun for Southern Command entitles them to a fried chicken dinner. 
Youll see things not many in your outfit have seen, or want to see.
They took the little dinghy to the island. More corrugated aluminum covered the 
wooden gate. Valentine wondered if Steiner knew his aluminum wouldnt do him any 
good against white phosphorus bombs.
They passed through the gate
And froze. A pair of Grogs stood inside, cradling their long rifles. They wore 
tunics similar to Steiners and pulled back rubbery lips to reveal yellow teeth.
Bozich gasped, reaching for her carbine.
Wait, Bozich, leave the gun, Valentine barked, putting his hand on her barrel 
to keep her from raising it. His heart pounded, but the Grogs kept their guns in 
a comfortable cradled position.
Dont worry, Steiner said. These arent the usual Gray-backs. Theyre 
friendly.
Ive seen a tame Grog before.
These aint tame, Steiner said, flushing. Theyre as free as you and me.
Valentine looked at the homes. The village resembled Weening in its circular 
shape, but there were no barns, just henhouses and goats. A water tower stood in 
the center of the village, and the community focal point appeared to be the 
troughs where the women did the laundry. A female Grog (with just two breasts; 
Valentine had heard they had four teats, like a cow) pressed the water out of 
her wash with a bellowslike tool. People and Grogs stopped to stare at the 
strangers.
Steiner invited them up onto a porch of a small house and bade them them to sit 
down on a comfortable-looking wooden bench.
Mr. Valentine, Steiner began, a long time ago I came out of Mississippi with 
a Grog named Big Joke. He helped me and my wife escape a labor camp, and we 
found the Free Territory. Some of your Wolves picked us up in the border region, 
took both of us prisoner. Prisoner! After weeks of trying to get to this 
bastion of freedom, I had to go before a judge with the Grog who saved my life 
and beg for both of ours. Im either convincing or she was liberal, and we were 
released as citizens of the Free Territory. Big Joke and I learned quick that 
there was no place for Grogs in your towns. The person and he is a person, even 
if they think a little different than usI owed my life to couldnt get a job, a 
bed, or a meal for love or money. Best he could do was work for food on the 
docks. So my wife, Big Joke, and I headed south and found this land in the midst 
of these swamps. Id spent years draining swamps and building paddies in 
Mississippi for them, so doing it a couple years for me came easy. A few others 
came down and joined us. That was the beginning of a lot of hard times, but we 
got this built.
You lost your wife early on. Im sorry.
Steiners brows came together. How?
We came in past the cemetery. I saw a Lalee Steiner, who seemed about the right 
age. Evergreen was a tribute to her?
No, it was her last name. I lost her to a fever, after she gave birth to my 
son. Two years after that some Southern Command Johnny shot Big Joke dead from 
ambush. He had been out hunting. I tried to understand. A Grog in the 
borderlands poking around with a crossbow. If I didnt know better, Id shoot 
first and ask questions later myself. But yall got to start knowing better.
Hows that?
Your Southern Command. Old thinking. Maybe its because it was built by a bunch 
of military types. Theyre trying to preserve a past, not create a future. The 
Grogs are here, and theyre here to stay. Im sure there are hundreds of 
thousands, if not millions, by now. Seems a long way off, but if we ever do win, 
whatll we do with em? Kill em all? Not likely. Put em on reservations? Good 
luck.
Southern Command is trying to stay alive, Valentine said. He silently agreed 
with Steiner about Southern Command, but he could not publicly criticize it, 
especially in front of Bozich. They dont have the luxury of looking too far 
ahead.
Not that living with Grogs is easy. They have a lot of fine qualities, but 
their brains work different. Theyre the most day-by-day thinkers you ever saw. 
If they plan three days ahead, its an act of genius. Howd you like to wake up 
every morning surprised? Thats what they do, in a way. Though theyre smart 
enough at solving a problem once they understand it. You two hungry?
Yes, sir, Bozich said, turning from the sight of Grog children playing with a 
young dog. Valentine looked out; the Grogs were mimicking the dogs behavior, 
gamboling on all fours and interacting with it through body posture better than 
a human child could.
Steiner took them in to the dim house. The homemade furniture had a 
rough-and-ready look, though someone with some skill with a needle had added 
cushions.
Sorry its dark. We save kerosene, and anyway it just heats the place up. 
Steiner rekindled the fire and placed a pot from the cool-room on the stove.
Hope you like gumbo. Its the staple here. The rice-flour buns are pretty 
good.
Steiner offered them a basin to wash in while the stew heated.
I get the impression youre responsible for more than just this settlement.
The redhead laughed. Im still trying to figure out how that happened. Once 
this place got going, and we had wagons going up to Pine Bluff and back, some of 
the other smallholders started tailing along. With them and the Grogs guarding 
our wagons, it made quite a convoy. We have some great stonecutters and 
craftsmen here, and the locals just started trailing in, especially once we got 
the mill going. They started coming to me for advice, and the next thing I knew 
I was performing weddings and deciding whose lambs belonged to whom.
King Steiner?
The thoughts crossed my mind. Seems like the worry isnt worth it, but then 
when you get a baby or two named after you, it appears in a different light.
It occurred to Valentine that Steiner hadnt mentioned his son. He had already 
pressed the man on the sorrow involving his wife, and the grief in his eyes then 
made him hold his tongue now.
The food went into wooden bowls, and the Wolves scooped the spicy gumbo into 
their mouths using one rice-flour bun after another.
Guess they call you Wolves cause of how yall eat, Steiner said.
Aint the first time someones said that, Bozich laughed, gumbo coating her 
lips.
Valentine finished his meal and helped his host clean off the dishes.
Steiner, if you dont want to live under the Free Territory, how about you live 
with it?
With it?
Like an alliance.
Steiner shook his head. What do I need Southern Command for? We do all right by 
ourselves.
You might need guns and ammunition.
We make our own shells and shot. Better than yours, mostly.
Someday this swamp might find itself with a Kurian column in it. What then?
Theyd lose more than theyd gain taking this place.
We could give you a radio, and Southern Command would answer a call for help in 
this part of Arkansas. Anything coming through here is on its way to us.
The redhead looked doubtful, then shook his head. Dont want a garrison, 
thanks.
No garrison. We could build a hospital well, health center anyway. A 
full-time, trained nurse and a doctor. Not just for here, but for all the farms 
in the area. Might mean a few less crosses in your cemetery. You could do even 
more for these people, if youll just give the okay.
Who are you, son? You have that kind of pull?
Im an officer with Southern Command. I can offer whatever I think appropriate 
to the locals as long as itll be used for us and not against us. Maybe Im 
overstepping what they expected, but if theyre going to grant me that 
authority, Ill use it. We put a health center up near the Saint Francis a year 
or so back. Why not here? Every gun you have means one more gun Southern Command 
can put on another border. You feed, clothe, and arm yourselves. Thats a 
savings in money and organization. Ill put it all on paper, assuring your 
independence. No ten percent tithe. Youd never have to defend anything but your 
own lands.
Steiner probed his teeth with his tongue and stared out the window at the wash 
troughs.
Mr. Valentine, you have yourself an ally.
Lieutenant Mallow stared openmouthed as the sergeants quieted the excited 
comments of the men of First Platoon. Captain LeHavre shook his head, a wry 
smile on his face as the ferry pulled him and the weary men across.
LeHavre had sent a runner two days ago to let Valentine know the patrol was 
coming in, tired and hungry. The river was still deep enough to make refloating 
the ferry necessary. Valentine alerted his new ally at the swamp fortress to 
gather his militia for a meeting and review.
On one side of the landing Valentine had his platoon drawn up, at least the men 
who werent working the lines and mules pulling the ferry across. On the other, 
Colonel Steiner stood at the head of three hundred men, women, and Grogs. Each 
wore a dark green bandanna tied around the neck, the only common item to the 
tatterdemalion Militia Steiner had christened the Evergreen Rifles. To 
Valentine, the name had a certain amount of irony, as under half the groups 
members had firearms, mostly shotguns, and the rest carried spears, bows, 
pitchforks, and axes. A hundred more rifles were on their way from Southern 
Command, as Valentine had added several impassioned letters to the paperwork 
requesting heavier weapons, a health center, and a radio for the local 
residents. From the Wolf camp, smells of barbecue and cooking drifted out to the 
river. The first semiofficial gathering of the Evergreens would be celebrated 
with a feast.
LeHavre jumped off the ferry and splashed ashore.
Whats all this, Mr. Valentine? Grog prisoners, or a posse?
Valentine saluted. Welcome back, sir. Those are local Militia. Their commander 
and I are still going around to some other homesteads. We hope to get five 
hundred together before the summer is out. Hes an influential man in this 
area.
Leave it to you, Valentine. I leave you with a little over twenty men, and I 
come back to hundreds. What are you handing out, free beer?
Just freedom, sir.
Eight
The battlefield, August of the forty-third year of the Kurian Order: Burned-out 
motors and wagons fill the streets of Hazlett, Missouri. Some of the brick 
buildings still stand, but of the wooden houses only stone chimneys remain, 
standing as monuments to the homes that had been.
A few soldiers still poke and rake among the sooty ruins, their smoldering 
houses finally quenched by the mornings downpour. The salvaged Grog weaponry 
and equipment lay in three heaps: destroyed, repairable, and intact. Expert 
scroungers added to this mechanical triage as they gleaned further material from 
the surrounding woods and the road back to Cairo, Illinois.
The only bodies in evidence lay in neat, unshrouded rows lined up outside a 
wooden barn a half-mile outside the town proper, conveniently close to a water 
spring. The maimed and wounded inside, groaning their agony out on pallets, old 
doors, and even hay bales, envied the corpses now past all suffering. Two-man 
teams of battlefield surgeons, faces gray with fatigue and smocks brown with 
hundreds of bloodstains, fought exhaustion and sepsis.
The gravediggers adhered to their own priorities. The first day after the 
battle, they put to rest the dead of Southern Command: Bears, Wolves, Guards, 
and Militia. The second day, the dead Quislings were buried in a long common 
grave, dug by the prisoners spared after the fall of Hazlett. Finally on this 
day, the third after the battle, the gravediggers set alight a great pyre of 
Grogs, who shared the flame with putrefying dead horses, oxen, and mules inside 
a ring of firewood. Exhausted from the labor of dragging the bigger corpses out 
of sight and smell, the officer in charge decided to rest his detail before 
attending to the row of this mornings bodies outside the field hospital. The 
doctors couldnt save everyone.
Thus the miasma of burned flesh introduced Lt. David Valentine to the tableau of 
a battlefield. Three companies of Wolves, including Zulu, marched up from 
reserve near the southern border. Sent to help deal with the incursion, they 
arrived too late to do anything but shake their heads at the destruction of the 
little town and join in the services held over the bodies of the slain.
Chuckwagon tales told by the survivors of the Battle of Hazlett described a push 
into the valuable mining towns of the area from the tip of Illinois. The 
Quislings and Grogs made a fortress of the little crossroads town, and only a 
concentration of every available Bear in eastern Missouri backed up by Wolves 
and a Guard regiment forced them out again. It might have been worse, but 
Valentine learned that a company of Wolves had ambushed reinforcements at the 
Mississippi, sacrificing themselves to keep the road to Hazlett closed. Out of a 
hundred Wolves, a bare sixteen now licked their wounds on the banks of the 
Whitewater River.
It was this destruction of Foxtrot Company that led Captain LeHavre, the senior 
Wolf officer in the area, to call Valentine into his tepee one afternoon. Zulu 
Company was preparing to return below the state line again, as an incursion in 
the northeast might mean an even larger one in the southwest.
Valentine wondered, as he answered the summons that afternoon, what the news 
would be. LeHavre always hit his officers, whenever possible, with bitter 
medicine early in the morning and saved the sugar for evenings. So an afternoon 
conference might be a trail-mix assortment of sweet and sour.
He found LeHavre by a commissary wagon, sharing a cup of coffee with an unknown, 
clean-shaven Wolf.
David Valentine, meet Randall Harper, the captain introduced. Sergeant Harper 
here is part of the Command Staff. A courier, to be exact.
The young men shook hands. Harper seemed a little young to be a sergeant, 
particularly on the Command Staff, but then Valentine was even younger to be a 
lieutenant. The courier had a lazy eye, which made looking into his face 
unsettling, but he wore a cheerful smile that brightened his whole face to such 
a degree that Valentine liked him from first sight.
Pleased to meet you, sir, Harper said.
Valentine, you are going on a trip. I need some young legs to accompany Harper 
here on a four-hundred-mile jaunt. All the way up to Lake Michigan, as a matter 
of fact.
Ive got two bags of mail and one of dispatches, sir, Harper added.
Why me, sir? Valentine asked, risking a rebuke.
Normally an officer from Foxtrot Company and another Wolf would go, but as of 
these last few days, Foxtrot doesnt exist anymore and probably wont for 
another year or so. Theres only acting-lieutenants in the junior position in 
the other two Wolf companies, and I dont know enough about them to pick one. 
And youre from the Great White North, so I thought youd like a trip back up. I 
was going to send you up with Paul Samuels anyway on one of his recruiting 
sweeps, but thisll be a better experience for you.
Mounted or afoot, sir?
With a little luck, youll be mounted all the way. Three horses plus a spare is 
what you have, right, Sergeant?
Yes, sir, Harper answered. The fourth will carry the mail and some oats. Or 
if we lose one, itll be a remount.
So a third man is going, sir? Valentine asked. Who will that be?
LeHavre patted Valentine on the shoulder. Take who you want, Valentine. Except 
for Patel. I need him, and hes too old to cover forty miles a day for long 
stretches anymore.
Valentine mentally ran down the list of Wolves in Zulu Company.
Ill take Gonzalez, sir. He has the best nose in the company, and hes 
first-rate with his hunting bow.
Take him with my compliments, Lieutenant. Let me know your needs. I realize the 
company wagons havent caught up with us yet, but I can probably scrounge you up 
about anything. Questions?
The only questions that came to Valentines mind implied evading responsibility, 
so he remained silent.
LeHavre finished his coffee. You two get together with Gonzalez and talk it 
through. I know youve made the trip a couple of times, Harper, so tell as much 
about the route to the other two as you can, just in case. You leave at dawn.
Harper accepted the possibility of his death, suggested by the just in case, 
with the same sunny smile. Gladly, sir.
That evening, Gonzalez joined them in an informal camp-fire conference.
Seems like a lot of effort to deliver a few letters. How often do you do this? 
Gonzo asked.
Two or three times a year. Southern Command tries to stay in touch with the 
other Resistance pockets, at least the big ones. This is information we dont 
want to broadcast on the shortwave. Thats why if it looks like were going to 
be taken, you need to pour the fluid in the flasks onto the dispatches and burn 
em.
If the Reapers are closing in, Im going to be too busy to start any fires, 
Sarge.
Valentine mopped up his stew with a slab of bread. How long are we going to be 
gone?
Depends on the horses, and then the sailors. If we can come up with feed now 
and then, about two weeks per leg. But theres no guarantee the ship will be in 
Whitefish Bay on time. The Lakes Fleet has troubles of its own. Luckily the 
Kurians dont pay much attention to the ships, unless they get too close to a 
city they care about. Well just have to wait if they arent there.
Ever had any problems running the mail? Valentine inquired.
Harpers smile returned. A few close shaves. We should keep toward the 
Mississippi until the Wisconsin border or so. About all you have to worry about 
there is border trash, but theyre mostly scared of everything. Wisconsin has 
the real Kurian lands we have to cross. Their pet humans farm that area pretty 
good, and of course the Reapers farm the humans. The shortest route would be up 
through central Illinois, but thats thickly settled, and unless you have a 
death wish, youll want to keep away from Chicago.
Valentine and Gonzalez bade farewell to their company in the predawn gloom. 
LeHavre offered a final word of advice to his junior lieutenant.
Keep your eyes open, Mr. Valentine, LeHavre said, solemnly shaking his 
proteges hand. We never know enough about what is happening in the Lost Lands. 
Try and pick up any information you can, even if its just impressions.
Thank you for the opportunity, sir.
LeHavre winced. How many young men have you sent to their doom with those words 
on their lips? Valentine wondered.
You can thank me by coming back, David.
The three Wolves mounted their horses, the excited animals stamping and tossing 
their heads in their eagerness to be off, and rode into the misty dawn.
During the first leg of the journey, they kept to the rough terrain of the 
Mississippi Valley. They conserved the strength of horse and rider, walking 
their mounts and stopping often. On the second day, they crossed the Mississippi 
in a hollowed-out old houseboat, well camouflaged with dirt and plant growth on 
its battered sides. The trio of old Wolves who took them across laughed as they 
listened to the secondhand story of the Battle of Hazlett over the labored 
putting of the aged diesel engine.
Thatll learn em, one of them cackled as he brought the houseboat out of its 
hidden cove and into the current at the all clear signal from his observer. 
Hank and I, weve been puttin up signs all over the west bank for miles 
readin Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted and No Solicitors Invited, but them 
Grogs dont read too good.
Once in no-mans-land, the Wolves traveled cautiously. They camped for the night 
when they found the right spot, not when the sun set. Daybreak never found them 
in the same location in which they bedded down. Each night Valentine ordered a 
camp change of at least a half-mile, and lost sleep was made up with a siesta 
each afternoon during the worst of the late summer heat. They set no watch, but 
relied on their senses to rouse them from their light slumber in the event of 
danger. They always cooked their meals before dark, knowing better than to call 
attention to themselves with the light of a campfire.
By the third night out, they were swapping life stories. Valentine had heard 
Gonzalezs before, but listened again to his scouts words as he lay in his 
hammock under a cloud-masked moon.
I was born in Texas in 2041, out there in the western part. My parents were 
part of a guerrilla band called the Screaming Eagles, which my father told me 
was an old army unit and my madre said was a music group. They used to do a war 
cry I would do it, but its too loud for these parts. Too loud for the Ozarks, 
too. I dont remember much fighting when I was young. I think the Eagles stole 
cattle off the Turncoats. That was what we called the Quislings out there. 
Sometimes in the summer we went as far north as Kansas and Colorado, and in the 
winter we would be in Mexico.
I was about twelve when the Turncoats got us. It was in Mexico. We were in this 
kind of bowl-shaped valley, a few old buildings and tents, with the cattle all 
spread out. They got some cannon up in the hills somehow, and pretty soon there 
were explosions everywhere, with men on horseback pouring down from the 
mountains. My father fought them, but Im sure he was killed with the rest. 
There were just two passes out of the valley, but they had hundreds of men with 
guns hidden in the rocks. I dont think anyone made it out that way. My madre 
got me and my baby brother out over the hills. One of the Turncoats caught up to 
us. He attacked her, but I picked up his gun and shot him in the foot. He 
grabbed the gun out of my hands and was going to shoot me, but my madre brought 
a boulder as big as a football down on his head and killed him. God knows how 
she found the strength to lift it; she was a small woman.
Gonzalez fingered a small silver crucifix around his neck.
We walked for days and would have died, but a rainstorm saved us. We hid for a 
while in a Turncoat village. An old man who was kind to us arranged for my 
mother to move into eastern Texas where his son lived. My mother lived with his 
son and had a child with him, but she never loved him as she did my father, even 
though he was very good to us. She gave him two daughters, but when I turned 
sixteen, she said, Victor, you must leave this land, for the people here have 
forgotten themselves and God. We heard rumors about a place in the mountains 
where the Hooded Ones could not go, and I found this place on my own, but I fear 
it went bad for my stepfather, who let me ran away. But I know my madre still 
lives because I still live; her prayers protect me and keep me alive. With what 
I have seen, I cannot pray as she does, so when she dies, I will die, too.
Valentine told his story next, leaving out the fact that his father had been a 
Wolf. He described the cool beauty of the Boundary Waters woods and lakes, and 
the challenge of living through a Minnesota winter.
I hadnt seen much geography until I became a Wolf, Harper began. I was born 
to a big family near Fort Scott. My pa was an officer in the Guards, and he 
tried to keep me in school, but I wouldnt have it. Everyone made fun of this 
eye of mine; you know how kids are. At nine, I tried to be an Aspirant, but they 
wouldnt let me. I hung out in Wolf camps whenever I could; my pa was away a 
lot, and my maWell, she had her hands full with the other children. They let me 
become an Aspirant at thirteen, finally. I was invoked when I was fifteen, and I 
was in the middle of it at Cedar Hill and then Big River. They made me a 
sergeant after all that. I was a champion distance runner, so I got put in the 
couriers. I made a trip to the Gulf in sixty-three, and did the run to Lake 
Michigan twice last year. I crossed Tennessee this spring going to the 
Appalachians, and thats the worst run Ive ever been on. Took me forever to 
find resistance people in the Smokies. These trips should be run by just 
couriers, but weve lost so many out West over one thing and another that 
Command is short on messengers.
I was wondering why you showed up with two empty saddles, Valentine said.
Well, Im grateful of your company. Mr. Valentine, you seem to be a right smart 
officer, afraid of all the right things, if youll excuse me for saying so, sir. 
And Gonzalezyou, sir, have the most righteous set of ears in the Free 
Territory. Im glad youre along to count the mouse farts, you know?
Gonzalez proved just how good his hearing was somewhere east of Galena, 
Illinois. They had been traveling for a week when someone began trailing them.
There are three or four riders coming up behind, Gonzo reported. Havent 
caught sight of them yet, but you can hear them. I dont know if theyre right 
on our trail or just keeping with the old road.
The three Wolves rode parallel to an old road, now overgrown but still too far 
from tall timber for their purposes. Valentine debated the choices. An ambush 
would be easy enough to set up, but he balked at shooting down strangers in cold 
blood. Anyone close enough for the Wolves to hear would probably have cut their 
trail by now and would know someone was ahead. The idea of being trailed worried 
him.
Do you know who lives around here? he asked Harper.
This far off the river? A few farmers scratch a living out here. On other trips 
weve crossed the trails of pretty big groups on horseback. I dont like 
thinking worst case, but this is just the kind of area a pair of Reapers might 
hunt.
Yes, but they wouldnt be on horseback. And they wouldnt make enough noise for 
Gonzo to hear them, Valentine argued. As usual, someone elses opinion helped 
him form his own, for better or worse. Lets go up the bluffs. If theyre 
casual travelers, they wont follow. If they come up after us, we can get a good 
look at what were taking on before we start shooting.
With that, the Wolves made a sharp turn east, moving into the wooded hills away 
from the overgrown road. Valentine removed his lever-action rifle from its 
sheath. Soon they were struggling up a steep slope, leaning far forward in their 
saddles to help the horses balance.
As they ascended the hill, Valentine searched right and left. No rock pile or 
fallen trunk presented itself. Valentine cursed his luck at riding for the one 
uneroded hill covered with uniformly healthy timber in all of western Illinois.
Gaining the summit, the Wolves at last found a deadfall they could hide behind. 
The breeze blew fresh from the west hard enough to whip at the horses manes and 
make the men clutch at their hats. They rode past the fallen log and looped 
back; tracks heading straight for an ambush spot would be investigated more 
cautiously. Valentine asked Harper-to hold the four horses out of sight behind 
the crest of the hill.
Dismounted, with weapons in hand, Valentine and Gonzalez walked back to the 
fallen log. Gonzalez held an arrow to his bowstring. With luck, the trackers had 
a single scout out front who could be silently dispatched with a feathered 
shaft.
Keep your bow ready, Gonzo, Valentine said in a low tone. Im going to get in 
that oak above our trail. If theres just two scouts, Ill drop on one. When you 
see me leap, try for the other with the bow. If its three or four, Ill let 
them ride past, and Ill backshoot them.
Let me go up the tree, sir.
Im not much with a bow, my friend. I doubt I could hit a horse at this 
distance, let alone a rider. Just stay cool and wait for my signal.
Valentine scrambled to his perch among the thick limbs of the grandfather oak. 
He hugged the tree limbs like a lizard, pulling a leafy branch toward his face 
for concealment. Whoever the trackers were, they had four scouts ahead on 
horseback. Valentine listened with hard ears past them, but his nose helped even 
more. A large group of horses and men were somewhere out of sight, upwind to the 
west. He smelled some tobacco, and cannabis, as well.
As the scouts walked their horses up the slope and into view, Valentine decided 
this was no Quisling patrol. The shabbiness of man and beast, from worn-out 
boots to collapsed felt hat brims, indicated either the worst kind of Quisling 
irregulars or simple bandits. They carried rifles, but some of the guns looked 
like black-powder muzzle-loaders.
Whatever their deficiencies in equipment, the four scouts knew their jobs. One 
concentrated on the trail, two a little behind him searched the terrain ahead, 
and the fourth stayed far back in case of trouble. One of the middle scouts 
didnt like the look of the hilltop, and they pulled up to a halt. Binoculars 
and small telescopes emerged from their patched overcoats.
One of the four Wolf horses, scenting those below, let out with a high, 
questioning neigh. The scouts spun their horses and plunged down the hill.
Valentine mouthed obscenities.
A good second line of defense, Valentine maintained, is running like hell. He 
jumped from the tree and, waving to Gonzalez, ran up toward the four horses.
Its border trash, I think. A lot, he explained to Harper as they mounted.
Valentine led them at something less than a flat-out gallop along the ridgeline. 
Their horses had covered a lot of miles in the past week, but perhaps were of 
sterner stuff and in better health than the beasts of the ragamuffins below.
He reveled in the mad inconsequence of it all. Their pursuers might catch them; 
he and the two Wolves might die, and the world would change or care not a whit. 
But it felt glorious to pound through the woods on a running horse, his legs 
tight in the stirrups and hands far up the horses neck. Clods of dirt kicked up 
by the horses rhythmic gait flew up behind like birds startled at their 
passing.
Harper is having trouble with the spare horse, the sane part of his mind 
reminded him. Valentine spotted a clearing on a prominence ahead and turned his 
horse toward it, slowing the pace to a trot and then a walk. Reaching the bare 
spot, they saw a ruined house, roofless and empty.
We covered some miles, Gonzalez gasped. Where the hell is the road?
Somewhere down to the west of us, Valentine said, waving vaguely at the 
descending sun. Trees obscured the roads probable location. Lets take a 
breather and see how our friends are doing.
The overlook gave them a good view of the hills to the south. Valentine and 
Harper listened to the steady drum of hooves in the distance.
Aw, shit, Harper said. I always figured a Reaper would get me, not some 
grubby thugs.
Valentine looked at the house. There were good walls there, and only two doors 
to cover. The horses would fit in-side. Okay, so their horses are fresher than 
ours. Weve still got three guns and a good spot to shoot from.
He could now see distant riders galloping along the trail. He stopped counting 
after estimating fifty. Lets get inside our new home and get ready to greet 
our guests.
Behind the house a pump stood on a concrete patio. Oh, pretty please with sugar 
on it, Harper said, working the handle. It moved a little too easily; nothing 
came from the rusty metal spout but noise.
The main room of the house was filled with collapsed roof, but they were able to 
bring the horses through the back door into a room slightly lower than the 
larger one. The paneless windows were set so a man at the front could cover the 
main door, more or less, but the western exposure of rooms off the main one 
would have to go unguarded. Valentine posted himself at the front window, Harper 
at the side, and Gonzalez at the rear door. They manhandled an empty 
refrigerator into the doorway to the main room.
We ought to be able to hold out for about two minutes now, Harper said.
Theres always the chance well make the price too steep for them, Valentine 
said, filling a pocket with cartridges.
I was sick of riding anyway, Gonzalez said.
Thats the idea, Valentine responded. If we can get them to wait until dark, 
we just might be able to slip out. Head for steep hills and thick woods. Maybe 
all they want is the horses. I know we can outrun them on foot, even carrying 
the mail. Whoever they are, theyre not Wolves.
Their pursuers approached their refuge with caution. A thin man with a ragged 
straw hat bearing a single black feather in the brim trotted up toward the 
house, carbine at his hip. He turned his face suspiciously, first looking at the 
ruined dwelling with one eye, then the other. Valentine sighted on his dirty 
undershirt.
Thats far enough. Whats on your mind? Valentine shouted.
The thin mans long face split into a grin. You boys want parley?
Were willing to let lead fly if you want it that way. Might be better for both 
if we talked first.
Straw Hat turned his horse and disappeared downslope. Valentine counted the 
minutes; every moment toward dusk helped their cause.
He heard horses moving through the woods below the hill. The pursuers were 
fanning out to surround the house. It sounded like a lot of riders.
Three heavy figures on tall quarterhorses approached the house. Even beneath 
beard and dirt, Valentine thought he saw a family resemblance. Their scruffy 
beards were black as coal, save for the center rider, who had two narrow streaks 
of gray running down his beard. Their hats also bore black feathers tucked in 
the left side of the hatband like that of the point man.
Hello, the house, center rider called. You wanted a parley, here it is.
May I know to whom Im speaking? Valentine hollered back.
The man glanced at his younger associates. Sure, stranger. My names Mr. Mind 
Your Own Damn Business. This is my son Or Ill Tear Off Your Head and my nephew 
And Ill Shit Down Your Throat, he yelled. That satisfy the rules of 
ettycute?
A few guffaws broke out from below. Charming, Harper said. Why dont you 
plant him, Lieutenant?
Valentine kept his concentration on the rider. Thank you, Mr. Mind. Looks like 
you got us four in a box. Is there a way for us to get out of it without a bunch 
of you winding up dead?
Maybe theres four of you and maybe theres three. One of your horses is riding 
light, so maybe you got a woman or a kid in there to think about, the 
negotiator called back.
All were thinking about is how many of you we can take with us. The consensus 
is twenty. If youre smart enough to know what a claymore mine is, youll agree 
that its at least that.
Son, we can smoke you out of there easy. Youll be better off to take my terms: 
leave us your rifles, and give us the horses and tack. You can keep all your 
food, all your water, and your handguns, if you got em. And your lives. Even 
your self-respect, knowing that you met the Black Feather Troop and lived to 
tell about it.
You want the guns, you just try and get em, Valentine shouted back, trying to 
keep the calm assurance of Captain LeHavre in his voice. Youll get plenty of 
the business end. How about this: Well give you the horses and the tack, and 
walk out of here after you pull out.
No bargaining! Im giving you five minutes to talk it over. Youre up a dry 
hill in a building you cant even cover all the sides of. Bring out your rifles, 
and we let you walk out and keep heading north, he demanded with the assurance 
of a man holding four aces.
Valentine knew he was beat on card strength, but he believed they wouldnt live 
to see the sunrise if they walked out of the house without their rifles. The men 
turned to him, having reached the same conclusions and wanting to go down 
shooting.
Gonzo, Harper, get out your blades. Theres something we have to do.
Cut the horses throats? Harper asked.
Valentine decided there was still a chance at bluff. No, we have to whittle.
Five minutes later, but with over an hour of daylight left, Valentine stepped 
out of the door with the three rifles in his arms. He inflated his lungs, threw 
out his chest, and let loose with a high-pitched shriek. The three Black 
Feathers startled at the cry, which didnt seem to echo off the hills so much as 
pass through them.
Come and get your guns, Valentine called hoarsely, advancing a cautious pair 
of steps away from the door. His holster was empty; Harper covered him from 
behind with the revolver.
You made the smart move, son, Mr. Mind said, trying to keep the satisfaction 
out of his voice. The three rode forward to claim the repeaters.
Valentine carefully placed them on the ground and stepped back.
The older man dismounted, covered by the guns of his younger relations. He knelt 
to pick up one of the guns. So, there are only three of you. I thought so. 
These are mighty fine
He made a surprised choking sound and pulled his hands away from the rifle as if 
it were a rattlesnake shaking its tail.
Carved into the stock of each rifle was a small insigne, a reversed swastika 
identical to the one Valentine had seen on the canoe and discussed with the 
researcher at the Miskatonic.
He looked up at Valentine, lips trembling. Whered you get these? he asked.
Our Masters gave them to us. Their mark is on the saddles, as well. I even have 
a tattoo. Were scouting for them, you see. Eight of them moving west as we 
speak. So take them, but well have them back by morning. In good condition, 
too: Theyll only be dropped once.
Now, son, we had no knowing you had anything to do with the Twisted Cross. 
Hell, were no enemies of yours. You might say were on your side. Just this 
spring we caught a Cat out of the Ozarks. Real little spitfire; the boys ganged 
her, and we cut her throat, of course. You can ask Lord Melok-iz-Kur, in 
Rockford. We pay for what we take there with good silver, turned in runners 
even.
Valentine smiled. It seems weve just had a misunderstanding here. No one was 
hurt, no one need know, Mr.
Its Black Craig Lorraine, sir. At your service. If theres anything we can do 
to help you along, anything at all The Black Feather was almost groveling.
Come to think of it Valentine mused.
Valentine returned to the house, holding the rifles. He folded. Harper handed 
the pistol back.
Eh? said Gonzalez.
Theyre letting us go. In fact, theyre giving us some supplies. Problem is, 
theyre cannibals, so I had to promise them Gonzalez, since hes the plumpest of 
us.
Bad joke, Val, Gonzalez said. That was a joke, right?
That night the Wolves rode north with guns, horses, and a new shoe on the spare 
horse. They were also weighed down by bags of corn, grain, and food from the 
supplies of the Black Feathers.
Jesus, Lieutenant, Harper said, voice tinged with admiration. When you did 
that Reaper scream, I about crapped my pants. You could have warned us.
One of the Black Feathers, part of the dispersing ring to the north, waved in a 
friendly fashion. Gonzalez eyed him warily.
That was a joke, right, Lieutenant?
Nine
Milwaukee, August of the forty-third year of the Kurian Order: The burned-out 
corpse of a city that once held nearly two million people rots across some 
eighty square miles on the shores of Lake Michigan. From the steep hills 
overlooking the great lake in the east to the Menominee and Root Rivers in the 
west, the city is nothing but hollow shells of buildings, the upper stories now 
housing bats, hawks, pigeons, and seagulls. The lower levels shelter everything 
from rats and coyotes to vagrant humans. Green has covered pavement throughout 
much of the city. Crickets chirp and grasshoppers leap along Locust Avenue, and 
Greenfield Avenue is precisely that: a green field where cattle are moved along 
to graze.
The new center of the city is the railway station, where the more favored 
soldiers and technicians house themselves in a ring around the Grand Avenue 
Mall. A hobo jungle of casual labor lives around and under the spaghetti-strand 
warren of overpasses that make up the old Interstate 94/43 juncture. Two Kurian 
Lords run the city, one from the Grog-guarded 1950 bomb shelter under the 
Federal Building, and the other from Tory Hill on the grounds of Marquette 
University. The Miller Brewing Company is still in business, producing but a 
trickle of the pilsner torrent it once did. Under new management, of course.
Lake Michigan awed Valentine with its quiet majesty. It had nothing of the 
crashing drama of the ocean shoreline he knew from books. The expanse of water 
covering 180 degrees of the horizon in almost a north-south line impressed him 
nonetheless.
He and Randall Harper camped together north of White-fish Bay. They had left 
Gonzalez in a secluded barn far outside the city limits with the horses after a 
cautious but uneventful crossing of southern Wisconsin. The only difficulty had 
been from a pack of guard dogs at a lonely farming settlement who chased them 
out of a field where they were stealing corn for the horses. The dogs contented 
themselves with barking rather than biting, and the Wolves had hurried back to 
their mounts without injury to anything but their dignity.
Now each night they stood behind a four-foot-tall, decorative stone wall in an 
overgrown park overlooking the lake, waiting for a boat from the White Banner 
Fleet to show three lights, one flickering, which they would answer with two.
What exactly is this Flotilla? Valentine asked his companion.
Harper, comfortably seated with his back to the stone wall, took a puff of one 
of the noxious cigarettes he smoked. Theyre sympathetic to the Cause, even if 
they dont fight the Kurians tooth and nail. Theyre smugglers, gunrunners, 
traders. When they fight the Quislings, its more because somebody got 
double-crossed, or they asked for too big a payoff. The Hoods hate going out 
into blue water, Im told, so they leave it to the Quislings and some amphibian 
Grogs. Naturally the Quislings take bribes whenever they can get away with it. 
But the Flotilla always fights the Grogs whenever they get the chance. Its a 
real blood feud. I guess these Grogs are more partial to human flesh than most.
Oh, I think Ive heard of these. Big Mouths, Snappers, or whatever. They have 
jaws that open right to left, instead of up and down, right? Kind of fish-frog 
things?
Yep, slimy skin, like an eel. Theyre a problem in summer. They go dormant in 
winter. The real dangers in the spring, when they lay their eggs, you gotta 
keep away from the shores of the places they inhabit. They forage miles inland 
for food. They like the water a little shallower though, so theyre not such a 
problem here. Up by Green Bay its another story, though. And Lake Erie is stiff 
with them, they tell me.
Valentine thought of all the times that he had taken a boat out into the lakes 
of the Boundary Waters, collecting fish for dinner. Strange to think of fish 
emerging and hunting ashore. So why does the Fleet carry our mail for us?
The Hunters in upstate New York give them guns and ammo, thats why. Rope, 
lumber, paint, turpentine, engines, gasolineall sorts of stuff. Were lucky. 
Were just delivery boys; we dont have to worry about payoffs. But I got a 
little grease for the wheels in my bag; its sort of expected.
Valentine shrugged. Whatever it takes. Youd think theyd be on our side.
They are, they are. In fact, I guarantee that youll like em. Those sailors 
got a million stories. Of course, most of its lies and brag, but its still fun 
to listen to.
Ill bet, Valentine said.
The next night the boat arrived. Valentine almost missed it, having wolf-trotted 
back to Gonzalezs barn to check on things at the main camp. Both the horses and 
his scout looked better for a few days rest. Gonzalez had explored the area, 
finding some apple trees and rhubarb growing nearby. The scout had collected a 
basket of green apples and an armful of rhubarb, and was sharing his findings 
with the horses. I saw some tomatoes near there, too. Ill get em tomorrow, 
sir, he reported.
Just make sure youre not raiding somebodys field. We might end up dealing 
with something worse than dogs. I dont want any locals to suspect were here.
No tracks, no sign, and best of all, no Reapers, Gonzalez reassured him.
I hope not. Sleep light. Ill take some apples back, if you have no objections, 
Mr. Bountiful, Valentine said, filling his pockets.
Of course, Lieutenant. Give a few to the sarge with my compliments.
It was a tired lieutenant who returned to the overlook that evening, having 
covered fifteen miles on foot in the course of the day. Two hours after sunset, 
the three lights appeared on the dark lake.
Thar she blows, Harper quoted, choosing a curious allusion. Valentine was 
mentally reciting two on the land and three in the sea, and I on the outskirts 
of Milwaukee will be.
Harper poured his flammable liquid on two piles of wood, twelve feet apart on 
the lakeside of the overlook wall, and set them ablaze. One light on the boat 
began winking on and off, as somebody opened and closed a hooded lantern.
Are you satisfied its them? Harper asked.
Yes, answered Valentine, trying to make out the lines of the little ship.
Then lets go down to the beach, sir, and deliver the mail, Harper said, 
kicking out his fires.
The ship bobbed in the small swell of the lake. The waters of Lake Michigan did 
not roar as they struck the shoreline, but instead gently slapped it. The lake 
almost seemed playful on this idyllic summer evening, and something about the 
cool water in the warm evening breeze made Valentine forget the dangers of the 
night. The men waded out, weighed down with their waterproofed message bags, 
moccasins tied around their necks.
A tiny dinghy met them, its sides a bare sixteen inches out of the water.
Climb in sideways, a boys voice said from the stern. Youll capsize me if 
you try to vault in.
The Wolves threw their packs into the dink and rolled into the little boat. It 
settled in the water appreciably with their added weight.
Valentine looked into the stern, at the figure with the paddle. What he had 
thought was a young boy was in fact a young woman dressed in shapeless white 
canvas. She had a round face and merry eyes, looking at her passengers over 
freckled cheekbones.
Nice night, eh, boys? Captain Doss sends her compliments to the representatives 
of the Ozark Free Territory and invites you aboard the yawl White Lightning, 
she said, flashing an impressive set of teeth.
The what White Lightning? Valentine asked.
Yawl, she repeated. You know nothing of ships, soldier?
Not much, Valentine admitted.
Its a little thing, but seaworthy as a porpoise. A ship not very different 
from ours made it around the world with only a single man on board. Over a 
hundred years ago, that was.
Good to see you again Teri, is it? Harper said, contemplating his soaked 
deerskin breeches.
I thought you looked familiar. Aaron no, Randall Harper. Met you twice before, 
I recall. But I didnt see you this spring.
I had the overland route. I dont want it again, Harper explained.
Well, the captain will be glad to see you. So whos this with you?
Lt. David Valentine. He hails from Minnesota.
She reached over to shake Valentines hand. Pleased to know you, Lieutenant. 
Teri Silvertongue, first mate of the White Lightning. Will it be possible for 
you gentlemen to be joining us as guests this lovely evening?
I cant think of anything Id like more, Miss Silver-tongue, Valentine said, 
imitating her courteous phraseology. He wondered if Silvertongue was a nickname.
We go by Mr. in the flotilla, man or woman, Silvertongue corrected. Just as 
you do in the Wolves. Will you take an oar, sir?
I beg your pardon, Mr. Silvertongue. Sergeant Harper here didnt tell me the 
ship had a female crew, let alone how you expected to be addressed. Likes to 
keep a good thing to himself, I guess, Valentine explained, shooting a glance 
at Harper. He paddled for the white blob outside the gentle surf.
Oh, theres plenty of men in the Flotilla, Silvertongue explained. The 
commodore of our fleet just has a soft spot in her heart for any woman with a 
sad tale. Its the only soft spot she has; the woman has steel in her backbone 
and flint in her heart in all other matters excepting her poor foundlings, as 
she calls us. But yes, its three women on the Lightning. But it beats life on 
land. The Capos just want us for breeding stock, and their gunbelt lackeys seem 
to think they have the right to get the job started on any girl who tickles 
their fancy.
Capos? Valentine asked.
Thats what we call the Reapers out east, handsome boy.
The dinghy reached the ship, and Valentine got a good look at the White 
Lightning. Her lines had kind of an off-balanced beauty, with an oversize 
central mast set well forward and a smaller, secondary mast projecting from far 
astern.
Captain Doss wore a smart white semi-uniform to greet her guests. The captain 
had beautiful, dusky skin and the angular features of a storybook pirate queen. 
Her short black hair matched even Valentines own mane in its glossy sheen.
A third woman, who helped Valentine and Harper into the White Lightning, stood 
over six feet tall and had the long, graceful limbs of a ballerina. Give me the 
bags up, she said perfunctorily, and Valentine realized he had heard a foreign 
accent for the first time in his life.
Once on board, the White Lightning seemed smaller than it had looked from the 
dinghy. It was wide-waisted; the top of what was obviously the cabin area filled 
the middle third of the ship. It had a wheel to steer itsomeone had spent a lot 
of hours carving and polishing the spokesplaced in front of the rear mast. All 
the woodwork, save the planks of the deck and the decorative wheel, was painted 
a uniform light gray.
The captain introduced her crew. Youve met my first mate, Mr. Silvertongue. My 
second mate, who works so hard I dont need any more crew, is Eva Stepanicz. She 
crossed the Atlantic four round trips before ending up in the Lakes.
It will be more times, once I have goods enough for my own ship, she said.
You mean gold enough? Harper asked.
No, sir. Goods. In Riga is agent of tradings, who pays most for paintings 
brought back from America. I anf here collecting arts.
The captain smiled. Its hard not to indulge someone so determined. And shes a 
hard bargainer. I dont know a Picasso from an espresso, but I think our Mr. 
Stepanicz has enough to start a gallery.
But Im forgetting my manners, Harper said, reaching into his haversack. 
Captain, compliments of my last trip through Tennessee, he said, handing over 
a pair of elabo-rately wrapped and sealed bottles of liquor. In the muted light, 
Valentine couldnt read the black labels, but they looked authentic.
Sergeant Harper, you just bought us a new coat of paint, and maybe some 
standing rigging. My thanks to you, sir.
Harper pointed to the three bags of correspondence. Youll also find a box of 
cigars for each of you in those bags. If you dont smoke them yourselves, a 
little good tobacco helps grease the Quisling wheels, I believe.
You southern gentlemen are too kind. I wish those Green Mountain Boys would 
show the same courtesy, Silvertongue said, with a curtsey involving her 
overbaggy trousers.
Enough playacting, Captain Doss interrupted. Id like to be anchored off 
Adolphs Bunker by midnight. You Wolves want to pay a call on Milwaukee? Get a 
little taste of life in the KZ?
Were always interested in the Kurian Zone. But would that be wise, Captain? 
Valentine asked.
Well, Lieutenant, the pathfinder look would have to go. But weve got some 
extra whites in the slop chest. The Bunkers a rough spot, but Ive never heard 
of the Reapers going in there. The owner never makes trouble; in fact, Ive 
heard he turns troublemakers over to them. Id like a little extra muscle 
showing for the deal we need to do. Ill make it worth your while.
Valentine thought for a moment. Is this deal anything the New Order would 
object to?
If they knew about it, Lieutenant, Doss said, looking at the wind telltale. 
The tiny streamer fluttered east. You might say were fucking with the 
Quislings.
Count us in, then.
An hour later, the yawl tacked into Milwaukees harbor. A single decrepit police 
boat, piloted by a Quisling whose sole badge of rank was a grimy blue shirt, 
motored alongside and illuminated the White Lightning with a small spotlight.
Captain Doss held up a hand and flashed a series of hand signals that would have 
done a third-base coach proud. The Quisling nodded, satisfied.
Just arranging what you might call the port charges, Doss explained to 
Valentine. The Wolves now wore white canvas shirts and trousers, as well. While 
more tattered than the mates uniforms, they still found it a pleasant change 
from sweat-stained buckskins. During the run south, Valentine had questioned the 
captain about the Lakes Flotilla and its habits, and had learned a little about 
how the sails were balanced. Valentine sponged information off anyone he met, 
his mind always ready to learn something new.
They pulled up to the main civic pier, a cracked concrete affair that sloped 
toward Lake Michigan at a twenty-degree angle. Valentine noticed that the 
captain pivoted as she brought the ship in so that its bow pointed out to the 
lake.
The Kurians arent too big on infrastructure repairs, Sil-vertongue commented 
as she tied the White Lightning to the dock. A few boats, none of which matched 
Captain Dosss in lines or upkeep, bobbed along the pier.
Stepanicz, youve got the first anchor watch. Dont give me that look; after 
the deal, Ill take over for you. If were not back in two hours, or if anything 
goes down, you raise sail. Theres a good wind for it tonight.
Aye, aye, sir, she answered, drawing a sawed-off shotgun from the chart 
locker. She broke it open and inserted two loads of buckshot.
And if our broad-shouldered young men would each grab one of the barrels lashed 
to the mast in the cabinSilver, help Mr. Valentine with the knots, would youwe 
can be about the rest of this nights business.
Adolphs Bunker looked like a transplant from the Maginot Line. Whatever its 
original purpose, its builders had wanted it to last. They constructed it from 
heavy concrete, with narrow windows imitative of a castles arrow slits. The 
bleached white of the concrete and the irregular rectangular slits gave it the 
countenance of a toothy skull. It lay on the lakeshore, set well away from the 
dead and empty buildings frowning behind.
Why is it called Adolphs Bunker? Valentine asked as they approached the 
squat, brick-shaped building. The ten-gallon cask grew heavier with each step.
The guy who runs it is a dictator, for starts, Captain Doss said.
Silvertongue turned and looked at the men, each laboring with a cask on his 
shoulder. Theres a feeling about the place. Its a piece of sanity in an 
insane country. Or maybe a slightly different insanity within the insanity, take 
your pick. Its popular with the Quislings. When we found out we had to meet you 
this week, we contacted a Chicago big shot, so we could kill two birds with one 
stone this trip.
As long as our bags get delivered, Valentine said, trying not to breathe too 
hard under his awkward burden.
This trade will make getting your bags through a lot easier, Doss said.
The building seemed hollow and dead as a shucked oyster. Valentine surmised that 
the clientele liked to do their drinking in dark and quiet, when he realized 
that music, too loud to be the product of any instrument, was filtering up from 
somewhere beneath the building. He switched to hard ears and listened to the 
beat of ancient rock and roll and the gabble of voices echo up from a stairwell. 
Captain Doss turned to a set of narrow concrete steps that disappeared along the 
side of the building down into the earth. A knobless metal door opened out onto 
a small landing. Doss squatted down and said something into the hole. It swung 
open.
As he descended the stairs, Valentine plastered a drunken smile across his face, 
trying to live up to his role of eager sailor. The captain entered, nodding to 
someone. Valentine looked at Harper, and the two Wolves exchanged shrugs. 
Sil-vertongue turned to the men. Dont worry, theyre going to frisk you for 
weapons and smokes. Just put your hands on the wall and read the sign.
A Grog roughly the size of a Volkswagen Beetle barred their way. Over its 
yard-wide shoulder Valentine watched the captain and then her mate being frisked 
and sniffed by a dog-man right out of an H. G. Wells nightmare. When it finished 
with Silvertongue, the smelly roadblock at the door stepped aside and Valentine 
passed into the noise of the Bunker.
He mimicked Silvertongues stance, placing his feet twice his shoulder width 
apart and putting his hands to either side of a sign, stenciled in paint onto 
another concrete wall just inside the door. To Valentines left, a sumo-size man 
sat inside a wire cage, idly scratching his stubble with a Saturday night 
submachine gun.
As the dog-man gave him the once over, Valentine read the stenciled letters: the 
rules adolphs word is law no smoking anything we didnt sell you no drinking, 
unless its ours youre only as good as your barter youre only as bad as we let 
you be VISIT OUR GIFT SHOP CONFUSED? SEE RULE 1
Valentine retrieved his keg and joined the women. He looked around the bar, 
trying to avoid staring like a corn-fed hick fresh off the back forty. Electric 
light and noise overwhelmed him. Prerecorded music played by machine was a rare 
treat to Valentine, and he gaped at the source. A box of neon and chrome against 
one cinderblock wall blared CD Selection & Sound, as the reflective lettering on 
the glass proclaimed. A bar almost filled the wall opposite the jukebox, and a 
mismatched assortment of tables, booths, and benches stood about the 
sawdust-covered floor. The base of a flush toilet peeped from beneath a curtain 
in the corner farthest from the bar. A sour-smelling urinal next to it trickled 
water down the wall and into the soggy shavings beneath. An alcove, separated 
from the rest of the room by a layer of wire netting similar to the guard-cage 
at the door, advertised itself as CURRENCY EXCHANGEGIFT SHOPMANAGEMENT.
He was relieved to see the rest of the occupants of the Bunker were human, 
albeit a poor genetic cross section. Two bartenders stood only a hair shorter 
and slimmer than the Grog at the door, stuffed like a pair of pointy-headed 
sausages into red T-shirts with black lettering reading the bunker. A desiccated 
weed of a man in a green visor sat behind a desk in the alcove-cage, smoking a 
cigarette from a long black holder. Gliding between the tables, laden tray 
miraculously balanced as she dodged and weaved, a nimble barhop waited on the 
customers. Clad only in a Bunker logoed baseball cap, bikini top, and a thong, 
she looked the happiest of anyone in the room. Valentine ran a quick estimate in 
his head and decided her hat contained more material, and covered a higher 
percentage of her body, than everything else she wore com-binedhigh heels 
included. The patrons, dressed in ill-fitting black-and-tan fatigues or blue 
merchant marine overalls, drank, talked, and smoked in huddled groups.
The captain led her little party in single file to the Currency ExchangeGift 
ShopManagement cage.
Why, if it isnt the White Lightning herself come to pay me a visit, the gnome 
croaked, cigarette clenched between yellowed teeth. And Teri Silvertongue! 
Ahhh, missy, what I wouldnt give to be young again! Any time you get sick of 
high seas and low wages, you just come see me.
Thanks for the offer, Ade, Silvertongue said, exposing her rack of teeth in a 
forced smile. But I catch cold kind of easy.
Captain Doss stepped up to the slot midway up the cage and placed a small 
leather pouch on the owners desk. Brought you some makings for your coffin 
nails, Ade. Do me a favor and die quick, would you?
Til outlive you, Dossie. You got a couple new hands? The owner ran his eyes 
quickly up and down Harper and Valentine, perhaps assessing their 
creditworthiness or potential as troublemakers.
Just a little extra muscle for this run. Speaking of which, has the Duke 
arrived yet?
Take my advice, Cap. Slow down and enjoy life a little. But yeah, his party is 
in the card room. You buyin for your crew, or are you gonna pull another 
Captain Bligh like last time?
Doss shook her head. After the deal, Ade, after the deal. She gestured to the 
other three, and they filed toward a door next to the long wooden bar. Valentine 
counted three casks and some thirty-odd bottles of assorted poison, all 
unlabeled. He watched one Quisling, crossed rifles of a captain on his epaulets, 
purchase a shot and a beer chaser by placing a pair of bullets on the bar. The 
Quisling tossed off the shot, face contorted as though he had poured an ounce of 
nitric acid down his throat.
Valentine tried not to think about the fact that he stood in a room with thirty 
people, each of whom could win a brass ring by turning him over alive to the 
Reapers.
Doss knocked on the door marked private. It opened a crack, and half of an ebony 
face looked at her through a narrowed eye. The door shut again, but just for a 
moment.
The guard opened the door, and the crew entered a spacious, well-ventilated 
room. Three men and a woman sat around a felt-covered table. Cards and chips lay 
before three of the players; the fourth, a man, only watched. Valentines eyes 
were drawn to him by his outlandish clothing if for no other reason.
The Duke of Rush wore a red uniform heavily trimmed with gold braid. Half high 
school marching band outfit and half toreador costume, it gaudily set off his 
pale skin and black hair. A brass ring, the first Valentine had ever seen, hung 
from a golden chain around his neck. Bored blue eyes stared up at the crew of 
the White Lightning.
The Dukes male henchmen wore the simple navy-blue battle dress of Chicago 
Quislings, and the card-playing woman an elegant blue cocktail dress glittering 
with real gemstones. No guns were evident, but the black man who opened the door 
toyed with a butterfly knife, opening and shutting it with quick flicks of the 
wrist.
Captain, we expected you hours ago, the Duke said in an educated accent. You 
know how I hate it when my own parties start late. What were you up to, running 
guns to insurgents?
Doss let a simper mask her face. No, trying to find some-thing to wear. You 
always make such an entrance. I decided it would be better to let you enter 
first.
You dont need to dress for this dive, Captain. The only reason Im wearing my 
best is that the purported reason for this trip is social. I spent the day 
calling on the Kur here and arranging beer trucks for Chicago. But our business 
is going to be much more lucrative. May we see the merchandise?
The black man put aside his butterfly knife long enough to push a chair forward 
for Doss. She sat. Put the bills on the table, and youll see it, she said.
The Duke gestured to a lieutenant, who opened a leather satchel and drew out a 
sheaf of papers. Captain Doss pulled out a magnifying glass and went through the 
pages one at a time, examining the wax seals covering printed red-and-blue tape.
Eight firearm permits, good, she counted to herself. Five labor vouchers 
twelve supply vouchers, sixteen eighteen twenty passports. Three dockyard 
releases Hey, wait a second. The dockyard releases arent signed and sealed, my 
friend!
The Duke smiled. Sorry, Captain. An oversight on my part. Ill make it up to 
you next time, okay?
Afraid not. Were keeping a bag. You want it, get these filled out properly, 
and you can have it, she said firmly.
Oh, very well. Have it your way, Captain. Well take one bag less now, and Ill 
see if I can get the sign-offs for your next run. Though it breaks my heart that 
you dont trust me. Now bring out the snuff, and well see if your color is 
worth all this.
Valentine and Harper, on cue, placed their barrels in front of Silvertongue, who 
popped the lids with a knife of her own. It was full of clumps of brown sugar. 
She upended the barrels one at a time and dumped the sugar on the floor. Glass 
test tubes filled with white powder soon emerged from the sugar. She gathered up 
two dozen tubes and placed them among the cards and chips on the table.
Captain Doss took two of the tubes and pocketed them.
The Duke wiped his mouth eagerly. Test it, my dear. -The woman in the cocktail 
dress pulled a vial of clear liquid from her small handbag. She uncorked one of 
the tubes, licked a toothpick and coated it with the powder, then stirred it in 
the vial, which turned an azure blue.
They dont call me the Duke of Rush for nothing, the Duke quipped. Valentine 
forced a laugh, but the captain and her mate ignored him.
Can I take the bills now? the captain asked.
Of course, Captain. But I think this calls for a celebration. The drinks are on 
the Duke tonight, and your crew is invited, of course.
Doss rose from her chair. Sorry, Duke. You know how I get when Im away from my 
ship.
I should be going, too. Maybe next time, Silvertongue said, bringing 
crestfallen expressions to the Quislings.
Harper patted Valentine on the shoulder. Duty calls.
Its not calling that loudly, Valentine demurred. Captain, may I stay for a 
while?
Captain Doss shot him a questioning glance. Just be back by dawn. And I mean 
dawn, Tiny, because we sail with first light with or without you.
Thank you, Captain. Ill be there.
Finally one of your little flock shows some sense, Doss. The Duke laughed as 
the other sailors exited. Ask anyone in Chicago, no one parties like the Duke. 
Whats your name, son?
Dave, Mr. Duke. Dave Tiny.
The Duke clapped him on the back. Glad to meet you, Tiny. Im always making 
friends with traveling people, never know when theyll show up with something 
worth trading.
A knock sounded at the door.
Duke, its your other appointment, Butterfly Knife said.
Oh, yeah. Tiny, you keep quiet; you might find this interesting. Youll see 
something you wont see sailing with Doss, thats for sure. I need to get a 
little dispute resolved.
The man with the butterfly knife opened the door, and two neatly dressed men and 
a woman entered.
Thanks for the invite to the party, Duke, the tallest of the three said. 
Valentine noted he wore a wide brass ring similar to the Dukes, on his finger 
rather than on a chain.
Good you could make it, Hoppy, the Duke said with a smile-snarl. You seemed 
kind of preoccupied during my business call. Thought you might be tired of my 
company.
Valentine felt a shiver, but it had nothing to do with the nasty glint in the 
Dukes eye. There were Reapers outside. He thought of making up an excuse to 
leave, but decided to obey the Dukes order to remain silent.
Glad you brought your assistant, but you didnt have to bring the muscle, 
Hoppy. This is just a friendly social gathering.
Gail Allenby takes care of my professional life, Hoppy said. Andersen here is 
responsible for the physical one. He uses a knife just as well in the kitchen as 
in an alley, by the way. Ill have you over for dinner tomorrow and prove it.
I trust the cutlery will be well washed, the Duke responded. Thanks for the 
offer, but I have to get back to Chicago. We need to get something straightened 
out, Hoppy. When its done, you might not want to honor that invite anyway.
Someone screamed in the main part of the bar, and Valentine heard chairs tip 
over. Butterfly Knife opened the door again, and a Reaper entered the room, 
glancing around with wary yellow eyes. A muscular man in a sleeveless shirt 
followed. Then a female figureat least, it appeared female to Valentineslowly 
came in. She wore a black-and-gold woven robe and a heavy hood, her face hidden 
behind a shining mask. The mask was decorated only by a narrow eye slit; the 
rest was silvery, polished mirror-bright. She did not so much walk as float 
across the floor on legs unseen under the robe; Valentine heard no footsteps as 
she moved. A second Reaper remained at the open door, its back to the room, 
facing the rapidly emptying bar.
Thank you for coming, Lord Yuse-Uth, the Duke said, his face calm and serious.
Valentine looked at Hoppy, who seemed to have lost three inches and twenty 
pounds since the Reaper and its Master Vampire had entered. He focused all his 
attention on the blanching man, hoping the Kurian would not probe his thoughts.
Lord, what need brings You here? Hoppy stammered.
I asked Her to be present, the Duke said. Youve been cheating me, Hopps.
Never!
Past couple months Ive been noticing our beer running dry a lot. We opened up 
some kegs, found plastic balls inside. Not many, but enough to skim off ten 
percent or so. I had my men spill a keg after we made our purchase today: balls 
again.
Hoppy, who was apparently the factory manager, thought for a moment. Maybe 
someone at the brewery is up to something. I had no knowledge of this, Duke. 
Ill make it up to you.
Im withholding payment. Youve got ten percent less bodies coming north this 
shipment, and another ten percent less for the previous two. The Duke turned to 
Kurian. With winter coming on, thats going to be fifty, sixty less auras for 
the Milwaukee Families, my Lord.
The man in the sleeveless shirt spoke. Lord Yuse-Uth says that the brewery will 
make it up next year. Her need is for the full allotment of auras.
I dont like to say no to a Lord, the Duke said, but my own Lords may have 
some say in the matter. Does She want a faction-war? Thatd cost Her more. Ill 
split the difference, twenty-five fewer auras and you can make it up to me next 
year.
The mirrored face turned to look at the Duke. Agreed. The ring is revoked. 
Valentine was not sure if the grating voice came from the mask or between his 
ears.
The Reaper grabbed Hoppys arm and reached for the ring on the third finger of 
his right hand. It took the ring, pulling off the finger as well with a 
sickening snap of tearing cartilage. Hoppy screamed. His bodyguard stood frozen, 
staring in awe at the Reaper.
He is no longer under Lord Yuse-Uths protection, the Kurians speaker said, 
watching Hoppy try to squeeze off the blood flowing from the pulpy mass where 
the digit had been. Allenby, you are now the brewery manager. Lord Yuse-Uth 
trusts your deliveries will be complete. Perhaps in time you will wear this very 
ring.
The woman gulped, stepping away from her former supervisor. Thank You, my 
Lord, she quavered. Andersen, your contract with Mr. Hoppy is terminated. We 
will talk tomorrow about your future with the brewery. Think about it.
Y-yes maam, Andersen said, his hands trembling.
Dammit, I had nothing to do with shorting the shipments, Hoppy swore.
Lord Yuse-Uth thanks you for bringing this matter to Her attention, the 
speaker said, turning to the Duke. She looks forward to continued good 
relations and trade with Her Brethren in Chicago.
I appreciate Her Lordships time, the Duke said.
The Kurian, her speaker, and the Reapers departed, and Valentine found himself 
able to breathe again.
Responsibility demands performance, Hoppy, the Duke said. Personally, I think 
you were cheating me. The Duke looked at the man with the butterfly knife. 
Make him shorter. Permanently.
Valentine watched, his face as passive as the Kurians mask, as the man with the 
knife knocked Hoppy to the floor. He savagely hamstrung the screaming man, 
cutting the tendons at the back of his victims knees.
Guess theyll call you Crawly now, the Duke said. Ms. Allenby, take that 
trash out with you as you leave. Dump him with the other garbage on the dock. 
Ill talk to you in the morning and see what kind of understanding we can come 
to.
None of the Dukes companions looked particularly upset as the brewery people 
dragged the bleeding, weeping wretch outside. The Dukes craggy face split into 
a smile.
Party time. Go get a bottle of something decent, Palmers. And a couple cases of 
Miller, in sealed bottles. Im going to get rolling on some of this white gold. 
Join me, Denise?
She smiled and reached again into her purse for a mirror. Tested high blue. 
Dukey? You bet your ring I am.
Twenty-odd beers, three bottles, and multiple toots later, the Quislings and 
Valentine were closing down the Bunker. Still behind the wire, Adolph counted 
out most of the contents of the Dukes purse. One bartender remained. A 
passed-out merchant marine was being dragged outside, and the waitress sat in 
the bodyguards lap. Her bikini top rested on the closed eyes of Butterfly 
Knife, who had downed almost a whole bottle of the unlabeled house busthead. 
Behind the toilet curtain, Denises shapely ankles with the blue dress around 
them twitched in time to the music. Valentine, who had drunk only a little booze 
while appearing to drink a lot, sat on the sawdust floor with his back to the 
jukebox, leaning up against the Duke.
Valentine had discovered a passion in the Duke for bad jokes and dirty songs. 
The ringholder had announced earlier in the evening, This bar reminds me of 
what happens when you cross a German with an Irishman: you get someone too drunk 
to follow orders. After that the Wolf had dredged his brain for every mossy old 
chestnut he could remember from his early teens to barracks life. Finally, in 
keeping with his nautical disguise, he taught the Duke of Rush all the lines he 
could remember of The Good Ship Venus.
The cabin boy, the cabin boy, the dirty little nipper I Put ground glass inside 
his ass and circumcised the skipper, the Duke sang with him, giggling at the 
end of each verse.
Eva Stepanicz rested in the arms of the other Quisling, there more to keep an 
eye on Valentine per the captains orders than to enjoy herself. A small tower 
of empties stood next to her, begun when she returned to the bar to find out 
what had transpired during the Kurian visit. She possessed an almost magical 
power over liquor, making her the choice for this particular assignment. She 
pushed the mans face away from her, directing his beer-fumed breath toward the 
floor.
The bartender returned from dumping the merchant marine, escorting First Mate 
Silvertongue.
Okay, Tiny, on your feet. Days breaking, and the captain wants you and 
Stepanicz back.
Stepanicz climbed to her feet with a relieved sigh.
Valentine looked up at the first mate from beneath his red Bunker T-shirt, worn 
pharaoh-style on his head. Cmon, Silver. No reason she cant wait another hour 
or two. Shove off, he slurred, more from fatigue than alcohol.
Stepanicz, lets get him up, Silvertongue ordered. The two women each took an 
arm and pulled Valentine to his feet. Valentine winked at Silvertongue.
I said shove off! he shouted, startling the Quislings from their slumber. 
Valentine grabbed a head of hair in each hand and seemingly knocked their heads 
together. He arranged it so his hands absorbed most of the impact.
And so began a semidrunken three-way brawl that brought even the passed-out 
Denise from her toilet-seat nap. The men roared approval every time Valentine 
knocked one of the women on her ass, and the two females ringside cheered 
whenever Stepanicz or Silvertongue landed a punch. The bare-breasted barhop had 
placed her pinkies in her mouth and produced a piercing whistle when Stepanicz 
brought the fight to a close with a powerful, accurate, and all-too-realistic 
kick in the proper place. Valentine folded like the Quislings butterfly knife 
and dropped to the ground.
The Duke of Rush staggered to his feet, absently brushing sawdust from his 
garish uniform. He knelt next to Valentine and helped his groin-gripping 
drinking buddy sit up.
Better get back to your ship, Tiny. Guess they werent tiny enough, heh?
Valentine managed a pained smile.
Look, next time you port in Chicago, look me up. Im pretty much in charge of R 
and R, thats rest and relaxation, you know, for those wise enough to join up 
with the Kurians. My place is above a group of bars called the Clubs Flush. On 
Rush Street, its easy to find cause its the part of the city lit up at night, 
unless you count the Zoo. I cater to the creme de la creme of Chicago society, 
you understand. Following orders from these bitches every day, I bet you and 
that other guy are about dying to get laid. Ill get you some on the house, 
okay?
Thanks, Duke, Valentine said, adjusting his trousers.
Youre my kind of people, Davy. And, he added, more softly in Valentines ear, 
if you can tie up to the big pier with another load of the white stuff as good 
as this, Ill see to it that even if you dock a swabbie, youll sail out a 
captain, you know what I mean? Just stop in and see me first, at the Clubs 
Flush, like I said. Ill treat you right.
Valentine massaged his aching groin. Thanks for the tip, sir.
With Silvertongue on one side and Stepanicz on the other, Valentine marched back 
to the ship, exhausted.
What was all that about, Valentine? Silvertongue asked as they climbed back on 
board. Why were you toadying up to that ring-carrying clown?
Hes a powerful man where he comes from. Sometimes just knowing the name of 
someone with that kind of influence can come in handy.
Later that morning, the White Lightning landed Harper and Valentine on a 
deserted stretch of beach north of where they first rendezvoused.
Sorry for the kick, Stepanicz said, shaking Valentines hand. No hard 
feelings?
No, t dont think itll be feeling, hard for a while, Valentine answered. 
But thanks for asking.
The captain presented them each with a fifth of rum brought all the way from 
Jamaica. And the Lakes Flotilla is always willing to help you out, she said, 
handing them each a card with her name written on it in elegant calligraphy. 
You can always tell a Flotilla ship because the word white is in the name 
somehow. Or a foreign version of white: blanc, weiss, something like that. Just 
give them this card, and tell them I owe you a favor.
Thanks, Captain Doss, Harper said.
Your servant, maam, Valentine added.
Each Wolf shouldered a bag of dispatches addressed to Southern Command. As they 
hopped out of the dinghy, again wetting their feet in the waters of Lake 
Michigan, the weight of their rifles brought home the seriousness of the journey 
back.
Should we tell Gonzo about all this? Harper asked.
Why? Valentine said, responding with a twinkle in his eye. He just missed a 
boring evening with some sailors. And what he doesnt know wont piss him off. 
But Ill make it up to him. He can have my Bunker souvenir T-shirt.
Ten
Central Wisconsin, September of the forty-third year of the Kurian Order: North 
of the road and rail arc connecting Milwaukee with the Twin Cities, Wisconsin 
under the Kurians has lain fallow. Dense forests of pine and oak shelter deer, 
moose, and feral pigs. Four-legged wolves prey on both, and occasionally have to 
give up their kills to prowling bears and wolverines. A few logging camps dot 
the area around Oshkosh and Green Bay, taking oak and cedar for use in the 
south. Menominee trappers and hunters also traverse the woods and lakes, 
traveling down the Wisconsin River to the Dells Country to trade pelts.
The Kurian Order begins at the traveled belt linking Milwaukee, Madison, Eau 
Claire, and St. Paul, Minnesota. Rich corn and dairy farms still fill the 
southern half of the state. Three Kurian Lords, known as the Madison 
Triumvirate, control the farms, mines, and lines of communication from the 
outskirts of Milwaukee to LaCrosse. Within the gloom of their dominant hilltop 
dome in the old Wisconsin State Capitol building, they command Reapers from Fond 
du Lac to Platte-ville, Eau Claire to Beloit.
The humans under the teeth of the Kurians endure the New Order, living in the 
gray area between doing the minimum required for survival and full Quislinghood. 
Their family farms are self-controlled, very different from the brutal 
plantations of the south or the mechanized collectives of Nebraska, Kansas, and 
Oklahoma. But recently, a new shadow has fallen over the region. Rumors spread 
by milk-truck drivers and road crews tell of a new Kurian Lord turning the 
picturesque village of New Glarus into a hilltop fortress. To the fearful 
smallholders and townspeople of the area, this means thirteen more thirsty 
Reapers taking their human toll by night.
They camped on some hills above the Wisconsin River near Spring Green. The 
Wolves could see miles of river valley in either direction. A few electrified 
farms burned porch lights, but the prominence Valentine guessed to be Tower Hill 
seemed shunned by the residents, for no active farm lay at its feet, or indeed 
within miles.
They camped a little below the hill, in the ruins of what was apparently an 
outdoor stage in the middle of nowhere. Valentine had explored the warped and 
overgrown little wooden theater nestled in a kettle in the hillside. It reminded 
him of a fancy version of the simple outdoor platform at one end of the public 
tent in the Boundary Waters, where Bobby Royce had received a prize shotgun what 
felt like several lifetimes ago.
He paced the footboards in thought. Were the people in the Freeholds the ones 
who were crazy? All the loss, all the suffering caused by the never-ending 
battles. A life, of sorts, was possible under the Kurians. Perhaps they should 
weather the storm, turn it to their advantage by bargaining for some measure of 
independence, rather than fighting for it. He marveled at the adaptability of 
his race: the Lakes Flotilla, for example. They worked at the edges of the 
Kurian Order, sowing seeds of destruction while turning a profit. Then there was 
Steiner and his enclave, trying to build something new rather than keep alive 
the old. Or the determination of the outnumbered and outgunned Southern Command, 
standing in their hilly fastness and daring the Kurians to try to enter even as 
they carried the fight to the Lost Lands. Even the little clusters of hidden 
civilizations like the Boundary Waters contributed to the fight by simply 
surviving.
A tingle interrupted his ruminations upon the stage. With the frozen terror of a 
rabbit under an eagles shadow, he sensed a Reaper. He stepped off the stage and 
padded downhill to the little cluster of cabins below. The Reaper seemed to be 
moving up Tower Hill, bringing silence to the nighted woods. Even the crickets 
ceased their chirping.
Valentine entered the Wolves overnight home. It was a two-room hose with small 
windows that made the absence of glass less of an inconvenience. The Wolves had 
stabled the horses in the larger room. He placed the fingers of one hand to his 
lips while making the pinkie-and-forefinger hand signal to his comrades that 
meant Reaper. Gonzalez and Harper unsheathed their rifles and checked their 
parangs.
All three concentrated on lowering lifesign, sitting back to back in a little 
cross-legged circle. The horses would give off no more lifesign than a group of 
deer; there was enough wildlife in the woods to confuse it even if it passed 
close, as long as they were able to mask their minds properly. As he quieted his 
mind and centered his breathing, Valentine found he could feel the Reaper atop 
the hill to the west. Minutes passed, then an hour, and the Reaper moved off to 
the west as clammy sweat trickled down Valentines back.
That was a little too close, Valentine said to his fellow Wolves. Anyone want 
to move camp, just in case it circles around the hill?
Fine idea, Harper agreed. I could walk all night anyway after that.
They decided to move south, treating the Reaper as a tornado that you can best 
dodge by moving at right angles to its path. As Harper readied the horses and 
Gonzalez hid evidence of their camp, Valentine cautiously walked up Tower Hill, 
rifle at the ready. He read the trail left by heavy bootprints. The Reaper had 
paused for an hour on the overlook. Valentine wondered why. After a word to 
Harper, he found an unobstructed knoll above the stage and scanned what parts of 
the horizon he could.
Two or three miles to the southeast, flame lit the clouded night. A pair of 
buildings seemed to be ablaze behind a screen of trees; he could make out a 
small grain silo lit by the red-yellow glow. Perhaps the Hood had a better view 
from the western crown of Tower Hill, but it was unlike a Reaper to just stand 
and watch a fire for the drama of it. And the blaze seemed unnaturally bright. 
Valentine wished the winds were favorable enough for him to smell the smoke.
He rejoined Gonzalez and Harper.
Theres a good-size fire, Valentine explained. I think a barn or a house is 
going up. You want to check it out? Its on this side of the river, so we can 
get to it easy.
Do we want to be there? Harper asked. If its someones house, neighbors will 
be coming from all over. It would be just like a Hood to pick someone off in the 
confusion.
I thought we were headed south, Gonzalez said.
Yes, eventually. But I think this Reaper watched what was going on there for a 
while, for whatever reason. Its not like them to just look at something for the 
sake of the view. I think its worth checking out.
Harper shrugged. Its your party. I dont mind watching a building burn. But I 
dont like the idea of making a decision cause of a prediction about a Reapers 
behavior. Sounds like a good way to end up drained.
Itll be okay, as long as the lieutenants radar is working, Gonzalez 
suggested.
Hope so, Harper said. Lets get there before the patrols wake up.
They moved through the night, leading their horses. Gonzalez walked out ahead, 
picking the path, followed by Valentine and Harper, each taking two horses.
As they drew close to the fire, Valentine decided the burning buildings were 
just another abandoned farm in a region where two out of three homesteads were 
empty. New forests stood in fields that had once belonged to cows.
The Wolves tied up the horses near a shallow seasonal streambed, and the horses 
drank from runoff puddles scattered among the rocks. They could see the flames 
flickering through the thin-skinned trunks of scrub beech and young oaks. They 
crept up to within fifty feet of the dying fire. What was left of four 
buildings, one obviously a barn, had already collapsed into burning debris. 
Without the daily rains of the past week, the conflagration would have turned 
into a forest fire.
Harper spat cotton. Okay, Lieutenant, heres your fire. What now?
No family, no neighbors, Valentine observed. Must have been empty. These 
fields sure dont look used. I havent seen anything but a few old fence posts 
around with the wire stripped off. So whys it burning?
Maybe a patrol came through, livened up a quiet night with a little arson, 
Harper mused. That east-west road we crossed yesterday by the rivers got to be 
up there somewhere.
Could be, Valentine agreed. If so, they used a lot of starter. You can smell 
it from here, kind of like gasoline.
Gonzalez and Harper sniffed. Reminds me a little of napalm, Harper said. The 
Grogs used it at Cedar Creek. They had an old fire truck filled with it. Doused 
some of the buildings our guys were holed up in and then lit it.
Id like to take another look around in daylight, Valentine said. We can wait 
a few more hours before moving on. Lets get the horses and find a safe spot to 
sleep.
Valentine could tell from Harpers expression that he thought getting some rest 
was the first sensible plan out of his superiors mouth all evening.
Daylight inspection of the ruins told the end of the story but not the 
beginning. While Gonzalez squatted in cover along the road, ready to run like a 
jackrabbit back to the fire scene at the first sign of a patrol, only a 
livestock-laden tractor-trailer passed along the old highway, crawling east at a 
safe fifteen miles an hour along the potholed road.
This makes no sense, Valentine said to a disinterested Harper. Weve got four 
burning buildings, or three buildings and a shed, I guess. But what are those 
other three burned spots?
Valentine indicated the blackened brush, circles of fire twelve to thirty feet 
in diameter, scattered around the buildings on what had once been lawn and 
garden.
Weird thing number two. Look how the house is wrecked. The frames been 
scattered all to hell, but only westward. Like a bunch of dynamite was set off 
on the east side of it.
Harper shrugged. Maybe the Quislings were training with demolitions or 
something.
Then wheres the crater? And the foundation is in good shape; those cinder 
blocks would be gone if someone put a charge there. And look at those two 
saplings. Theyre both broken off three feet up, but the tops are lying toward 
the house. An explosion wouldnt do that. Weird thing number three. That hole 
dug in the ground by the barn.
The men walked over to the ruins of the old barn, next to the blackened column 
of the still-standing silo. A triangular furrow, three feet long and almost two 
feet deep, was gouged into the ground; a dug-up divot of earth and grass lay 
nine feet away, in the direction of the barn. What did this? asked Valentine. 
The patrols brought out a backhoe? This was dug out in one clean scoop.
You got me, Sherlock, Harper said with a shrug.
And finally, theres no tracks. Unless thats why they burned out those patches 
of the scrubto cover their tracks, or the marks of the weapons that did this.
Valentine kneeled and sniffed at the charred wood. It still retained a faint 
petroleum or medicinal smell, like camphor.
Somebodys coming, Harper called, moving swiftly behind the silo, rifle 
already at his shoulder. Valentine threw himself to the ground, hearing 
footsteps from the forest. The person was not making any effort to keep quiet, 
whoever it was.
A middle-aged man in faded blue pants and a striped mattress-ticking shirt 
emerged from the forest. He surveyed the wreckage, not looking particularly 
surprised. He removed his baseball cap and wiped his face and neck with a yellow 
handkerchief. What was left of his hair, balding front and back, was a uniform 
gray.
Whoever you are, the man called, youre sure up early. Come out and show 
yourselves. I aint armed.
Valentine hand-signaled Harper to stay concealed. Gonzalez had vanished, perhaps 
into the overgrown drainage ditch next to the road. He stood up, half fearing a 
snipers bullet.
Good morning to you, too, Valentine responded. Im just passing through.
You mean were passing through, stranger, the unknown rustic chided. I saw 
your buddy behind the silo. Since youre not from around here, Ill ask your 
name, son.
David, sir. Im down from Minnesota. Visiting friends, you might say.
The man smiled. If thats the case, Id keep that repeating rifle hid. I dont 
know how it is in Minnesota, but around here the vampiresll kill you for 
carrying a gun. Among other things.
Thanks for the tip. Were trying to pass through without attracting attention. 
Do you live around here, sir?
All my life. My names Gustafsen. Im a widower now, and my kids are gone. I 
farm a little place up the road. Saw the sky lit up and figured it was the old 
Bauer farm. Dont have much business of my own to mind, so you might say I mind 
other peoples, just to have something to do.
That could be good or bad for us, Valentine thought. Did anyone live here?
No, not since they took over. The Bauers all died of the Raving Madness. No 
ones wanted to live here since: its five miles from nowhere.
I wonder what started the fire? Theres been a lot of rain, but no lightning.
Gustafsen chuckled. I wonder myself. I hear from some of the teamsters, theres 
been a few mysterious fires this summer. Started right around the time the new 
Big Boss showed up in Glarus. And things have gone from bad to worse for a lot 
of folks around here since then. Theres been disappearances in almost every 
town, and Im sure you know what that means.
Im surprised you ask questions, Mr. Gustafsen. Most places thats frowned 
upon.
My curiosity is all Ive got left, David. Gustafsen thrust his hands in his 
pockets, speaking to Valentine while standing side by side with him as was the 
custom in that part of the country. They looked over the wrecked barn and house. 
Ive lived a full life, considering the circumstances. After my Annie got took, 
I quit looking for anything else from this life, and Im settin my heart on the 
next.
Valentine liked the man on instinct. He thought for a moment about asking the 
man to come south with them. They had a spare horse, after all, and the Free 
Territory could always use another farmer or rancher.
Gustafsen said, I didnt get much formal education. They dont like schools. 
But Im smart enough to know that men in deerskins carrying guns and staying out 
of sight of the roads means trouble for them. So if you boys want to come to my 
place, Ill share what I got with you. Maybe you need to spend a couple nights 
in a bed. Ive got some spares. Id appreciate the company.
We appreciate the offer, Mr. Gustafsen. Really. But weve got to move on east, 
Valentine lied, just in case. If you could spare a bag of oats for the horses, 
wed be in your debt, sir. Id really like information about these fires, 
though. You seem to have your ear to the ground.
It beats me as much as it does you, son. One old man saw some kind of airship 
over a fire. I dont know exactly where or when; its a fourth-hand story. Like 
the old blimps you see in pictures. He said it moved around with sails. And I 
got a theory about where its coming from: somewhere around Blue Mounds. They 
say its death to go within five miles of there now. Whatevers happening, they 
got a lot of troops. The Commissary Patrols are culling stock all over this part 
of the state, taking good dairy stock and hogs, mostly. Its going to be a hard 
winter.
Sounds like. You say this new Big Boss is in Glarus?
Its New Glarus on a map, Gustafsen corrected.
Wed better avoid it, Valentine said, lying again. He had to account for the 
chance that Gustafsen might be going for a brass ring.
Smart of you, son.
Two hours later, Valentine rode up to the other two Wolves, two bags of oats for 
the horses across the Morgans broad back.
It went well there? Gonzalez asked.
Sure. He gave me the feed, and I looked around his place. He seems a nice 
enough man. I didnt want him to get a look at either of you, just in case.
Are we going to move on now? Harper asked.
Sort of. It seems like the Reapers have something big going on around Blue 
Mounds. Its about ten miles southeast of here. Good hilly country, plenty of 
cover. I want to ride over there and see if we cant get a look at what theyre 
up to.
Harper nodded. Not too much of a detour, then. Gotta ask you straight, though, 
Lieutenant, begging your pardon. Do you have something against getting back to 
the Ozarks? Got a woman in the family way, and you want to stay out of the 
Territory for a while or something? We could be halfway to the Mississippi by 
now. Were couriers, not Cats.
If I knew a Cat in the area, Id ask her to do it for us. But something that 
flies and drops firebombs is something Command will want to know about. 
Especially since whatever this is doesnt make noise. Youve seen the little 
prop jobs the Kurians use on us now and then. Theyre loud. Wed have heard it. 
And they can fly at night. Never heard of a plane or a helicopter doing that 
nowadays.
Maybe theyre trying to train Harpies to fly in teams or carry bombs together, 
Gonzalez thought out loud.
Could be. Could be just about anything, Gonzo. The Kurians like dreaming up 
nasty surprises. But Southern Command is going to want facts. Were all this way 
anyway. When we get back, we might as well know what were talking about.
So whats next on the Lieutenant Valentine tour of southwestern Wisconsin? 
Harper chuckled.
Valentine consulted his map and compass. A short ride thataway. Hows your nose 
this morning, Gonzalez?
Wishing it was smelling the masala in one of Patels pepperpots right about 
now, sir. But its working well enough.
I hope so. Were going to need it.
You have to hand it to the Kurians, Valentine thought at midday, when they 
struck the line of fence posts. They know how to send a message with 
easy-to-understand symbols.
The Wolves sat their horses before the line of rust-colored pig iron posts. Atop 
each post, at ten-yard distances, a bleached human skull grinned at them. The 
warning line extended into the woods to either side of them, each skull facing 
outward in wordless warning to trespassers. 
Jesuchristo, Gonzalez whispered.
Grimly, Valentine performed some mental arithmetic. Gustafsen had said it was 
death to come within five miles of Blue Mounds. Thirty-odd miles of perimeter. 
That worked out to something like five thousand skulls. The one immediately in 
front of them was a childs.
Valentine dismounted, drawing his rifle from its leather sheath. Im going to 
have a look around. Sergeant Harper, I want you to stay with the animals. If you 
hear any shooting, try to break a record going west. Gonzalez, this is a one-man 
job, but Id like to have your ears and nose along, so Ill leave it up to you.
Gonzalez removed his broad-brimmed hat and scratched the back of his neck. 
Lieutenant, after I was invoked, I learned the Way from an old Wolf named 
Washington. Washington used to tell me, Victor, only idiots and heroes 
volunteer, and youre no hero. But if I stay behind, itll mean these skulls 
worked. I dont like to see anything the Reapers do work. He slid off his horse 
and began filling his pockets with .30-06 rifle shells from a box in his 
saddlebag.
Lieutenant, Harper said, watch your step now. I can see lot of tracks just 
behind this picket line of theirs. Im going to take the horses down to that 
ravine we crossed and wait for you. Be careful; Im going to make cold coffee 
for three, and I dont want any wasted.
Thanks, Harper. No heroics, now. You hear anything, you just leave. I havent 
looked at whats in those mail bags, but its probably more important than we 
are.
Valentine and Gonzalez moved slowly through the heaviest woods they could find, 
zigzagging toward three hilltops they could occasionally glimpse through the 
trees. They moved in a twenty-yard game of leapfrog: first one would advance 
through the woods to cover; he would squat, and the other would move up past the 
first. They used their noses, and when Gonzalez picked up the scent of cattle, 
Valentine had them alter course to catch up.
It was a warm, partly cloudy day. Occasional peeks at the sun through the 
cumulus lightened their mood; it would inhibit any Reapers around. The 
cotton-fluff clouds were beginning to cluster and darken at their flat bases; 
more rain might be on the way. They found the cows, a herd of black-and-white 
Holsteins escaping the heat under a stand of trees bordering an open meadow.
Thats what we want, Valentine said. I dont see a herdsman. Maybe they round 
them up at night.
Thats what we want? Gonzalez whispered back. What, you want cream for your 
coffee?
No. Lets get to the herd. Keep down in the brush.
They reached the cows, who gazed at the Wolves indifferently. The tail-swishing 
mass stood and lay in the shade, jaws working sideways in a steady cud-chewing 
rhythm. About a thousand flies per cow buzzed aimlessly back and forth.
We need a little camouflage. The smelly kind, Valentine said, stepping into a 
fresh, fly-covered pile of manure. His moccasin almost disappeared into the 
brown mass. Gonzalez followed suit.
Is this because of the tracks back at the fence? Gonzalez asked.
Yes. I saw dog prints by the hoofprints. Just in case we get tracked. The scent 
of the cows might confuse the dogs. Step in a few different piles, will you? 
Ah-ha, Valentine said, moving toward one of the standing milk factories.
The cow had raised its tail, sending forth a jet of semi-liquid feces. Valentine 
quickly wiped his foot in tlje body-temperature pool, then put each knee into 
it. Keep an ear open, Gonzalez. Itd be great if one of them would take a leak 
for us.
Valentines sharp ears picked up his scout muttering, I dont even want to 
know, man, I dont even want to know.
Leaving the cows behind, but taking the smell with them, the Wolves began to 
move uphill, again keeping to the heaviest woods.
So much for my nose, Val. Ive heard of wolves in sheeps clothing, but this is 
above and beyond.
Concentrate on your ears then, Valentine suggested.
They cut a trail at the base of the hills. Tire tracks informed him that 
vehicles passed through this area, circling the hills. Farther up the slope, 
they could see a metal platform projecting out of the trees, still well below 
the crown of the hill. It looked like a guard tower, but was missing walls and a 
roof.
Maybe its still under construction, Gonzalez theorized.
They moved up the gentle, tree-dotted meadow sideways, approaching the tower 
from a higher elevation. After completing the half-circle, listening all the way 
for telltale movement, they gained the tower base.
Concrete anchored the four metal struts supporting the thirty-foot platform. It 
was built out of heavy steel I-beams and was well riveted and braced. There was 
no ladder going up. It was new enough that scars in the earth from its 
construction were overgrown but not yet eroded away.
What the hell kind of a lookout post is this? Valentine wondered. Thats a 
lot of steel to hold up nothing.
Gonzalez knelt in the dirt beneath the structure. Look here, sir. These tracks: 
small, narrow boots with heavy heels. Almost small enough for a woman.
A Reaper?
Thats my guess, Gonzalez said.
Valentines spine bled electric tingles. A Reaper stands on that platform? he 
thought. Watching what? Standing guard? What the hell is so valuable that the 
Kurians are using Reapers as sentries?
He looked at the cross-braces. He might be able to climb it, if his fingers held 
out. Of course, a Hood would have no problem going up, but it presented quite a 
challenge to a human.
Im going to climb it. See if I cant get a look at the top. Maybe theres some 
sign of what its used for up there.
Sir, Gonzalez said. I wouldnt advise that. Listen.
Valentine hardened his ears and heard thunderous hoof-beats echoing from 
somewhere over the hill. A lot of hoof-beats. Valentine suspected that these 
riders would not be scared off by the symbols carved into the butt of his rifle.
He looked at Gonzalez, meeting his scouts alarmed eyes, and nodded.
They ran.
Trained Wolves running though heavy wood, even downhill, have to be seen to be 
believed. They kept up a punishing pace through the thickest forest, a pace no 
horse and rider could match through this ground. They cleared fallen logs with 
the grace of springing deer. Their footfalls, like their breathing, sounded 
inhumanly light. The Wolves hunched their bodies atavistically forward, clearing 
low branches by fractions of an inch. The sound of the distant riders faded 
behind them, absorbed by hill and wood.
They reached the cow meadow, over a mile from the metal platform, in less than 
four minutes. Valentine altered the downhill course, and regained the wood. 
Still at a flat-out run, they were halfway to the line of skulls when Gonzalez 
was shot.
The bullet struck him in the left elbow as he brought his arm up while running. 
He spun, staggered, and continued running, gripping his shattered joint close to 
his body.
The sniper panicked at the sight of Gonzalez continuing straight for his hiding 
spot. He rose, a monstrous swamp-troll apparition trailing green threads like a 
living weeping willow. The sniper raised his rifle again with Gonzalez a scarce 
ten yards away.
The scout threw himself down at the shot. Valentine, a few yards behind 
Gonzalez, was breathing too hard to trust himself to shoot accurately. He 
shifted his grip to the barrel of the rifle and wound up as he dashed forward.
The long camouflage strips hanging from the Quislings sleeves caught in his 
rifles action. As he struggled with it, Valentine swung his gun baseball-bat 
style, using the momentum of his charge to add further force to the impact. He 
struck the sniper full in the stomach, emptying the mans lungs with the harsh 
cough of a cramping diaphragm. Valentine dropped his gun and drew his parang 
from its sheath on his belt. As the gasping Quisling writhed at his feet, 
Valentine stepped on the mans back and brought the blade down on the vulnerable 
back of his neck once, twice, three times. The blows felt good, sickeningly 
good: a release of fear and anger. The body, its head severed, twitched as the 
mans nervous system still reacted to the blow to the midriff.
Valentine moved to Gonzalez, who now sat up, shaking and swearing in Spanish.
Vamos! Gonzalez said through clenched teeth. Get to the horses. Ill catch 
up.
I need a breather, bud, Valentine said, and meant it. He listened to the 
distant horses. They were far off, maybe far enough.
No, sir Ill catch up.
Lets get a tourniquet around your arm. I dont want you leaving a blood trail. 
Im glad your legs are still working, he said, tearing a rag off the snipers 
gillie suit, which served that purpose admirably. His hands flew into action 
with quick, precise movements, binding the wound. Now hold this, he said, 
twisting a stick around the knot. Does that arm feel as bad as it looks?
Worse. I think the bones gone.
Just hold it for now. Well get you a sling once we get to the horses, 
Valentine said.
Valentine, this is loco. Loco, sir. I cant get far like this. Maybe I can find 
an old basement or something, hole up for a few days.
No more arguing, hero. Lets go. The posse is on its way. Ill take your 
rifle.
They walked, then jogged toward the fence line. Each step must be agony for him, 
Valentine thought. They made it past the skulls and to the ravine.
Two horses waited, reins tied to a fallen branch. Valentines Morgan had a note 
tucked in the saddle. Valentine uncurled it and read the soft pencil letters: 
Followed orders good luckGod blessR.H.
Same to you, Sarge, Valentine thought. He felt lonely and helpless. But it would 
not do to let Gonzalez see that.
Harpers moving west. Lets go southwest. If they have to follow two sets of 
tracks, maybe itll confuse them. Im sorry, Gonzo, but weve got to ride hard. 
Ill help you into the saddle.
He tightened the girths on both horses and lifted Gonzalez into his seat.
Ill take the reins, Gonzo, you just sit and enjoy the ride.
Enjoy. Sure, he said with a hint of a smile, or perhaps an out-of-control 
grimace. v They rode up and out of the ravine, Gonzalez pale with pain.
Of all the strange dei ex machinae, Valentine least expected to be rescued by a 
livestock truck.
Valentine, after an initial mile-eating canter across the hills, slowed out of 
concern for his scout. Gonzalez could not last much longer at this rate. They 
spotted an ill-used road, in bad shape even for this far out in the country, and 
moved parallel, keeping it in sight.
The pair crested a hill, resting to take a good look ahead before proceeding 
farther. Gonzalez sat in his saddle like a limp scarecrow tied to the stirrups.
Valentine saw a little cluster of farms along a road running perpendicular to 
their path. Miles off to the west, a series of high bare downs marched 
southward. To his right, a small creek twisted and turned, moving south to where 
it crossed the road under a picturesque covered bridge. The bridge appeared to 
be in good repair, indicating the road might be in frequent use.
Okay, Gonzo, Valentine said, turning his horse. Not much farther now. Were 
going to walk the horses for a while in that stream. I want to pick us up an 
engine.
Are we going to give up the horses? Gonzalez croaked.
Yes. You cant go on like this. By the way, do you know how to drive?
Maybe. Ive worked a steering wheel a couple of times. You would have to shift, 
though. Cant you drive?
Valentine shrugged. I used to play in old wrecked cars, but I dont know what 
the pedals do.
Sir, lets keep to the stream for a while. Get somewhere quiet and find an old 
house. Lay up for a while.
They might know by now what direction we went. We have to assume they want us, 
even if we didnt see anything. Remember, we killed one of theirs. They wont 
brush that off. According to that old Gustafsen, theyve got some manpower 
concentrated there, so they have the men to do a thorough search. We need to 
move faster than they can get organized, which wont be easy since they probably 
have radios. That means an engine. From the tracks Harper made, and ours, 
theyre going to be looking for us west. If we turn east, we might get ahead of 
whatever containment theyll use.
Valentine hated the idea of giving up the sturdy Morgan. His horse had proved a 
sublime blend of speed and stamina. But the odds against them were also 
increasing, making a risk the only course of action giving them a chance to 
escape.
Gonzalez nodded tiredly, unable to argue. His scout believed in cautiousness in 
any maneuvers against the Reapers, discretion being the better part of survival. 
Gonzalez feared everything; otherwise he would not have lived so long.
The pair rode downhill. At the stream, its rock-strewn bed barely a foot deep in 
most places, Valentine dismounted and took both pairs of reins, leading the 
horses. He hoped none of the local farm children were whiling away the afternoon 
fishing.
They reached the covered bridge. After scouting the shaded tunnel to make sure 
it was unoccupied, Valentine tied the horses to a piece of driftwood and helped 
Gonzalez out of his saddle. The scout sank into the cool shade, asleep or 
unconscious within seconds of Valentine laying him down, head pillowed by his 
bedroll.
Valentine scrambled up the brush-covered riverbank. He found a position near one 
end of the covered bridge where he could see down the road a mile in either 
direction. The asphalt was patched into almost a checkerboard pattern, as if 
tar-footed giants had been playing hopscotch along the road. The bridge was a 
strange bastard construction, obviously a well-made iron-and-concrete span 
dating to before the coming of the Kurians but now covered with a wooden roof. 
The added-on planks were layered with peeling red paint, and the warped wood 
seemed to writhe and bend as if wishing to escape from the bridge frame.
The drone of insects and the muted trickling of the stream were soothing, and 
Valentine fought the urge to sleep. He counted potholes in the road, clouds, and 
bell-shaped white wildflowers to pass the time.
A truck appeared out of the east. It was a tractor-trailer, pulling a livestock 
rig. It plodded along at a gentle rate so as not to bounce its aged suspension 
too much over the uneven road. As it grew closer, Valentine saw that the door on 
the cab was either missing or removed, and the windshield on the passenger side 
was spider-webbed with cracks.
Valentine readied his rifle and ran to the edge of the covered bridge, keeping 
out of sight of the truck. He heard the truck slow as it approached the bridge, 
and the engine noise increased as it entered the echo chamber under the roof. 
Valentine sidestepped out and into the path of the creeping truck, rifle at his 
shoulder, and aimed at the driver.
Brakes squealed in worn-down protest, and the truck came to a stop. A head 
popped out of the doorless side, heavy sideburns flaring out from a ruddy face.
Hey there, fella, dont shoot, the man called, as if people pointing rifles at 
him were an everyday irritation.
Step out of there, and I wont. I dont want to hurt you; I just need the 
truck.
A pair of empty hands showed themselves. Mister, youve got it backwards. Weve 
been looking for you.
What we would that be? Valentine asked, keeping the foresight in line with 
the bridge of the mans nose.
Dont have time to go into it, mister. I know one of yous named David. Youre 
three of those Werewolf fellows from down south, right? You went to take a look 
at Blue Mounds. The vampires goons spotted you, and now theres a big net out 
trying to snare you. I heard it on the radio, except the David part. That came 
across over the Lodges code through the telephone wires. Ive been crawling up 
and down this road for the last hour looking for your tracks.
Who are you? Valentine asked, lowering his gun slightly.
Ray Woods is my name. Wisconsin Lodge Eighteen. That guy you talked to earlier 
today, Owen Gustafsen, hes the Lodge leader here west of Madison. You might say 
were like an underground railroad. We get orphaned kids and stuff out of the 
state.
Valentine wanted to believe him, badly. But Eveready had warned them time and 
again to look for traps. Sorry, Ray, but I cant trust you. If you are who you 
say you are, youll know why. Were going to take your truck, load our horses in 
it, and take off. If you are who you say you are, you wont tell anybody for a 
couple of hours. I could even knock you out so you have a convincing bump, if 
you want.
Woods plucked at his sideburns, twiddling the curly brown hair. Maybe you cant 
trust me. But Im going to have to ask you to take care of a friend of mine.
The truck driver jumped out of his cab and went to a little door mounted in the 
side of his truck. He opened it and extracted a toolbox. He then pulled out a 
metal panel and extracted an eight-year-old boy from the narrow slit like a 
magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. The boy clung to the drivers leg, 
watching Valentine with hollow eyes.
This is Kurt, Woods explained. Hes out of Befoit. His father was taken by a 
Reaper a week ago, and his mother just up and disappeared. Were trying to get 
him over the Mississippi to a little town called La Crescent. Maybe you can 
trust him.
Valentine looked into the eyes of the little boy, and they were filled with the 
hurt confusion of a child whose world has vanished in an afternoon. Valentine 
wondered if he had looked that way to Father Max some ten-odd years ago. Woods 
stroked the boys hair.
With Gonzalez hurt, Woods was their best chance of making it out of the Kurian 
Zone. More like their only chance.
Okay, Mr. Woods. I hope you know what youre doing. Maybe you can talk your way 
out of getting caught bringing a child from point A to B. But were armed and 
wanted. If you get caught with us, the least theyll do is kill you. If you have 
a family, youd better think hard about them, Valentine said, looking at the 
drivers wedding ring.
Aint got no family no more, mister, Woods said. I dont want to be parked 
out here arguing all day, so whats it going to be?
What do you want us to do?
Ten minutes later, the semi was moving again. Valentine sat in a second secret 
compartment in the trucks cabin. Concealing himself would be a matter of lying 
down and closing a steel panel. Gonzalez lay next to the little boy somewhere 
beneath him behind the false-backed tool locker.
Of course, if they make a thorough search, were all dead, Woods said, 
speaking up over the clattering engine so Valentine could hear his voice. But 
Im on the regular livestock run into Blue Mounds now. Before that, I never 
caused a days troubleat least a days trouble that they knew aboutin sixteen 
years, except when the old diesel gives me problems, of course.
The horses rode in the trailer, hidden in plain sight next to two other crowbait 
nags. Valentine hoped the horses looked worn out enough to pass inspection as 
candidates for the slaughterhouse. Their saddles and bridles rested inside bags 
of feed. A few cows and pigs also rode in the trailer, adding to the camouflage 
and barnyard odor.
Woods listened to the Quislings radio calls on a tiny CB hidden inside a much 
larger defunct one. He explained that the only place the Quislings never 
searched for guns or radios was inside the dysfunctional box, its dangling 
wiring and missing knobs mute testimony to its uselessness. Woods simply popped 
the cover and turned on the tiny functioning receiver inside. Only problem is, 
its just a scanner, so I cant send. Im going to get you boys in with a family 
in LaGrange. Alan Carlsons part of the Lodge, and his wifes a nurse. Shell 
help your man there. Seems like most of the searchers lit off after your other 
guy. He dumped one of his horses in Ridgeway, and they seem to think one of you 
is hiding there. Theyre tearing the place apart. So hopefully he gave them the 
slip. Better get hid, were coming up on some crossroads. They might have 
checkpoints.
For the next half hour, Valentine rode in darkness, lulled by the gentle, noisy 
motions of the truck. They stopped at one checkpoint, but all Valentine could 
hear was the exchange of quick greetings between Woods and a pair of unknown 
voices.
The Carlson farm was a nice-size spread. According to Woods, Carlson was in good 
with the local authorities. His wifes brother was some kind of Quisling big 
shot in Monroe, so he rarely had trouble finding supplies and tools tb keep the 
place up. He even employed another family, the Breitlings, to help him farm the 
land. Under cover of picking up some livestock for the voracious appetites at 
Blue Mounds, Woods pulled the truck into the cluster of whitewashed buildings.
Lieutenant, you can pop the box now, Woods said. Youre on Alan Carlsons 
place.
Valentine climbed into the passenger seat, an improvised upholstery job 
mummified in duct tape with a horse blanket tied over it. The door on the 
passenger side was missing, as well. (The Quislings got a real bug about 
wanting to see all of you at checkpoints. Sucks to be me in the winter, Woods 
had explained.) The Wolf looked around. The truck had pulled around behind a 
little white house, between it and a well-maintained barn. The two-story frame 
house was screened from the road by trees and had the small, high-roofed look of 
a building trying to hide itself from the world. Three feet of foundation showed 
in the back, and the kitchen door could be reached only by ascending a series of 
concrete steps. The barn, on the other hand, looked like it wanted to take over 
the neighboring territory. It had grown smaller subbuildings like a primitive 
organism that reproduces itself by budding. An immobile mobile home stood beyond 
the barn, under the shadow of a tall silo. A garage with a horse wagon and an 
honest-to-goodness buggy parked side by side stood on the little gravel road 
that looped around the barn like a gigantic noose. Farther out, an obviously 
unused Quonset hut stood in an overgrown patch of brush, and a well-maintained 
shed completed the picture. Behind the house, cow-sprinkled fields ran to the 
base of a pair of tree-covered hills. Distant farms dotted the green Wisconsin 
hills.
The back door of the house opened, and a man in new-looking blue overalls and 
leather work boots stepped down the mini-staircase to the kitchen door. He fixed 
a nondescript red baseball cap over his sparse, sandy hair and turned to wave a 
boy out from the house. A young teen, in the midst of a growth spurt, judging 
from the look of his too-small clothes, emerged, as well. He had black skin and 
closely cropped hair and looked at the truck with interest. Carlson said a few 
quiet words to the boy, who scampered off to the road and made a great show of 
poking around in the ditch at the side of the road with a stick.
A golden-haired dog emerged from behind the barn and flopped down, panting in 
the shade with his body angled to observe the proceedings.
Woods jumped out of the truck and performed his trick with the tool locker 
again. At the sight of Gonzalezs wound, Carlson hollered back to the house. 
Gwennie, one of thems hurt. I need you out here!
Mr. Carlson, I dont know what youve heard though this network of yours, but 
my names David, and I want, Valentine began.
Introductions can wait, son. Lets get your man downstairs.
A red-haired woman came out of the house, moving with a quick, stocky grace. She 
wore a simple cotton shirt, jeans, and an apron that looked like it had been 
designed for a carpenter. She pressed two fingers expertly against Gonzalezs 
throat. Woods held the boy from Beloit in his arms. Valentine and Carlson each 
took an arm and helped Gonzalez. Gonzalez seemed groggy and drunk, and he 
mumbled something in Spanish.
They entered the house, skirting the tiny kitchen, and got Gonzalez into the 
basement. It was homey and wood paneled, with a little bed and some clothing 
that matched the kind the young teen watching the road was wearing. Mrs. Carslon 
put a finger into a pine knot on one of the wooden panels and pulled. The wall 
pivoted on a central axis near the knot. A small room with four cots, some wall 
pegs, and a washbasin was concealed on the other side.
Sorry its so dark, Mrs. Carlson said. Were not electrified on this farm. 
Too far from Madison. But theres an air vent that comes down from the living 
room; you can hear pretty good whats going on above, as a matter of fact. Lets 
get the injured man down on the bed.
Carlson turned back to the stairs leading up to the main floor of the house. 
Molly, he shouted, bring a light down here!
Mrs. Carlson extracted a short pair of scissors from her apron and began to cut 
away at Gonzalezs buckskins. Whats his name? she asked.
Injured man of average height, Valentine answered.
Okay, Injured, she said insistently in his ear. Can you move your fingers? 
Move your fingers for me. On your hurt arm.
Gonzalez came out of his trance, summoned by her words. A finger twitched, and 
sweat erupted on his brow.
Maybe a break, maybe some nerve damage. Im not a doctor, or even a nurse, you 
know, she said quietly to Valentine. Im a glorified midwife, but I do some 
work on livestock.
Were grateful for anything, Valentine answered. It looked to me like the 
bullet passed through.
I think so. Seems like it just clipped the bone. Theres a lot of ragged flesh 
for a bullet hole, though. Not that Ive seen that many. Im going to clean it 
out as best I can. Ill need some light, and some more water. Molly, finally! 
she said, looking toward the open panel.
A lithe young woman of seventeen or eighteen, with the fine features of good 
genes fleshed out on a meat-and-dairy diet, stood at the entrance to the secret 
room. Her hair was a coppery blond and was drawn back from her face in a single 
braid dangling to her shoulder blades. She wore boyish blue overalls and a plain 
yellow shirt. The shapeless and oversize clothes made the curves they hid all 
the more tantalizing. She carried a lantern that produced a warm, oily scent.
Dad, are you crazy? she said, looking at the assembly suspiciously. Men with 
guns? If someone finds out, even Uncle Mike cant help. How?
Hush, Molly, her mother interrupted. I need that lantern over here.
Valentine watched in admiration as Mrs. Carlson went about her business. Mr. 
Carlson held Gonzalez down as she searched and cleaned the wound. She then 
sprinkled it with something from a white paper packet. The scout moaned and 
breathed in short rasps as the powder went in.
Doesnt sting quite like iodine, and does just as good a job, the woman said 
as she began bandaging. Valentine helped her hold the bandage in place as she 
tied it but found himself glancing up at the girl holding the lantern. Molly 
looked down at the procedure, lips tightly pursed, her skin pale even in the 
yellow light of the lantern.
Mrs. Carlson tied up the bandage, and Gonzalez seemed to sag even more deeply 
into the cot he lay on.
Ray Woods spoke up. Hate to give you another mouth, but this boy Kurt here is 
on his way across the river. Im not supposed to go out that far again for a few 
more days. Dye think he could have a place here for a little while?
Of course, Ray, Mr. Carlson agreed. Now you better be moving along.
He turned back to Valentine. Now we can shake, son. Alan Carlson. This is my 
wife, Gwen. And you see there my eldest, Molly. Weve got another daughter, 
Mary, but shes out exercising the horses. The lookout up the road is kind of 
adopted, as you might have guessed. His name is Frat, and he came up from 
Chicago about three years ago. On his own.
Call me David. Or Lieutenant. Sorry to be so mysterious, but the less you know 
the betterfor both of us.
Well, Lieutenant, we have to get back to the upstairs. The other family who 
lives on the farm is the Breitlings. They dont know about this room. Same 
story: better for us and better for them to keep it that way. Their son is with 
Mary; hes just a squirt. Tom and Chloe are in LaGrange. I sent them there this 
morning when word came around about your little scrape. Theyre due back before 
dark. Theres a chance, just a chance, that the house will be searched. If it 
happens, dont panic. So happens the local Boss is related to me, and we stay in 
their good graces in every way. Frat has a way of staring at our local goons; I 
think he makes them nervous. They never hang around long.
Glad to hear it. You dont mind if we keep our guns, I hope?
Carlson smiled. Id prefer if you did. And take em when you leave. Gun 
ownership is a one-way ticket to the Big Straw.
Alan, I wish you wouldnt be so crude about it, Mrs. Carlson objected. He 
means the Reapers get you.
Ray Woods put the little orphan, Kurt, down on a cot. Now, Kurt, Ray said, 
Ive got to leave you here for a couple of days.
The little boy shook his head.
Sorry, Kurt. Thats the way its got to be. You cant sleep with me in the cab 
again, and I cant take you to the place where I live. These people can take 
care of you better than I can, till we can get you up to the sisters across the 
Big Blue River. You said youd never seen a river a mile wide, right?
Dont! the boy finally said. Though whether he was objecting to Woods leaving 
or going to the river, he did not elaborate.
Woods looked away, almost ashamed, and left. The boy opened his mouth as if to 
scream, then closed it again, eyes glassing over into the wary stare that 
Valentine had first seen.
Well leave the lamp in here for you. Well talk tonight if you want, after the 
Breitlings are in and the lights are out. Now Ive got to get your horses hid in 
the hills. Id give you something to read, but books are frowned on, too, so we 
dont have any, Carlson said. His wife and daughter stepped out the door, and 
Valentine caught the accusing look the young girl gave her mother.
As the door shut, Valentine realized the horrible danger their presence brought 
to the family. He admired Carlsons resolution. In a way, the courage of Mr. and 
Mrs. Carlson was greater than that of many of the soldiers of Southern Command. 
The Hunters risked their lives, armed with weapons and comrades all around, each 
of whom would risk anything to save his fellows. Here in the Lost Lands, this 
unarmed, isolated farm family defied the Kurians, putting their children in 
jeopardy, far from any help. Valentine wondered if even the Bears he had met had 
that kind of guts.
Hours later, Valentine heard Kurt whimpering in his sleep. He rose from his cot 
and crept through the darkness to the boys bed. Valentine climbed in and 
cradled him until the boy gripped his hand and the sleepy keening stopped. 
Memories long suppressed awoke, tormenting Valentine. The smell of stewing 
tomatoes and the pictures in his mind appeared as awful and vivid as if he had 
seen them that afternoon. As he hugged the boy, silent tears ran down the side 
of his face and into the homemade pillow.
Eleven
LaGrange, Wisconsin: The town of LaGrange is nothing much to speak of. A 
crossroads with a feed store and an auxiliary dry goods shop marks the 
T-intersection of an old state road with a county highway. The irregular 
commerce that occurs there takes place with small green ration coupons, 
worthless outside the boundaries of the Madison Triumvirate. Across from the 
feed store is the house and ringing stable of the blacksmith. The blacksmith and 
his wife are old work-hard, play-hard bons vivants, and the breezeway between 
their house and garage is the nearest thing to the local watering hole. One or 
both seem always ready to sit down with a cup of tea, glass of beer, or shot of 
backyard hooch. The blacksmiths wife also gives haircuts, and longtime 
residents can tell how many drinks shes had by the irregular results.
The real LaGrange is in the surrounding farms, primarily corn or bean, hay, and 
dairy. The smallholds spread out beneath the high western downs that dominate 
the county. Their produce is transported to Monroe, and the thrice-a-week train 
to Chicago.
Survival here depends on having a productive farm and not drawing unwanted 
attention. During the day, the patrols drive their cars and ride their horses, 
looking for unfamiliar faces. Vagrants and troublemakers disappear to the Order 
building in Monroe and are seldom seen again. At night the residents stay 
indoors, never able to tell if a Reaper or two is passing through the area.
The residents live as a zebra herd surrounded by lions. There is safety in 
numbers and the daily routine, and sometimes years pass before when anyone other 
than the old, the sick, or the troublemakers gets taken. Their homes are modest, 
furnished and decorated with whatever they can make or salvage. The Kurian Order 
provides little but the ration coupons in exchange for their labor, although a 
truly outstanding year in production or community service will lead to a bond 
being issued that protects the winners family for a period of years. The 
Kurians provide only the barest of necessities in food, clothing, and material 
to maintain shelter. But humanity being what it is, adaptable to almost any 
conditions, the residents find a kind of fellowship in their mutual deprivations 
and dangers. Barn raisings, roofing parties, quilting bees, and clothing swaps 
provide social interaction, and if they are punctuated with remembrances for 
those lost to the Kurians, the homesteaders at least have the opportunity to 
support each other in their grief.
Valentine remembered little of his first few days with the Carlsons. Gonzalezs 
condition worsened, and as his Wolf sank into a fever brought on by the shock of 
his injury, Valentine found himself too busy nursing to notice much outside the 
tiny basement room.
For three long, dark days Valentine remained at Gonzalezs bedside, able to do 
little but fret. The wound had seemed to be healing well enough, though just 
before the fever set in, Gonzalez had complained that he either could not feel 
his hand at all or that it itched maddeningly. Then, on the second evening after 
their arrival, Gonzalez had complained of light-headedness, and later woke 
Valentine by thrashing and moaning.
Kurt, the little boy from Beloit, had been sent on his way westward, and the 
Wolves had the basement room to themselves. Mrs. Carlson blamed herself for not 
properly cleaning the wound. Or I should have just amputated, she said 
reproachfully. His bloods poisoned now for sure. He needs antibiotics, but 
theyre just not to be had anymore.
Valentine could do little except sponge his friend off and wait. It seemed he 
had been in the darkness for years, but he could tell by the growth on his chin 
that the true count was only days. Then on the third night, Gonzalez sank into a 
deep sleep. His pulse became slow and steady, and his breathing eased. At first 
Valentine feared that his scout was slipping toward death, but by morning the 
Wolf was awake and coherent, if weak as a baby.
He summoned Mrs. Carlson, who took one look at her patient and pronounced him in 
the clear then hurried upstairs to heat some vegetable broth. Rubber limbed, 
Valentine returned to his own cot and lost consciousness to the deep sleep of 
nervous and physical exhaustion. That evening, with the rest of the house quiet 
and Gonzalez in a more healthy slumber, Valentine sat in the darkened living 
room talking to Mr. Carlson.
We owe our lives to you, sir. Cant say it any plainer than that, Valentine 
said from the comfort of feather-stuffed cushions in an old wood-framed chair.
Lieutenant, the shadow that was Mr. Carlson replied, were glad to help. If 
things are ever going to change, for the better anyway, itll be you boys that 
do the changing. Were rabbits in a warren run by foxes. Of course were going 
to help anyone with a foxtail or two hanging from their belt.
Still, youre risking everything to hide us.
Thats what I wanted to talk to you about, Lieutenant. A way to reduce the 
risk.
Please call me David, sir.
Okay, David. Then itll be Alan to you, okay? What I wanted to say was with 
your buddy sick
Hes getting better.
Glad to hear it. But I spoke to my wife, and she says he should stay for at 
least a couple of weeks. Between the wound and the fever, itll be a month 
before you can do any hard riding, maybe. Your horses could use a little weight 
anyway.
Valentine gaped in the darkness. A month? Mr. Carlson, we couldnt possibly 
stay
David, I dont know you very well, but I like you. But please let a guy finish 
his train of thought once in a while.
Valentine heard the ancient springs in the sofa creak as Carlson shifted his 
weight forward.
What Im going to suggest might seem risky, David, but itll make your stay 
here a lot safer if we can pull it off. Itll even get you papers to get out of 
here again. I mentioned to my brother-in-law that I might have some visitors in 
the near future, within the next week. I told him about a guy I met during 
summer labor camp up by Eau Claire. Summer labor is something we get to do now 
and then, keeping up the roads and clearing brush and such. While I was there I 
met some Menominee, and as a matter of fact you look a bit like them. Anyway, I 
told Mike that I met a hardworking, nice young man who was looking to move down 
here, marry, and get himself a spread. I hinted that I had in mind that this 
young guy would marry my Molly and told him that I invited him down to meet her. 
Of course, hes just made up to fit your description.
Valentines mind leaped ahead, making plans. And you think hed get us some 
papers? Something official? It would make getting out of here again a lot easier 
if we had some identification.
Well, it wouldnt cut no ice outside this end of Wisconsin. But it would get 
you to Illinois or Iowa at least. Youd have to lose the guns, or hide em well. 
You could keep to the roads until the hills begin; if questioned, you could say 
youre out scouting for a place with good water and lots of land, and thats 
only to be found around the borders. Also, Id like to bring your horses down 
from the hill corral. I hate having them up there. Too much of a chance of their 
getting stolen. Or us getting the ax for withholding livestock from the Boss 
Man.
If you think you can pull it off, Im for it, Valentine decided.
Give you a little chance for some light and air. Also you can get a taste of 
life here. Maybe someday a bunch of you Wolves will come up north and liberate 
us. Or just bring us the guns and bullets. Well figure out how to use them.
Two days later, Valentine found himself standing outside the sprawling home of 
Maj. Mike Flanagan, Monroe Patrol Commissioner of the Madison Triumvirate. 
Valentine wore some oversize overalls and was barefoot. Carlson had driven him 
the twenty-three miles starting at daybreak in the family buggy.
I dont know about the rest, but the major part fits him, Carlson explained at 
the sight of the little signboard on the driveway proclaiming the importance of 
the person residing within. Major asshole, anyway.
Valentine did not have to feign being impressed with the majors home. It was 
opulent. Half French villa, half cattle-barons ranch, it stretched across a 
well-tended lawn from a turret on the far right to an overwide garage on the 
left. Its slate-roofed, brick-covered expanse breathed self-importance. A few 
other similar homes looked out over Monroe from the north, from what had once 
been a housing development. Now the mature oaks and poplars shaded only 
grass-covered foundations like a cemetery of dead dreams.
Listen to this, Carlson said, pressing a button by the door. Valentine heard 
bells chime within, awaking a raucous canine chorus.
The door opened, revealing two bristling black-and-tan dogs. Wide-bodied and 
big-mouthed, they stared at the visitors, nervously opening and shutting their 
mouths as if preparing to remove rottweiler-size chunks of flesh. The door 
opened wider to expose a mustachioed, uniformed man with polished boots and 
mirrored sunglasses. He wore a pistol in a low-slung, gunfighter-style holster 
tied to his leg with leather thongs displaying beadwork. Valentine wondered why 
the man needed sun protection in the interior of the house, as well as a gun.
Hey, Virgil, Carlson said, nodding to the neatly uniformed man. Ive brought 
a friend to see the major.
Something between a smile and a sneer formed under the handlebar mustache. I 
guess hes in for you, Carlson. Normally he doesnt do business on a Saturday, 
you know.
Well, this is more of a social call. Just want to introduce him to someone who 
might be a nephew someday. David Saint Croix, meet Virgil Ames.
Valentine shook hands, smiling and nodding.
Ames made a show of snapping the strap securing his automatic to its holster. 
Hes in the office.
I know the way. Cmon, David. Virgil, be a pal and water the horses, would 
you?
Carlson and Valentine passed a dining room and crossed a high-ceilinged, sunken 
living room, stepping soundlessly on elaborate oriental rugs. Valentine hoped he 
could remember the details of the story Carlson had told his brother-in-law.
The major sat in his office, copying notes into a ledger from a sheet on a 
clipboard. The desk had an air of a tycoon about it; carved wooden lions held up 
the top and gazed serenely outward at the visitors. The dogs padded after the 
visitors and collapsed into a heap by the desk.
Mike Flanagan wore a black uniform decorated with silver buttons and buckles on 
the epaulets. He exhibited a taste for things western, like a string tie with a 
turquoise clasp and snakeskin cowboy boots. He looked up from his work at his 
guests, drawing a long cheroot from a silver case and pressing a polished metal 
cylinder set in a stand on his desk. An electric cord ran down the front of the 
desk and plugged into a wall socket, which also powered a mock-antique desk 
lamp. Bushy eyebrows formed a curved umbrella over freckled, bulldog features.
Afternoon, Alan. You look well. Hows Gwen?
Carlson smiled. Sends her best, along with a pair of blueberry pies. Theyre 
outside in the basket.
Ahh, Gwens pies. How I miss them. Siddown, Alan, you and your Indian friend.
The electric lighter on the desk popped up with an audible ping. Flanagan lit 
his cheroot and sent a smoke ring across his desk.
How are things in Monroe, Mike?
Flanagan waved at the neat little piles of paper on his desk. The usual. 
Chicagos pissed because the Triumvirate is diverting so much food to that new 
fort up in the Blue Mounds. Im trying to squeeze a little more out of everyone. 
Im thinking about upping the reckoning on meat out of the farms. Think you can 
spare a few more head before winter, Alan?
Some of us can, Carlson asserted. Some cant.
Look at it this way: Your winter feed will go farther.
Well, its for you to say, Mike. But I dont know how it will go down. Theres 
been some grumbling already.
By whom? Flanagan asked, piercing Carlson with his eyes.
You know nobody tells me anything on account of us being close. Just rumor, 
Mike. But this visit isnt about the reckonings. I want you to meet a young 
friend of mine, David Saint Croix. I mentioned hed be visiting and helping me 
with the harvest.
Pleased to meet you, David. Flanagan did not look pleased. In fact, he looked 
perturbed. Hell, Alan, first you take in Little Black Sambo, and now a mostways 
Indian?
Hes a helluva hard worker, Mike. After I teach him a few things, he could run 
a fine farm.
Lets see your work card, boy, Flanagan said.
Valentines mind dropped out of gear for a second, but only a second. Sorry, 
Major Flanagan. I traded it last winter. I was hungry, you know. It didnt have 
my real name on it anyway.
Dumb thing to do, kid. Youre lucky Alan here has connections, Flanagan said, 
putting down his thin cigar. He rummaged through his desk and came up with a 
simple form. Fill this out for him, Alan. Just use your address. Im giving him 
a temporary work card, six months. If he improves an old spread, Ill give him a 
permanent one.
I need two, Mike. He brought a friend. Theres a lot of guys in the north woods 
looking for something a little more permanent.
Dont press me, Alan. Jeez, these guys are worse than Mexicans; another one is 
always popping up outta somewhere.
Carlson leaned forward, spreading his hands placatingly. With two men helping 
me this fall, I can clear off an upper meadow I spotted. I was also thinking of 
building a pigpen across the road and raising some hogs, since meat is becoming 
such an issue. These men can help me, and I can be ready to go in the spring.
Fine, Alan, two work permits. Your place is going to be a bit crowded.
Its only temporary. Thanks a lot, Mike. Gwen and I really appreciate it. So 
does Molly, of course. Stop by anytime.
Yeah, Flanagan mused, youre a fortunate man, David. Shes a real beauty. 
Some of my patrollers say shes kinda standoffish, so I wish you luck. The 
major pulled out a seal punch, filled out the expiration dates, signed both 
cards, and punched them with a resounding click. Youre lucky I take this with 
me. I dont trust my secretary with it; shed probably sell documents. She can 
forge my signature pretty good.
Im in your debt, Michael, Carlson said, handing over the work cards.
Youve been in my debt since I let that little Fart or whatever his name is 
stay with you.
Frat.
Whatever. That big place and nothing to work it but women; I pity you. Id 
offer you lunch, but Im too busy to make it, and Virgils hopeless. My girl is 
out at her parents place this weekend.
Thanks anyway, Michael, but its going to be a long way back. The horses are 
tired, so theyll have to walk most of the way.
Thank you, Major Flanagan, Valentine said, offering his hand. Flanagan ignored 
it.
Thank my brother-in-law and his wife, not me. Guess they want a bunch of little 
half-breeds as grandchildren. Up to me, Id take you to the Order building and 
let you wait for the next thirsty blacktooth, seeing as you dont have a work 
card and youre in Triumvirate lands.
Carlson made a flick of a motion with his chin. Valentine moved past the 
sleeping dogs and out the door, followed by his benefactor. Flanagan tossed away 
his cheroot and returned to the papers strewn across his desk.
Outside, the horses were very thirsty. Ames was poking in the picnic basket.
Virgil, please take that in, will you? Well water the horses ourselves. The 
pies are for Michael, and Gwen put in a jar of preserves for you. She remembers 
your sweet tooth.
The smile-sneer appeared again. That was kind of her. You know where the trough 
is. Ill bring the basket back out to you.
As Carlson and Valentine brought the horses over to the trough, Alan spoke 
softly to Valentine. See what I mean by Major Asshole?
Valentine clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Seems like hes 
trying hard for a promotion to colonel.
That evening, after the long ride back, the Carlsons celebrated the legitimate 
arrival of their guests. Even the Breit-lings attended, filling the dinner table 
past its capacity. As they made small talk, Valentine drew on his memories as a 
forester in the Boundary Waters to flesh out his David Saint Croix persona.
Valentine ate at Mrs. Carlsons end of the table, across from Molly, grateful 
for the room the corner chair gave his left elbow. Frat sat on his right, eating 
with the single-minded voracity of a teenager. The Breitlings were next to Mr. 
Carlson at the other end of the table, with the younger Carlson girl, Mary. 
Gonzalez stayed in his bunk in the basement, still too weak to socialize. Mrs. 
Carlson explained his absence to the Breitlings as being due to illness and a 
fall from his horse during the journey south.
During the dinner, Carlson told stories about his summer labor, mixed with 
fictitious ones about how he came to know young Saint Croix here. Valentine 
played along as far as he dared but worried that the younger girl might say 
something about the Wolves or their horses that would blow the story. Mary kept 
her eleven-year-old mouth shut; her only comment during dinner was a request to 
ride Valentines Morgan someday.
Of course, once hes rested. Any time Im not using him, that is. Of course Im 
going to do some riding, looking for some nice land to get a farm going.
Maybe Molly can show you around the county, Mr. Carlson suggested.
Molly focused her eyes on the plate in front of her. Sure, Dad. Since you went 
to all this trouble to find me a husband, its the least I can do. Glad youve 
given me so much say in the matter. Should I get pregnant now, or after the 
wedding?
Molly, Mrs. Carlson warned.
The Breitlings exchanged looks. Valentine figured that discord was rare in the 
Carlson house.
Molly stood and took up her plate. Im finished. May I be excused? She went to 
the kitchen without waiting for an answer.
Valentine could not tell how much of the byplay was real, and how much was 
acting.
Two days later, he and Molly Carlson rode out on a fine, cool morning with a 
hint of fall in the air. Valentines indomitable Morgan walked next to Mollys 
quarterhorse. She wore curious hybrid riding pants, leather on the inside and 
heavy denim elsewhere, tucked into tall rubber boots, and a sleeveless red 
flannel shirt. They chatted about their horses as they headed west toward the 
high, bare hills.
Lucy here is great with the cows, Molly said, patting the horse on the neck 
affectionately. Theyll follow her anywhere. Its like she can talk to them.
Ive always wondered if animals talk to each other, Valentine ventured.
I think they can, sort of. In a real simple way. Like if you and I had to 
communicate by just pointing at stuff. We couldnt write the Declaration of 
Independence, but wed be able to find food and water and stuff. Warn each other 
about enemies. Hold it, Lucys got to pee.
Molly stood up in her stirrups while the mares stream of urine arced into the 
grass behind her.
You know horses, Valentine observed. Those are fine riding pants. Do you ride 
much?
No, too much to do at the farm. My sisters the horse nut. But I did make these 
breeches. I like working with leather especially. I used to have some nice 
riding boots, but some creep in the patrols took em off me. These rubber ones 
are hotter than hell, but theyre good for working around the cows. I sewed a 
leather vest for Dad, and when Mom does her calving, shes got a big leather 
apron that I made.
They trotted for a while. Watching the up-and-down motion of Molly posting left 
him desperate to switch the conversation back on.
I get the feeling you dont like us staying, he finally said when they slowed 
to cut through a copse of mixed oaks and pines. The sun had warmed the morning, 
but Valentine was flushed from more than the heat of the day.
Oh, maybe at first. Still dont know what youre doing here
Just passing through. I tried to find out what was going on up at Blue Mounds, 
Valentine explained.
You probably wouldnt tell us the truth anyway. I dont know much about the 
insurgents, but I know you wouldnt tell what you were doing so they couldnt 
get it out of us, just in case. Or is it because Im just a girl?
Its not that. We have plenty of women in the Wolves. And I hear over half of 
the Cats are women, too.
Weve heard about you. Werewolves, always coming in the dark, just like the 
Reapers. Dont you guys go into Kansas and Oklahoma and kill all the people 
there, so the Kurians have nothing to feed on?
No, Valentine said, somewhat taken aback. Nothing quite the opposite. Just 
this spring my company brought over a hundred people out of the Lost Lands. 
Thats what we call places like this.
Lost Lands, she said, rolling her eyes skyward. Ill buy that. Were lost, 
all right. How would you like to spend your life knowing its going to end with 
you being eaten? Ive developed a lot of sympathy for our cows.
Your uncle seems to be watching out for you all, Valentine said, trying to 
reassure her.
My uncle. I should tell you about him. No, my uncle doesnt mean shit. A hungry 
vampire could still take us any night of the week, good record or no. Uncle Mike 
has done everything in his life exactly as the Kurians want, and he still 
doesnt have one of those brass rings. And even if you get it, any Kurian can 
still take it away if you screw up. And if Im all testy over the husband thing, 
its just because it makes me think about something Id rather not think about. 
Lets go up this hill. The views pretty nice from up top.
They walked their horses toward the grassy slope. They crossed a field with a 
herd of the ubiquitous Wisconsin Hoi-steins in it, and Molly waved to a man and 
a boy mending a fence.
Thats the Woolrich place. The poor woman who lives there is on her third 
husband. The first two got taken, one while doing the morning milking, and the 
second when a patrol came through just grabbing whoever they could get their 
hands on because a bunch of Reapers dropped in for a visit.
They rode to the top of the hill and dismounted, loosening the girths on their 
wet animals. The horses began to nose in the tall, dry grass at the top of the 
rolling series of hills. Farmland stretched below in all directions, 
crisscrossed with empty roads. A hundred yards away, an old highway running 
along the top of the hills had degenerated into a track cleared through the 
insistent plant life.
Is that why you dont want to marry? Valentine asked. Youre scared of 
becoming a widow?
Scared? Im scared of a lot of things, but not that in particular. If you want 
to talk about what really scares me But no, to answer your question, I dont 
want the life my mother has. Shes brought two children into the world, and is 
taking care of another, and for what? Were all going to end up feeding one of 
those creatures. I dont want any children, or a man. It just means more fear. 
Its easy to talk about living your life, trying to get along with the system, 
but you try lying in bed at night when every little noise might mean something 
in boots and a cape is coming in your house to stick its tongue into your heart. 
The way I see it, the only way for us in the Madison Triumvirate to beat these 
vampires is to cut off their food supply. Quit pretending life is normal.
I see.
My grandmother on my mothers side, Gramma Katie Flanagan, she was a teacher or 
something in Madison before everything changed. When I was about eleven, we had 
a long talk. She was getting old, and I think she felt her time was coming. As 
soon as the old people slow down, the patrols show up, sometimes with some 
bullshit story about a retirement home. She told me about in ancient times there 
were these Jewish slaves of the Romans who rose up and fought them from a 
fortress on top of a mountain. The Romans finally built a road or something so 
their army could get up to the fortress, and all the Jews killed themselves 
rather than be slaves again. Gramma said if everyone were to do that, it would 
cut off their power, or whatever they get from us.
Valentine nodded. I heard that story, too. It was a place called Masada. By the 
Dead Sea, I think. I always used to tell Father Maxhe was my teacherthat I 
wouldnt have killed myself if I were up there. I would have taken a Roman or 
two with me.
If it had just been another battle, would anyone have remembered it? Molly 
asked.
Thats a good question. Maybe not. I think Gandhi, you know who he is, right? I 
think he suggested that the Jews should have done something like that when the 
Nazis were exterminating them. To me, thats just doing the enemys job for 
them. Maybe some of you should try to sell your lives a little more 
expensively.
Thats easy for you to say. You have guns, friends, other soldiers to rely on. 
About all we have is a broken-down old phone system and a set of code words. 
John really needs a haircut for We have a family at our place that is trying 
to go north. Not much help when the vampires come knocking.
Strange how her thoughts mirror mine. I was thinking the same thing the night I 
got here, Valentine mused.
Maybe we cant all commit suicide, she continued. But for Gods sake, we 
should quit helping them. We feed the patrols, work the railroads, keep the 
roads repaired. Then when we get old and sick, they gather us up like our 
cattle. They got it pretty good just because its human nature to ask for 
another fifteen minutes when youre told you have an hour to live.
Brave words, Valentine said.
Brave? Me? She sat down in the grass and plucked at the burrs clinging to her 
jeans. Im so scared at night I can barely breathe. I dread going to sleep. 
Its the dream.
You have nightmares?
No, not nightmares. A nightmare. Its only one, but its a doozy. Wait, I 
should tell this properly. We have to go back to Gramma Flanagan again. She told 
me a story about when the Triumvirate had first got things organized in Madison. 
I think it was in 2024, in the middle of summer. They had a group of menwell, 
some of them were Reapers, toocalled the Committee for Public Safety. About two 
hundred people were working for this committee, in charge of everything from 
where you slept to where you went to the bathroom. The three vampires on the 
committee were kind of the eyes and ears of these Kurians who were dug into the 
State Capitol building. I dont know how much you know about the Kurian Lords, 
but they sure love to live in big empty monument-type buildings. I bet a bunch 
of them are in Washington. But back to the story my Gramma Katie told me. There 
was this woman, Sheila Something-or-other, who got caught with a big supply of 
guns: rifles, pistols, bullets, equipment for reloading, all kinds of stuff. I 
think even explosives. One of the vampires said her punishment was up to the 
people who worked for the Committee, and if it wasnt to their liking, theyd 
kill every last one of them and get a new bunch.
So with that incentive, the whole committee goes over to where shes being 
held. And they tore her to bits. With their bare hands. They took the pieces and 
stuck them onto sticks. Gramma said the sticks looked like pool cues, or those 
little flagpoles from school classrooms, stuff like that. They put her head on 
one, her heart on another, her liver, her breasts, even her you know sex 
parts. They made streamers out of her intestines, and painted their faces with 
her blood. Then they paraded back to the basketball court at the university 
where the Committee met and showed what they did to her to the vampires. Some of 
them were drunk, I guess. The Reapers looked at it all and told them to eat the 
bits, or theyd be killed. Gramma said there were fistfights over her liver.
She sat silent for a moment. Maybe I was too young to be told that story. It 
gave me a nightmare that night, and pretty often ever since. Im always dreaming 
that Ive done something wrong, and the crowd is coming for me. Theyre all 
around, and they grab me and start pulling me apart. Thats when I wake up, cold 
and sweaty. Mary says I sometimes say no, no in my sleep. She calls it the 
no-no dream. It seems silly in the daylight, but try waking up from it at two 
in the morning on a windy night.
I have a dream, or nightmare, I guess, that keeps coming back, Valentine 
began. Never told anyone about it, not even Father Max. My mom and dad and 
little brother and sister got killed by a patrol when I was just a kid. I come 
into the houseI remember it smelled like tomatoes in the kitchen that day, but 
thats not in the dreamand theres my mother, lying in the living room, dead. 
Her legs were Well, I guess they had raped her, or started to anyway. They shot 
my dad in the head. But in my dream, its like theyre still alive, and I can 
save them if I just could fix the bullet wounds. I press my hands against the 
blood thats coming out of my moms throat, but it just keeps pulsing and 
pulsing out, while my little brother is crying and screaming. But I cant save 
them. Cant he said, voice trailing off. He looked up at the clouds to try to 
get the tears to go away. High white cirrus clouds painted the blue sky with icy 
white brushstrokes.
I guess everyone has their own set of nightmares, Molly said.
Well, were getting plenty of help. Whatever happened to your grandmother?
Molly Carlson wiped tears from her own eyes with the back of her hand. Oh, she 
injured her back and got taken away. The vampires got her in the end, Im sure. 
She got driven away by my uncle Mike. Her son. Her own fucking son.
The following Saturday, Molly taught Valentine how to drive the four-wheeled 
topless buggy. The thicker reins felt funny in his left hand, the buggy whip 
held up in his right. Valentine was used to riding English-style with split 
reins, although he mostly used his legs to control the horse while riding. 
Driving was a completely different skill.
Youre doing great, David, really great, Molly said, beaming for a change. 
They were driving well ahead of the family cart, which held the rest of the 
Carlson clan as well as the Breitlings. Of course, normally we drive the buggy 
tandem, which is tougher to manage, but they need the two horses for the big 
cart. And remember, if you ever have a load to carry in back, to place it evenly 
in the bed and secure it if you can. An unbalanced load will exhaust a horse 
faster than anything.
The combined families of the Carlson farm were on their way to Monroe. Mr. 
Carlson explained that there was a speaker in town, a visitor up from Chicago to 
give a lecture for the New Universal Church. A Kurian organization, the New 
Universal Church did not demand weekly assemblies but rather encouraged people 
in the Kurian Order to come to the occasional meeting to catch up on new laws 
and policies. But now and then a true revival took place, and attending them 
was a way of keeping in the Orders good graces.
The clouds piled up and darkened, threatening rain. Carlson opined that some 
would use it as an excuse not to attend, but this made him all the more 
determined to go. Showing up in spite of precipitation would just make their 
presence all the more notable, considering the long round trip to and from 
Monroe. If were going to play their game, we should really play it, he added, 
stowing tarps in the two horse-drawn vehicles and reminding everyone to bring 
rain slickers and hats.
Only Gonzalezmuch improved but still not up to a long trip in the wetand Frat 
stayed behind. The young man wanted to keep an eye on the stock and said he felt 
like he stuck out like a sore thumb in a sea of white faces.
So it turned out that Molly and Valentine ended up together in the buggy, 
bearing four baskets full of lunch, dinner, and gifts of food for Mrs. Carlsons 
brother, with the rest following in the larger wagon. Valentines Morgan trotted 
along behind the buggy, brought along as the equine equivalent of a spare tire.
At lunch, a few miles outside of Monroe, the first sprinkles of rain came. When 
they climbed back into the buggy, Valentine draped the tarp over himself and 
Molly and drove on, the heavy raindrops playing a tattoo on the musty-smelling 
oiled canvas. They used the buggy whip as an improvised tent pole and peered out 
from a cavelike opening, their faces wet with rain. Valentine felt the warmth of 
her body against his right side, her left arm in his right, helping him hold up 
the tarp. The rich, seductive smell of femininity filled his nostrils without 
his even using his hard senses. She also had a faint, flowery smell of lavender.
You smell good today, Valentine said, then felt himself go red. Not that you 
smell bad normally I just mean the flowery stuff. What is that, toilet water?
No, just a soap. Mrs. Partridge, the blacksmiths wife, shes a wonder at 
making it. Puts herbs and stuff in some of them. I think she started doing it in 
self-defense; her husband picks up animals that have died of disease or 
whatever, turns them into pig and chicken feed. Dog meat, too. I guess he 
smelled so bad after working with the offal, she went into scented soaps as a 
last resort.
Its nice. Hope Im not too bad. This tarp kind of reeks.
No. For a guy who traipses around in the hills, youre really clean. Some of 
the county men could take a lesson. Valentine felt a stab, remembering Chos 
near-identical joke. A lot of them are going to use this rainstorm as an excuse 
to skip their Saturday bath. She turned her face and pressed her nose to his 
chest. You just smell kind of tanned and musky. Like the saddle from a lathered 
horse. I like it.
Valentine suddenly felt awkward. So who exactly is this were going to hear?
My dad says hes a speaker from Illinois, someone affiliated with their church. 
Kind of a bigwig. This church the Kurians run, its not like you worship 
anything. The Triumvirate doesnt discourage the old churches, but they do 
listen to what gets said. As long as the ministers stick to the joys of the 
afterlife, and Gods love in troubled times, theyre fine. Anyone who speaks out 
against the Order is gone real fast. Most of them get the hint. No, this New 
Universal Church is more designed to get you to like the Kurian Order. They are 
always trying to recruit people into the patrols, or to come away and work their 
machinery, railroads, factories, and stuff. The real slick ones try to convince 
you that the Kurians came as the answer to mans problems. Some answer.
So we just sit and listen, then go home?
Thats about it. They try to recruit people right then and there. Take them up 
on stage, and everyone is supposed to applaud. Just clap when everyone else 
claps, and dont fall asleep. Youll be fine. Ive got a feeling todays topic 
is going to be the importance of motherhood. They want more babies in 
Wisconsin.
The tent they eventually reached dwarfed the old public tent in the Boundary 
Waters. From a distance it resembled a sagging pastry. But as they grew closer, 
the mountain of canvas turned into an earthbound white cloud, complete with 
festive little flags atop the support poles that jutted through the material to 
either side of the center arch.
Horses, wagons, and vehicles of all description including cars and trucks were 
parked in the fields of the fairgrounds. Most of the people were already 
sheltering from the intermittent rain beneath the tent. The Carlson wagon pulled 
up, and the families all got out and released the horses from their harnesses. 
Tied to numerous posts in the field, the horses munched grain from their 
nosebags and stamped their unhappiness at being left in the weather. Carlson 
nodded to the uniformed patroller navigating the field, wearing a poncho that 
also covered much of his horse against the rain.
Major Flanagan is inside. Hes got some seats lined up for you, Carlson, the 
patroller called.
Thanks, Lewis. Are you gonna get a chance to come in out of the rain?
Naw, we had our meeting this morning. All about how duty isnt the most 
important thing, its the only thing. Your brother-in-law gave a pretty good 
speech. Be sure to tell him I said that.
Deal. If you get real desperate out here, we got a thermos with some tea that 
might still be hot in the buggy. Help yourself.
Thanks, Alan. Enjoy.
True to the patrollers word, Major Flanagan had some seats set off right up in 
front. There was a main stage, with a little elevated walkway going out into the 
crowd connecting it to a much smaller stage. The Carlsons, with the addition of 
Valentine and the subtraction of the three Breitlings, sat in a row of folding 
chairs lined up parallel to the walkway. A few hundred chairs formed a large U 
around the peninsular stage, and the rest of the spectators stood.
As part of the days festivities, a comic hypnotist warmed up the crowd. His 
show was already in progress when Valentine sat at one end of the row. Molly sat 
to his right, then her sister, with Mr. Carlson next to her. Mrs. Carlson took 
the seat in between him and her brother, and they chatted as the hypnotist 
performed. He had a pair of newlyweds on stage; the young groom was hypnotized, 
and the wife was asking him to bark like a dog, peck like a chicken, and moo 
like a cow. The audience laughed out their appreciation for the act.
I saw this guy in Rockford, Major Flanagan explained to his guests. I 
recommended him to the Madison Bishop, and he got him up here for this meeting. 
Funny, eh?
The young woman finished by having her husband lie down with his head and 
shoulders in one chair and his feet in another, four feet away from the first. 
The hypnotist then had her sit right on his stomach, which did not sag an inch. 
Comfortable, yes? the hypnotist asked.
Very, she agreed, blushing.
The audience cheered for an encore, so she had her husband flap his arms and be 
a bird. As he flapped and hopped around the stage, the hypnotist finished off 
with a final joke, Most women, it takes ten years till they can get their 
hus-bands to do this. How about that, ladies, after only two weeks of marriage?
The audience laughed and applauded. Lets hear it for Arthur and Tammy 
Sonderberg, all the way from Evansville, ladies and gentlemen.
After the befuddled Mr. Sonderberg came out of hypnosis, and his wife told him 
what he had been doing on stage, the hypnotist gave a good imitation of him to 
further laughter before they left the stage and returned to their seats.
A heavyset man in a brown suit that was simple to the point of shapelessness 
came onstage. He applauded the hypnotist as the latter backed off, bowing. 
Valentine marveled at the mans hair, brushed out at the temples and hairline 
until it looked like a lions mane.
Thank you, thank you to the Amazing Dr. Tick-Toe, he said in a high, airy 
voice.
Thats the bishop of the New Universal Church, David. From Madison, Mr. 
Carlson explained quietly across his two daughters.
The bishop stepped to the podium on the small stage at the end of the runway and 
picked up the microphone. Thank you all for coming out in the rain, everyone, 
he said, looking at the speakers mounted high on the tent poles which broadcast 
his voice. The Harvest Meeting is always a serious occasion. We have a lot more 
fun at Winterfest, and the Spring Outing. But I know everyone has all the coming 
work on their minds. Well, today we have an expert on hard work on loan to us 
from the flatlands in the south. Wont you please welcome Rural Production 
Senior Supervisor Jim Midas Touchet, visiting us all the way from 
Bloomington.
A middle-aged, hollow-cheeked man strode out on stage, dressed in a red 
jumpsuit. He had thinning hair combed neatly back and held in place with an oily 
liquid, giving it a reddish tint. White canvas sneakers covered his feet. He 
took the microphone out of the bishops hand with a flourish and a bow to the 
audience. He exuded the energy of a man younger than his years.
Can you all see me? he asked, turning a full 360 degrees. I know its hard to 
miss me with this on. You see, were all color-coded in downstate Illinois. Red 
is for agricultural workers, yellow for labor, blue for administration and 
security, and so on. In Chicagoland, you can wear whatever you want. I mean, 
anything goes up there. Any of you guys been to the Zoo? You know what I mean, 
then.
A few hoots came from the audience, mostly from the patrollers, Valentine 
noticed.
Oops, Touchet continued. I forgot we have children present.
Valentine shot a questioning glance to Molly, who shrugged. He suddenly noticed 
how charming she looked with her wet blond hair combed back from her face. It 
accentuated her features and the tight, glowing skin of a vital young woman.
Never mind about that. I bet youre out there wondering, Who is this guy? What 
does he have to show me, other than what not to wear, ever? Anyone thinking 
that? Cmon, lets see your hands.
A few hands went up. 
I bet youre thinking, How long is he going to speak? Lets see em!
A lot of hands went up. Major Flanagan, smiling, raised his, and the Carlsons 
followed suit.
Finally, some honesty. Okay, since youve been honest with me, Ill be honest 
with you. Im nobody, and to prove to you what a big nobody I am, Ill tell you 
about myself.
Im from Nowhere, Illinois. Actually, more like South Nowhere. Just off the 
road from Podunk, and right next to Jerkwater. Typical small town, nothing much 
happened. I grew up quick and brawny. You wouldnt know it to look at me now, 
but I used to have a nice set of shoulders. So I ended up in the patrols. And 
the patrols in downstate Illinois, let me tell you, theyre really something. I 
didnt have a car. I didnt even have a horse. I had a bicycle. It didnt even 
have rubber tires; I rode around on the rims. The highlight of most days was 
falling off my bike. Its a little better now down there, but back in the 
thirties, we were lean when it came to equipment. In the winter, I walked my 
route. We didnt get paid back then, just got rations, so there was no way I 
could even get a horse at my rank.
I spent ten long, empty years riding that bike. Farm to farm, checking on 
things. I carried mail. I delivered pies and pot roasts to the neighbors. Since 
youre going that way, anyway, they always used to say when they asked me. I 
was bored. I started reading a lot. I was curious about the Old World, the good 
old days, people called them. Do they call them that up here, too?
A couple of yeps, quietly voiced, came from the audience.
It was lonely in the patrols, and when youre lonely, you need friends. So when 
I found a little hidden pigpen or chicken coop on someones farm, and they said, 
Be a friend, forget you saw this, and well let you have a couple extra eggs 
when you come by, I went along. Hey, everybody wants to be a friend. So I went 
along, got a friend and a few eggs in the bargain. On another farm, I had 
another friend and a ham now and then. On another farm, some fried chicken; down 
the road, a bottle of milk, a bagful of corn. I had tons of friends, and I was 
eating real good to boot. I had it made.
The red figure paced back and forth, microphone in one hand and cord in the 
other, first facing one part of the audience and then another.
Eventually, I got caught. Like I told you, Im nobody special. And I wasnt 
especially bright. One day my lieutenant noticed me wobbling down the road with 
a ham tied to my handlebars and a box of eggs in the basket in back. I think I 
had a turkey drumstick in my holster, I dont remember.
Boy, it all came crashing down in a hurry. I think I died the death of a 
thousand cuts as my lieutenant walked up to me. I made the mistake of asking him 
to be a friend, and Id give him everything I was collecting from the farms. He 
didnt have any of that.
So within six hours of my lieutenant spotting me, I was sitting in the 
Bloomington train station, waiting for my last ride to Chicago. I was bound for 
the Loop. I was very, very alone. All those friends on all those farms, they 
didnt come get me, or turn themselves in and take their share of the blame. 
They werent my friends after all.
Well, its a good thing for me I got caught in the spring of forty-six. Im 
sure you remember the bad flu that went around that winter. It killed thousands 
in Illinois, and thousands more got so weakened by it, they caught pneumonia and 
died just the same. So we had a serious labor shortage in Illinois. I got put to 
work shoveling shit. Im sure many of you know what thats like. But thats all 
I did, every single day. I-worked at the Bloomington railroad livestock yards, 
taking care of the hogs and cows bound for Chicagos slaughterhouses. Of course, 
I was just on parole. Any time they felt like it, they could throw me on the 
next train to Chicago, and no more Jim Touchet.
The first day shoveling, I was happy as a dog locked up overnight in a butcher 
shop. The second day, I was glad to be at work. The third day, I was happy to at 
least have a job. The fourth day, I began to look for ways to cut corners. By 
the fifth day, I was trying to find a nice spot to maybe take a nap where my 
boss couldnt find me.
Of course, my boss noticed me slacking. He was a wise old man. His name was 
Vern Lundquist. Vern had worked at the railroad station in the olden days, and 
he still worked there. He didnt threaten me, not really. He just called me into 
his office and said that if I wanted to stay in his good graces, Id better come 
in tomorrow and give an extra five percent effort.
Even though he didnt threaten me, I got scared. That night I couldnt sleep. I 
was worried that Id show up at work the next day, and the boys in blue would 
throw me on the first train to Chicago. I could be in the Loop in less than 
twenty-four hours.
He stood still, next to the lectem, wiping his sweating brow. His eyes passed 
over the Carlson family, and he smiled at Valentine. His face took on a scaly, 
cobralike cast when he smiled.
That twenty-four hours changed my life. All that night, I thought about giving 
another five percent. How hard could that be? Vern wasnt asking me to work 
seven days a week, which is what most of you out there do on your farms.
The next day, I gave the extra five percent. It was easy. I just did a little 
extra here and there. Did a job without being asked, fixed a loose gate. If old 
Vern noticed, he didnt say anything. I got worried; what if he wasnt noticing 
the extra five percent?
So the next day, I did just a little bit more. Spent an extra fifteen minutes 
doing something I didnt have to do. Cleaned some old windows that hadnt been 
washed since Ronald Reagan was president. I found it was easy to give that extra 
five percent.
It turned into a game. The next day, I gave another five percent. I was 
compounding my interest, to use an old phrase. In tiny little baby steps I was 
turning into a real dynamo. Jim Touchet, the guy who leaned his bike against a 
tree for a two-hour lunch, who always rode home on his route faster than he ever 
rode it while patrolling, was trying extra hard even when no one was looking.
Vern was real happy with me. After a month, I took the job of his assistant. 
Within a year, I was old Verns supervisor. I always gave that extra five 
percent no one else was giving. I always did more than my boss, and usually 
within two years I had his job.
I said the same words to people under me. I asked for an extra five percent. 
Thats all. An extra five percent, when you have a whole bunch of people doing 
it, can turn things around.
Before I knew it, they were calling me Midas Touchet. Everything I turned my 
hand to seemed to turn to gold. Me, the guy who never learned his multiplication 
tables as a kid, who couldnt stay upright on his bike, went from shit-shoveler 
to production senior supervisor. Im responsible for farms from Rockford to 
Mount Vernon, Illinois. I answer to the Illinois Eleven. You think you have 
tough quotas? What are they called up here, reckonings? Ive seen the figures; 
the Illinois Eleven are a lot more demanding than your Triumvirate up in 
Madison. And last year, we were over production. I know what youre thinking; we 
broke quota by five percent, right? Wrong. We doubled the quota. Thats right, 
doubled. The New Universal Church is handing out brass rings to my best people 
like lemon drops. See mine? Touchet asked, holding up his hand. The 
coppery-gold ring glinted on his thick pinkie. He passed it through his oiled 
hair, removed it, and flicked it into the crowd before the platform. A woman 
caught it, screamed, and almost fainted into her husbands arms.
Oh my God, oh my God, she blubbered, shoving it onto her thumb as the audience 
gaped.
Its no big deal, that ring. Ill get another one this fall. Not that I need 
it. If I could have your attention back, Ill let you in on a secret. Ive 
already given you one secret, the secret of the extra five percent. Im a 
generous man. Ill give you a twofer.
The secret is that you dont need a brass ring. Thats the beauty of the New 
Universal Order, he said, lowering his voice.
Valentine looked around, trying to shake the feeling of being almost as 
hypnotized as the young Mr. Sonderberg.
All the Order demands is production. Efficiency. Good old hard work. The things 
that made this country great before the social scientists and lawyers took over. 
I see some old-timers out in the audience. How was it when the lawyers ran the 
show? Did they make things more efficient, or less?
Are you kidding? Anytime lawyers got involved, things got cocked-up, one old 
man shouted.
Touchet nodded happily. In the old Order, how far you went depended on going to 
the right school. Getting the right job. Having the right degree. Living on the 
right side of the tracks. Being the right color. Ten percent of the people owned 
ninety percent of the wealth. Anyone want to disagree?
No one did.
And not just the society was sick. The planet was sick too. Pollution, toxic 
waste, nuclear contamination. We were like fruit flies in a sealed jar with an 
apple core. Ever done that little experiment? Put a couple flies in with some 
food, knock some tiny holes in the lid, and watch what happens. They eat and 
breed, eat and breed. Pretty soon youll have ajar filled with dead fruit flies. 
Mankind removed every form of natural selection. The weak, stupid, and useless 
were breeding just as fast as the successful. That isnt in natures plan. And 
theres only one penalty for a species that breaks the laws of Mother Nature.
Now you can drink out of any river, and you fishermen know the streams are full 
of fish again. The air is clean. It sounds crazy to say, but Im one of the 
people who believes the Kurians were a godsend. The scale is back in balance. 
Were a better people for it. The Kurians have winnowed out the useless mouths. 
They dont play favorites; they dont make exceptions. They keep the strong and 
productive and take the slackers.
A few, perhaps surprisingly few, murmured disagreement.
Im not asking you to agree with me. Just hear me out and go home and think 
about it. And do one more thing. Think about how you can give that extra five 
percent. I know you all work hard. But I bet each of you can do what I did: 
figure out some way to do another five percent. Youll feel better about 
yourself, and your life will be more secure. Like me, youll find youve got a 
brass ring in your pocket and not even need it because youre going the extra 
mile. How many of you slaughter your best milker for steaks? None, right? The 
Kurians are the same way. Theyre here, theyre staying, and weve got to make 
the best of it. 
Youve heard my story. You know I wasnt born special. No great brain, not much 
drive. Not even good-looking. But Ive got a beautiful houseIve got pictures 
if any of you want to see it afterwardsa real gasoline car, and a nice house 
picked out down south for when I retire. So I guess that brass ring is worth 
something after all. Napoleon used to say that every private of his carried a 
marshals baton in his knapsack. Each of you should carry a brass ring in your 
pocket.
You can do it. Any of you out there spend ten hours a day shoveling shit? No? 
Then youve all got the jump on me. Youre already way ahead of where I was when 
I decided to give that extra five percent. Whether youre sixteen or sixty, you 
can do what I did, believe me. Give the extra five, and itll happen to you, 
too.
Now, before I leave for the flatlands, as you call my home, I gotta do the 
usual recruitment drive. Were looking for young men and women, seventeen to 
thirty, who want to take some responsibility for public order and safety. I 
wont give the usual gung-ho speech or list all the perks: You know them better 
than I do. I will guarantee that you wont be mounted on a bicycle with no 
rubber on the tires. And dont forget, even if you go to boot camp and flunk 
out, you still get your one-year bond, no matter what. So whos going to be the 
first to come up on stage and get the bond? Okay, moms and dads, aunts and 
uncles, nows your chance to tell those kids to come up and get the bond.
Valentine listened to the forced applause as a few youths took to the main 
stage, then joined in. It seemed safest to do what everyone else was doing. He 
wondered how many in the audience believed the story, and how many were just 
going along to get along.
Touchet shook hands with the bishop whod introduced him. The bishop patted his 
back and said something in his ear. Touchet returned to the microphone.
Before you leave, I have a couple of announcements. The Triumvirate has changed 
your quotas, or reckoning, I mean. Theyll be discussed individually with you by 
your local commissary officials.
The audience knew better than to groan at the news, but they did quiet down and 
stop filing out of the aisles.
On the good news side, theres an exciting announcement from the New Universal 
Church and the Madison Triumvirate. Any couple that produces ten or more 
children in their lifetime automatically wins the brass ring.
Valentine and Molly Carlson exchanged a significant look, and she tweaked up the 
corner of her mouth at him.
The New Order recognizes the importance of motherhood and family life, the 
snake oil salesman continued, and wants to get the northern part of the state 
repopulated. Any children already born to the family count, so you big families 
with five or six children are already well on your way to the brass ring.
Some more applause broke out, probably from the bigger families.
And finally, weve had some problems with insurgents and spies recently. The 
standard reward of a two-year bond has been upped to a ten-year bond in exchange 
for information leading to the capture of any undocumented trespassers in the 
Triumvirates lands. Thank you for your cooperation.
Thank you for your cooperation, Molly whispered. Now go home and start making 
babies. God knows what youre going to feed them, since they are upping the 
reckoning.
Now, Molly, Mr. Carlson said quietly. The tent was emptying fast, save for a 
few people with questions for either the bishop or Touchet. Valentine escorted 
Molly to the exit, following her parents, and paused to look back at the podium. 
Touchet was looking at him and speaking to the bishop. The Wolf smelled trouble 
at that look. He hurried out of the tent, racking his brain as he tried to 
remember if hed ever seen the lllinoisans face before.
What was there about him that would draw the golden touch?
* * *
Back at the wagon and buggy, the Carlsons ate a quick dinner out of their 
baskets. Flanagan joined them, helping himself to a choice meat pie.
He left a few things out, you know, Gwen, Flanagan said, treating them all to 
a view of half-chewed food. In his lecture to the patrols, he elaborated a bit 
about how he got out of the jam after he was caught helping those folks hide 
animals from the commissary. While he was sitting in the depot, they offered him 
his life back if he would turn in each and every farmer who withheld so much as 
an egg or a stick of butter from the commissary. Turned out he had a real good 
memory, Flanagan chuckled.
It was all part of the talk he gave on duty this morning. Oh, and the brass 
ring he threw out into the audience is a phony. But dont tell anyone I told 
you. Dont hurt nothing to have those folks believing they got it made, as long 
as they stay in our good graces.
Duty, Mike? Mrs. Carlson said. I bet you could tell Mr. Midas there a thing 
or two about devotion to duty. Like putting it before family. Youre an expert 
at that.
Dont start, Gwen. Thats in the past. Ive done plenty for you since, even a 
few things that would get me on the next train to Chicago. Oh, shit, its 
starting to rain again, Major Flanagan grumbled, looking at the sky. Bye, 
kids. Stay out of trouble. Glad to see you showed up for the meeting, Saint 
Croix. Maybe youre smarter than you look.
On the ride back, Molly drove the buggy. Valentine was unsure of himself on the 
rain-wet surface, and they decided a pair of experienced hands on the reins 
would be best. Valentine and Molly sat together under the tarp again, but he 
couldnt recapture the half-excited, half-scared mood of the trip down when he 
first felt her close to him.
You didnt fall for any of that baloney, did you? Molly asked.
No, but he did know how to tell a good story. He had me spellbound for a 
while.
Yes, hes one of the best I can remember hearing. Thats what youd expect 
right before they increase the reckoning. She paused for a moment. You seem a 
million miles away.
I didnt like the way he looked at me. At the end, when he was talking to the 
bishop. Almost like he was asking about me.Funny, because Ive never seen him 
before in my life.
Well, according to Uncle Mike, he really is from Illinois. You ever been 
there?
I passed through it on the way here, but we stayed in the uninhabited part. Or 
mostly uninhabited, that is. Sorry if I seem preoccupied. You sure pegged the 
baby thing. How did you know?
She smiled at him. Just because Im eighteen and hardly been more than twenty 
miles from home, you think Im ignorant. Theres a fresh batch of vampires up in 
New Glarus. Nobody knows when they came in with their Master exactly, but it 
seems like theyre here to stay. Thats more hungry mouths. How often do they 
need feeding, anyway?
That is one of the many things we dont know about the Reapers. According to 
the theories out of this group that studies them down in Arkansas, how much they 
need to eat depends on how active they and their Master are. We think a lot of 
times the Kurians have about half their Hoods shut down. This is just guesswork, 
but the fewer Reapers a Kurian has to control, the better he can control them. 
Sometimes when hes trying to work all thirteen at once, they just turn into 
eating machines and do stupid stuff like forget to get in out of the daylight. 
But the Kurian cant control too few, either. He takes a risk when he does that. 
If the link for feeding vital auras to the Kurian Lord gets shut down, like say 
if hes got only one Reaper left and it gets killed, we think the Kurian dies 
with it.
Molly rewrapped the thick reins in her hand. Thats interesting. Its funny to 
just be able to talk about them with somebody. Discussing the Kurians is a taboo 
subject here. Too easy to say the wrong thing. So a Reaper can be killed?
Yes, Valentine said, but you need to put that at the top of your easier said 
than done list. Ive seen six trained men pump rifle bullets into one at a 
range of about ten feet, and all it did was slow it down. Of course, those robes 
they wear protect them a lot. If theyre hurt, you can behead them. A lot of 
times were satisfied just to blow them up or cripple them so they cant move 
around much and theyre easier to finish off. But again, even catching one where 
you can gang up on it is hard. Theyre usually active only at night, and they 
see better than us, hear better than us, and so on.
So how do you do it?
Its a long story. Kind of hard to believe, too, unless its happened to you. 
Now I know Ive told you there are also people like the Kurians, but theyre on 
our side.
Yes, the Lifeweavers.
Good, yes, you have it. Long time ago, I think we worshiped them, and made them 
out to be gods. But they have the ability to awaken latent I dont know, I 
guess youd call them powers within a human. About four thousand years ago, 
they made it very totemistic so the people would accept what these gods or 
wizards or whatever were doing. The spirit of a wolf is in you.
Can they do it with anyone?
I dont know. The Lifeweavers select you for it, I know that much. Down in the 
Ozark Free Territory, they have three kinds of warriors they create, each named 
for an animal.
Maybe they use different animals elsewhere, like lions in Africa maybe. Were 
called the Hunters. We all carry a blade of some kind to finish off the Reapers. 
In the Wolves we just use a short, broad-bladed knife. Its a very handy tool in 
the woods, too. The Wolves are like the cavalry. We move fast from place to 
place, scout out the enemy troops, and fight guerrilla actions, mostly. Theres 
lots of Wolves. Those Cats are spies, assassins, and saboteurs. I dont know 
about the Cat training, seems like theyre just really, really good Wolves who 
prefer to work alone. Ive known only one Cat. They go into the Kurian areas and 
mess with the Reapers. Maybe theres one around here somewhere. But if there is, 
he or she probably doesnt know Im around. As I told you, I was just running 
the mail up to Lake Michigan. Then there are the Bears. Theyre the meanest 
bunch of bad-asses in the Southern Command, I can say for certain. I dont know 
what the Life weavers do to the Bears to make them the way they are, but Ive 
heard of a single Bear taking on three Reapers and killing them all. Theyre 
like human tanks. We Wolves always make room for them at the bar when they come 
in.
They listened to the clip-clop of hoofbeats. Luckily it was an asphalt road, 
with only a few gravel stretches. The Morgan trotted steadily behind at the end 
of his lead, enjoying his exercise. Molly slowed the buggy to a walk and let the 
horse breathe, to give the rest of the family a chance to catch up a little in 
the plodding wagon.
Do you win often? Molly asked. I mean, actually go out and beat the Reapers?
Sometimes. The Ozarks are still free, arent they? But it costs people. Good 
people, Valentine said, remembering.
Dont think about that too much, she suggested. It makes you look all old and 
tired. Youre what, twenty?
I feel older. Maybe its all the miles.
Now it was Mollys turn to be lost in thought. You beat them, she ruminated. 
Weve always been told you just hide out up in the mountains. Starving to death 
in winter, stuff like that. Even the lodges, our organization for getting people 
out of the Triumvirates reach, discourage anyone from going down there.
Its a long trip, Valentine agreed. Long and dangerous.
You must really trust us, David. I could turn you in and get a brass ring for 
sure. A Wolf, an officer even, theyd love that. Uncle Mike would shit himself 
to death if he knew. He even gave you a work card. She giggled.
At first I didnt have much of a choice except to trust you. Seemed like we 
were going to get caught anyway. Gonzalez wanted me to leave him, but I couldnt 
do that. Now Im glad I gambled.
She cocked her head and smiled. Why?
Valentine shook his head and averted his eyes. That smile was irresistible. 
Father Max used to say, Women and six-year-olds never run out of questions.
Only because men and four-year-olds never have the right answers, she 
countered.
Listen to you, Valentine laughed.
Cmon, I mean it, David, why are you glad? Do you like this little charade 
were playing, the courtship thing?
At the word charade, Valentine felt a glass splinter pierce his heart. He 
forcibly brightened his voice. Its been fun, sure. Ive enjoyed talking to 
you, being around your family. I havent had a family since I was little.
Molly started the horse again at a slow walk. Ive had fun, too, David. 
Sometimes I cant tell if its a role that Im playing or not. Im almost sorry 
it has to end. Not that I want to bring a baseball team of your kids into the 
world to win a brass ring, of course.
Of course, Valentine agreed. Im sorry it has to end, too, he added mentally.
Back at the Carlsons home that night, Valentine and Gonzalez talked in the 
basement. Valentine told him about the pep talk that took place at the tent and 
the funny look he received from the speaker.
I dont know, Val. All the more reason to get out of town soon. You dont think 
its going to look suspicious if we just disappear?
No, I already talked about that with Mr. Carlson. Hes going to say Molly and I 
didnt get along, and we took off for parts unknown after a big argument. Hows 
that armcan you ride yet?
Gonzalez removed it from the sling. His fingers were curved, and the skin looked 
dry and unhealthy, like an octogenarians arthritic hand. Its bad, Lieutenant. 
I think the nerve is gone. It kind of burns and itches sometimes. I can still 
ride, but itll be one-handed.
You cant shoot one-handed. Looks like youre heading for a well-deserved 
retirement
Ill use a pistol.
Thats for Captain LeHavre to say. Speaking of which, I havent had a good 
dressing-down in weeks. Im ready to go home and get yelled at again. How about 
you?
Say the word.
I want to wait another day or two. You still look kind of pale, Senor Gonzalez. 
I want to cook us some biscuits and see to the horses shoes. Anyway, how was 
your day holding the fort with Frat?
Hes a tough kid. We could use him in the Wolves.
Valentine was intrigued. He could not remember the last tune Gonzalez had called 
anyone tough. What do you mean?
We got talking while you were away. I told him where I come from, and he told 
me about Chicago. When he was little, he got put in the worst part of town with 
his mom and dad. In the center of the city, inside the river, theres this place 
called the Loop. Its got a river to the north and west, and the lake to the 
east. A bunch of those frog-Grogs live in the shallows. In the lake, you know? 
Then to the south, theres a big wall made out of an old expressway.
According to Frat, trains still run people in, but no one can come out. The 
buildings are so tall, its like being at the bottom of a canyon. No lights. The 
people there live on rats, birds, garbage that gets dumped in the river. He said 
they eat each other, too.
You sure he wasnt just making it up? Valentine said.
Tf he is, hes good at it, Gonzalez argued. The only people that go in are 
the Reapers. All the bridges are down, but they use a tunnel system under the 
city to get in and out. That whole Loop area is like the happy hunting ground 
for the Chicago Reapers. They just leave the bodies for the rats or those 
frog-Grogs.
Thats how the kid got out. Through the tunnels. Can you believe it, crawling 
in the dark through a tunnel the Hoods use? I couldnt do it, thats for sure.
Valentine shuddered at the thought. A pitch-black tunnel, Reapers maybe at 
either end. Of course, maybe the kids bravado came from ignorance of how easily 
the Reapers could spot him.
Engine sounds from outside the house penetrated their refuge. Valentines 
heightened hearing detected a vehicle slowing as it approached.
Hey, sir Gonzalez said, startled.
Shh, I hear it, too. Valentine identified a car engine with a bad muffler. It 
pulled into the Carlsons yard, and he heard two car doors open and shut. 
Muffled voices came from upstairs.
Valentine gestured toward the hidden room. Gonzalez kept watch at the stairs, 
and Valentine worked the pine knot that allowed him to pull open the door. The 
secret room was a little more spacious with their cots out in Frats part of the 
basement. Their packs and weapons were still concealed within.
The ventilation duct let him hear the voices in the living room loud and clear. 
Mr. and Mrs. Carlson received Major Flanagan and his assistant Virgil in the 
main room. Even the squeaks of the old chairs could be heard through the air 
vent.
What brings you out tonight, Major? Carlson asked.
It cant be a second helping of meat pie, Mrs. Carlson added. Im all out, 
and with the rain, theres no rabbits in the traps today. I can roast you a 
potato, if you want.
Its a social call, Alan, Flanagan said. Well, fifty-fifty. Its about the 
meeting at the tent today.
What, did we miss an encore? Mrs. Carlson asked. Pull himself up by his 
bootstraps so hard he flew out of the tent?
Gwen, your sense of humor needs a good curb bit, Flanagan growled. But it 
does have to do with Jim Touchet. He saw someone in your family who really 
intrigued him. Wants a personal interview, you might say.
Valentine reached for his rifle. It felt comforting in his hand.
Who, Saint Croix? Im not sure hes even going to be in the family yet, Mike.
No, Alan, Flanagan said with a sardonic laugh. It was Molly. He wants your 
daughter.
There was a silent pause in the room above. After a full ten seconds, Mr. 
Carlsons voice echoed forcefully down the vent. Fuck you, Mike.
Valentine smiled with approval. He had never heard Mr. Carlson say anything 
stronger than heck before, but the occasion deserved it.
Are you going to take7 Virgils voice demanded.
Fuck you, too, Virgil.
Now just wait
Flanagan interrupted his lieutenant. Okay, before we get into a pissing 
contest, which youd lose and you know it, Alan, just think this deal through. 
Listen to what I have to say. Not only would you be doing me a big favor, and I 
think you owe me one after all these years, but youd be helping your family, 
too. Theyre offering the whole family a two-year bond. Actually its a 
five-year bond; they said I could go up to five if I had to. Dont look at me 
that way, Virgil, shes my niece and they ought to get everything they can out 
of it.
Alan, Ill be honest with you. The next five years are going to be tough. You 
know there are new Reapers in Glarus. Ive already got orders to make up lists 
of who is going to make the cut and who isnt. Your farm is doing good now, but 
what if you have a bad year? What if the cows catch something? Youd be damn 
glad you had that bond if something like that happens. And even if youre not on 
the list, maybe a vampire is passing through and happens to get hungry by your 
place. You know it happens as well as I do. The lists dont mean shit when 
theyre prowling, but bonds do.
After a moment to let the threats, spoken and unspoken, sink in, the major 
continued. It aint like shed be gone permanent. I have that from the bishop 
himself. Touchet is giving talks in Platteville, Richland Center, and Reedsburg, 
then going back through Madison. Three weeks, shed be gone. He said he wanted 
some companionship on the trip. And the bond starts as soon as she shows up at 
the Church Center in Monroe, so shell be safe in Madison, even. What can I say, 
Alan. Youve got a real honey of a daughter. She caught his eye.
Quite a time for this to happen, Carlson said. I wonder how Saint Croix would 
like her disappearing with that old lech. So much for them settling down.
Dont worry about him. Worry about your family, Alan. Saint Croix might 
understand, after all. Ill have a word with the bishop. Since Saint Croix is 
practically family, maybe we can offer him the bond, too. Even make getting 
married to her a condition. That might close the deal. If hes a smart kid, 
hell know five years is just what he needs when hes trying to get a farm up 
and running.
Hes a smart kid, all right, Valentine breathed. Smart enough to blow your 
ass off through the floor.
Lets talk to Molly tomorrow, Mrs. Carlson suggested, obviously to her 
husband. And maybe David, too.
Valentine counted twenty heartbeats.
Okay, Gwen. Listen, Mike. Im sorry I got riled. You, too, Virgil. I was just a 
little surprised is all. When youre a father, your little girl is always six 
years old. Shes a grown woman; I forget sometimes. But why her? There were 
prettier girls at the meeting.
Not according to Touchet. Virgil, go wait outside. Alan, if you dont mind, Id 
like a private word with Gwen."
Okay, Major. Ill sleep on it. Call you tomorrow. Good night.
Night, Alan.
Valentine listened to the footsteps move about as Virgil was escorted to the 
door and Mr. Carlson retired to the kitchen. Valentine thought he heard him 
exchange a few words with Frat.
Now listen, Gwen, Valentine heard Flanagan say to his sister, keeping his 
voice low enough for it not to travel out of the room. Not quiet enough for my 
ears, though, Valentine thought.
You know Im not the law. The law is whatever the Triumvirate says it is. This 
Touchet is a big wheel in Illinois, one of the biggest outside of Chicago. The 
New Church wants him happy, and Im going to see that hes happy. Im making it 
look like Alan has a choice in this, but he doesnt. Neither does Molly. You 
follow me?
I follow you, Mrs. Carlson said in a low tone. Valentine picked up the anger 
in her brittle voice. He wondered if her brother did.
Touchets going to have her one way or another. I know what you have to say 
cuts a lot of ice with Alan. So you might as well profit from it and get that 
bond.
Is there a bond in it for you, too, Michael? she asked.
Cant fool you, can I, Sis? Maybe there is. This is pretty important. I think 
the Kurians want Touchet to consider moving here permanently. That is, if we can 
pry him away from the Illinois Eleven. They want him running the Wisconsin farms 
like he does in Illinois.
We, Michael? Are you a we with the Kurians?
Always have been. I know which side of the bread my butter is on. I always 
figured I got Moms brains. I think all you got was Dads stubbornness.
Mrs. Carlson sighed. Okay, Michael, youre right. Ill see what I can do.
There, that wasnt so hard now, was it?
Harder than youll ever know.
Wow, man, youre losing it, Frat exclaimed, eyeing the mountain of cordwood.
Valentine was turning logs into firewood with his usual vigor. He stood outside 
one of the many little buildings budding from the barns walls, filling the 
woodshed with fuel. During his stay with the Carlsons, he had chopped a little 
every day to keep himself exercised. Valentine did not use an ax. He preferred a 
saw to reduce the trunks into manageable two-foot lengths, which he could then 
split with a wedge. He followed his routine with robotic precision. He grabbed a 
length of trunk and placed it on his chopping block: an old stump that had no 
doubt served in this capacity for years. Then he picked up the wedge in his left 
hand and the twenty-pound sledgehammer in his right, gripping the latter right 
up under the rounded steel head. A vigorous tap seated the triangular metal 
spike. Then hed step back, shift his grip on the sledge by letting gravity pull 
the handle though his callused fingers, and whirl it in a sweeping circle behind 
him, up and then down to the wedge. He would then stack the halves and quarters 
in a nice, tight pile.
The days woodcutting began after a halfhearted appreciation of one of Mrs. 
Carlsons epic breakfasts. Everyone ate with a preoccupied detachment, as if the 
family dog had gone rabid and no one wanted to talk about who would have to 
shoot it. Molly looked drawn, her mother pale and tight-mouthed, and Mr. Carlson 
sported a dark crescent under each eye. Frat gobbled his breakfast like a 
starving wolf and fled to the backyard and his chores, taking the dog with nim. 
Even young Mary seemed to pick up on the tension; she shifted her gaze from her 
sister to her parents and back again.
Valentine decided Frat had the right idea, cleared his plate, and went outside. 
He had played the role of a forester the past few days and brought down several 
likely looking trees from the wooded hills to turn into split-rail fences and 
fireplace fodder.
He lost himself in the chopping, thinking about how to im-provise a pack for his 
Morgan and some spare saddles. He could tie together a sawbuck rig, and there 
was enough worn-out leather and canvas in the old tack trunk to strap it to his 
horse. By having the Morgan carry feed for itself and Gonzalezs horse, and with 
Valentine loaded, as well, they should be able to get within striking distance 
of the Ozarks before the oats and corn ran out. He planned to cross the 
Mississippi farther north and move quickly across Iowa, returning to the Free 
Territory somewhere southwest of St. Louis.
But despite the hard work and plans to get his crippled Wolf home, thoughts of 
Molly continually shifted his train of thought to emotional sidings.
Frats comment brought him out of his sledge-swinging meditation.
What was that? Valentine asked.
Youve been chopping wood almost every day since you got here; youre a regular 
Paul Bunyan. Weve got enough to get us through two winters. Its going to rot 
before we can use it.
Well, maybe your dad can sell some of it.
Valentine realized his back and arms ached. He looked at the sun; the warm 
September afternoon had already begun. Even better, his mind was relaxed, 
tranquil.
Hey, David, why are they watching the house?
Valentine put down the sledge, leaning the handle against his leg. So much for 
tranquillity. Who is watching the house?
The patrols. Theres a car down the road toward La-Grange. One guy in it, so 
his partner is probably in the hills somewhere with binoculars or a spotting 
scope. Frat shaded his eyes and looked up into the hills and shrugged.
How do you know there are two?
They always go in pairs. Uncle Mike talks about it. They switch around the 
partners a lot so no one gets used to working with anyone. Keeps them honest, I 
guess.
Youre pretty sharp, Frat.
Naw, it aint that. Its just when its the same thing day after day, you 
notice the patterns. Like youanytime youre worried about anything, you cut 
wood.
I do it for the exercise.
Frat shook his head, a triumphant grin on his face. You sure needed a lot of 
exercise before meeting Uncle Mike. And when you and my mom talked about the 
damage to Gonzos arm, you cut a lot then. Before you went riding with Molly, 
too. And that same day, after you got back and cleaned up your horse, you 
chopped until dinner.
Valentine sat down on the stump, staring at the youth. Hell, was all he could 
think to say. He looked over at Frat. Do you know about the deal with your 
sister?
Yeah, Mom and Dad were up most of the night talking about it. They talked about 
packing up and asking you to lead them out of Wisconsin. My mom said that 
wouldnt work because Mike was having us watched. Turned out she was right. They 
woke Molly up early and talked about it upstairs first thing this morning.
Did they decide anything?
I dont know. Molly started crying.
Valentine concentrated on keeping his face blank.
Frat, do me a favor. You have a few rabbit snares around, dont you?
Uh-huh. Theres a warren up in one of the pastures, and theres rabbits in the 
hills, too.
Valentine scanned the hills. Go up and check your traps. See if you can see 
where that other patroller is. Can do?
Sure. Can do.
Come and look for me in the stable if you spot him. But first of all go in the 
house for a few minutes. Like you were just sitting around, and your parents 
came up with something to get you out of their hair. Now get going.
Frat scampered off toward the house.
Valentine forced himself to put away his tools for the benefit of the hidden 
observer. He wandered to the stable, in no particular hurry. The ancient stalls, 
missing their doors, enclosed the horses with short lengths of rope. The rich 
smell of horse sweat and manure filled the warm afternoon air.
Five horses, he considered. Three belong to the Carlsons, then his and 
Gonzalezs. Mrs. Carlson on one, the girls on the second, Gonzalez sharing the 
third with Mr. Carlson, taking turns riding it. He and Frat could walk; the boy 
looked lean and capable. Theyre farm and riding horses, not packhorses. Best 
keep the load under 150 pounds for travel up and down hills. Blankets and 
tenting, rope and equipment. Farrier supplies for the horses, or losing a shoe 
means losing a horse. Maybe a weeks food for man and beast. Would a week get us 
out of reach? God, the lifesign. Extra Reapers in Glarus to think about, theyd 
cover the thirty miles to LaGrange between dusk and midnight, running. Shit, 
wed be drawing to an inside straight. And Gonzalez cant shoot.
Hi, David, a scratchy voice said.
Molly.
Phew, youre sweaty. Frat said you were cutting wood.
Oh, yeah. Well, I thought Id leave your dad with a good supply. Or he could 
sell it, help pay for all the food we ate. Dont know how to pay him back for 
saving our lives. Are you okay?
She ran her hands through uncombed hair, pulling the sun-kissed blond strands 
behind her. So you know, then.
No point in lying, he thought. Yes. I sort of eavesdropped last night through 
the basement air vent. None of my busi-ness, I know, Molly. Your uncle painted a 
pretty ugly picture. What did your parents say?
They just told me to do some thinking, and wed talk about it more today. But 
Ive already made up my mind.
Not the Masada solution, I hope.
A hint of her old smile crossed her face. No. She took a deep breath. Im 
going to do it, of course. It came out as a single word: Imgoingtodoit. As if 
by saying it faster, it would be over with all the more quickly.
Valentine had a feeling all morning that would be her decision. What alternative 
did she have? Perhaps he could offer one.
Did you tell your parents?
Not yet. I wanted to tell you first. I know that sounds dumb. I mean, its not 
like youre my husband, but
Molly, he interrupted, Ive been thinking about getting your family out of 
here. And not just since yesterday, either. Its a slim chance, Ill admit. 
Heres what we do
David, dont start. Its okay.
No, listen to what Ive
No, I want you to listen to me. Your slim chance, it involves us trying to slip 
out, becoming runners, right?
Not just us, everyone. Your parents, the horses, even the dog.
Listen, David, youre crazy. None of us are in shape to ride or walk for days 
and days. And theyre watching us. If my uncles letting us see two men, that 
probably means theres six more all around somewhere. Hes no doubt let the 
Breitlings know that if we try something stupid, they can get the five-year 
bonds just for calling the patrols.
Theyre only giving me an illusion of choice in the matter. My mom didnt say 
it, but I think that one side of the coin has the promise of the bond, but the 
other has a threat. If the bishop says frog, my uncle jumps. Hes not going to 
let something like family get in the way of orders.
Valentine opened his mouth, but she stepped toward him and gently cupped her 
hand over it. David, Im glad you were thinking about getting us out. Before 
this stuff with Touchet, it would have worked, Im sure. No one would have 
expected us to up and disappear. We could have done it with you guiding us. You 
know, almost nobody has maps anymore. None of the roads have signs. I couldnt 
find my way to Madison if I wanted to, or anywhere else outside a twenty-mile 
circle. She pulled her hand away and hugged him. He put his arms around her, 
strangely unhappy at the embrace. Youre being good and brave, she said. But 
lets face facts. Im not a damsel in distress, and there are too many dragons 
anyway. This guy is a big shot. Hes going to get what he wants. I see a few cow 
farms Ive never seen before, and some backwater towns. I get a trip to Madison. 
Maybe he just likes having a girl on his arm to impress people, who knows. So I 
sleep with him. One things for sure, I dont want a baby. My mom said theres a 
way
Molly, dont say it. I dont want to think about you doing that, Valentine 
said, twisting his mouth in disgust.
What, pregnancy? Well, youre a man. I guess you dont have to think about it 
if you dont want to. You seem a little old not to know the facts of life, but 
women have to consider the possibility.
No, Ive just heard things. About women dying that way, you know.
She looked down the aisle of horses and patted Lucy on the nose. Valentine 
looked at her, in an old pair of her fathers pants cut off at the knee, breasts 
swelling under a T-shirt. In her disheveled state, she looked younger than her 
eighteen years, too young to be cold-bloodedly discussing abortion.
Well, with luck, the old farts incapable, she said, closing the discussion. 
She walked down the line of horses. Great, the hay nets are empty. Mary only 
wants to ride and groom horses; she leaves the mucking out to Frat and me. Poor 
things! Sorry, guys, we cant turn you out in the new field until the fence is 
done! These two new horses ate up what grass you guys left in your pasture. Do 
me a favor, David. Can you get two bales from the loft? Im going to water these 
two.
Valentine crossed to the barn and climbed into the hayloft. He liked the sweet 
smell of hay and alfalfa up there, masking the cow odor from beneath. A couple 
of sparrows hopped and played in the air, and spiderwebs caught the sunlight 
like little silver flowers.
He heard the ladder rungs creaking. Molly joined him in the loft, a determinedly 
cheerful smile showing off her good teeth. She had washed her face at the 
horse-pump, her T-shirt had a wet, face-shaped patch over the belly where shed 
used it to dry herself.
Thought Id give you a hand with the bales. Theyre really loose. Sometimes 
theyre hard to handle. But if you bale hay tight, it gets all mildewy and rots. 
We cant afford to waste anything.
Valentine sniffed .a bale. Hey, youre right. I didnt know that. All the hay 
Ive ever seen has been packed too tight. Doesnt smell as good as this.
Thats the clover. We grow that on the other side of the road.
She cut a bundle and spilled it onto the floor of the loft.
Very funny, Valentine said. How are we going to carry it now? Or do you want 
to make a scarecrow?
Sure, David, she said, her eyes big and bright. We can use your clothes. Why 
dont you take them off and give them to me.
Whats that? he said.
She knelt in the hay. Too shy? Okay, Ill start.
With a quick, graceful movement she pulled her T-shirt up and over her head. Her 
shapely young breasts bobbed enticingly as she leaned back into the hay. 
Valentine stood and gaped, feeling his groin swell, otherwise utterly 
dumbfounded.
David, do I have to spell it out for you? Lets make love. I need you to do 
this for me.
Molly I mean, weve never even kissed, this is kind of
Sudden? she finished. Well, yes, I suppose youre right. Actually, Ive only 
kissed a couple of guys. And one, he was in the patrols, I didnt even want him 
to kiss me. But he did, and he put his hand on my chest. I yelled, pushed him 
away, and ran for it. Thats the sum total of my sexual experience.
David, Im a virgin. Im going to be with this guy, and the thing that bothers 
me the most about it well, other than that Im being forced to do it in the 
first place the thing that bothers me the most is that hed be my first time. 
Not a memory I want to have for the rest of my life. I know you, I like you a 
lot, and I think you like me. Youre nice. Youre better-looking than some, and 
brighter than most. Youre an officer. A gentleman, too, otherwise youd already 
be on top of me.
Its not like the thought hasnt crossed my mind, Molly.
Just go slow, okay, David? she said, scooting her hips up off the floor of the 
loft and slipping the oversize shorts down to her feet. She kicked them off with 
the flick of a leg.
Valentine sank to his knees beside her, placing his mouth on hers. He was also 
inexperienced, his innate shyness and quiet manner made even youthful kisses and 
pettings few and far between. Molly Carlson, perhaps the most beautiful girl he 
had ever known, was in his arms and his for the taking. Animal instinct came to 
his rescue. His young, demanding lust took him where his self-confidence feared 
to tread. He felt her probing hand reach the hardness in his pants. She fumbled 
with his belt. He wanted to take off his shirt, but her soft, yielding mouth 
felt so exquisite against his, it was impossible to break contact. She undid his 
belt and the worn-out stitching of the fly gave way to her hearty pull; 
skittering buttons flew in all directions. He managed to tear his mouth away 
from hers, laying a series of gentle kisses across her face and down her neck. 
She giggled and squirmed, thrusting her breasts against his chest. He pulled his 
shirt up and off his head and thrashed out of his pants.
She came up to his mouth, pressing him with a hard kiss that went all the way 
down to his soul, and he lost balance, falling onto his back with her on top of 
him. Coppery-blond hair tickled his face and neck like tiny dancing fingers as 
she kissed him. Her hand trailed down across his stomach and found him, first 
touching, then exploring, and finally gripping his hardness. His own arms traced 
the muscles on her back and caressed the soft skin of her buttocks. She 
responded, rubbing herself against his thigh, one of her hands playing with his 
black hair as the other stroked him below.
God, Molly, thats good, he groaned, a deep and sensual rasp in his voice. He 
returned the favor, his gentle hand tracing the outlines of her sex, from the 
curly triangular mat of pubic hair to the soft folds of flesh between her legs. 
Their kisses became a rapid staccato, and he felt a rush of moisture come to 
her.
Please, David. Slowly, okay? she breathed in his ear. She turned over on her 
back, and he followed her movement as if in time to a waltz. She gazed up at 
him, pupils dilated in the dimness of the loft. He suddenly wanted this moment 
to be forever, Molly in his arms and the smell of womanhood and clover and a 
hint of lavender-sweet nepenthe in his nostrils. He pressed himself against her, 
kissing her softly and slowly as she guided him inside, and they were one. He 
took her in a series of slow strokes, each one slightly deeper than the last. A 
wince of pain washed across her face and then turned, as an ebb tide gives way 
to the flow, into a flush of passion. Her hands alternately clawed and caressed 
his rippling back with each deep, slow penetration. They lost themselves, 
together and yet apart, until at last he climaxed, emptying himself into her as 
spasm after spasm racked his body, mouth gaping open as if in a scream, but 
producing only an intense, unintelligible moan.
Afterwards she lay in his arms, drowsing away the afternoon. He teetered on the 
pleasant point between exhilaration and exhaustion.
Are you okay? he asked.
Wonderful, she said, drawling out the word. She reached between her legs and 
brought up her fingers. A smear of blood coated her forefinger and thumb.
Funny. I figured it would be gone after all the horse riding, she mused.
He kissed away the blood from her hand. The girl named Molly who walked into the 
barn that afternoon would have been disgusted at the gesture, but the woman in 
her lovers arms thought it touching.
Ha, fooled you. My time of the month, she said.
He glanced up at her, eyebrows lifted.
Joke, she said, twitching her nose at him and rolling her eyes.
Well, since this chore is done, I really have to look into making a pack for my 
horse, Valentine said, not letting her get away with it. She restrained him, 
tightening her grip around his neck.
Chore indeed! When I took off my shirt, you about passed out.
Yeah, the blood drained out of my head, all right, Valentine agreed.
I know where it all went. Im going to be walking funny for a while, I think.
They kissed, laughing into each others mouths.
Seriously now, David. This whole thing actually helps you, too. If you and 
Gonzo pack up and go right after I do, it will fit perfectly. Im sure theyre 
expecting you to get pissed and leave. You can keep the story about looking for 
a place to farm west of here. Your work cards are legit. Even if they call 
Monroe to check it out, your story will stand up.
He rolled onto his back in the hay with a sigh. He did not want the afternoon to 
end.
When are you going to Monroe?
Tomorrow afternoon. Touchet is leaving for Richland Center the day after 
tomorrow. Tuesday morning, I guess. Thats what Uncle Mike told my dad on the 
phone today. Is this guy that important that they kidnap young ex-virgins for 
him?
Valentine shrugged. Youd know better than I. But if he gets production out of 
the farms, I suppose hes pretty important. Their army has to eat, too. Speaking 
of eating, I wonder if Frat found any rabbits. Your mother makes a great game 
pie. Oh, God! Your parents Im going to have a hard time acting normal in front 
of them.
You and me both. Butwhat do we have to feel guilty about? Youre my fiance, 
right?
He chuckled, nuzzling her with his chin. The shyness had magically vanished. Or 
perhaps it had been exorcised by a far stronger and more ancient magic.
Molly Valentine, she mused. Ugh!
Hey! he objected.
No, I just hate the Molly part. I love Valentine. Melissa Valentine? Thats 
better. Nobody ever called me Melissa. Molly is way easier to shout.
Put your pants on, Melissa. Or well be here all night, he said, looking out 
at the setting sun.
That wouldnt be so bad. I wonder if the patrolman watching the place got an 
eyeful.
Dinner passed self-consciously, but Valentine found he could talk to her parents 
without feeling too uncomfortable. Her parents seemed to have other things on 
their minds. All Valentine could do was look at Mollys red, raw lips. How could 
they not notice that?
Gonzalez noticed something else in the basement as they got ready for bed.
Hey, Val, what happened today? he asked.
Split a lot of wood.
Gonzalez snorted. You stuck your wedge into something.
Valentine turned around. Whats that supposed to mean?
Well, your flys been unbuttoned all night, and your back looks like two alley 
cats went about fifteen rounds on it. Unless youve been rolling in barbed wire, 
Id say someone was moaning in your ear.
Just go to sleep, funnyman. I was just doing some chores for the family, 
really. Molly had something she needed fixed, so I took care of it for her.
Gonzalez shook his head and turned over, carefully positioning his injured arm. 
You officers get all the good jobs, he observed.
Valentine awoke in the middle of the night to a light tread on the stair. In the 
dim light shining down from the kitchen, he saw Molly cautiously entering the 
basement.
David? she whispered.
Over here, Valentine breathed back.
No, over here, Gonzalez answered.
Shut up, you, Valentine said, throwing his pillow at the scout.
I wanted to talk to you. Sorry, Gonzo, she said.
Gonzalez swung his feet to the floor with a groan and pulled on his pants with 
his good arm. I just remembered how long its been since Ive watched a 
sunrise. Dont make too much noise talking, you two.
Thanks, Victor. I mean it, Valentine said.
You owe me one. See you at breakfast.
He moved soundlessly up the stairs.
Molly scuttled into Valentines arms. He kissed her, grateful for her surprise.
Did you want to talk? he asked.
Sort of, she said. But not anymore. Lets go into the secret room. Its dark, 
and we can make a little bit of noise. But just a little.
Valentine opened the panel in the wall, and they nipped into the deep shadows, 
holding hands.
Hey, you used one of those soaps, Valentine whispered, smelling her clean 
skin.
Yes, this ones
Roses, Valentine said, caressing her hair. Beautiful.
She shut the door, and they were in blackness so total there was nothing but 
touch, and the faint smell of roses.
They kissed and kissing, lay down together. They melded in the darkness, 
learning new ways to please each other, delight each other, and, finally, love 
each other.
They said good-byes in a steady, spirit-sapping drizzle. As Flanagan and his 
ubiquitous shadow waited out of the rain in the patrol car, family, friends, and 
lovers shared a few parting hugs. Valentine, Molly, and her parents all wore the 
same air of false cheerfulness that appears at a funeral, after a septuagenarian 
drops dead in perfect health. Never knew what hit him, one relative will say 
to another. Yes, Id love to go that way. No pain, no suffering, no illness. 
Lucky man, the other will agree, jointly looking for the tiny patch of sunshine 
among the dreary clouds.
The same forced tone was present in Mr. Carlsons voice as he said good-bye to 
his daughter. Molly wore her oldest cow-mucking work clothes, clean but 
nevertheless permanently stained. Country girl he wants, country girl he gets, 
she had said to her mother after turning down the suggestion that she wear her 
prettiest dress, a blue-checkered barn-dancer that matched her eyes, to cheer 
herself up. No, give that to Mary. Something to remember me by, she said, 
leaving the room before her mother could ask what she meant.
Take care of that arm, Victor, Molly said, shaking his left hand. My turn to 
see the big city, Frat. At least Madison isnt Chicago, thank God. Mary, theres 
more to horses than riding and brushing them. Im putting you in charge of the 
stables while Im gone, and youd better keep it clean.
Her words to Valentine, in hindsight, also hinted at her dark mood under the 
steel-gray clouds. David, youre going tonight, right? When it gets dark?
Thats the plan. Im still working on that pack for my horse. Well be miles 
away by morning.
She smiled up at him, satisfied. They wandered to the side of the house, where 
they could kiss without watchful eyes on them. Ill think of you fighting 
Reapers, David. You know, now that Ive thought of it, maybe your Masada 
solution is the better one. Take a few of them with you.
Molly, dont get so grim. Youll look back on this in a couple of years and 
laugh. Or maybe throw up. But its not forever. Its really kind of pathetic of 
him if you think about it. Sending your butt-kissing uncle out into the woods to 
bring him a dinner date at gunpoint.
Thats the first thing Ill tell him, Molly said, beaming at the thought.
Come back and work the farm. And just because my plan wont work right now 
doesnt mean it wont three years from now. Some night a team of Wolves will 
show up at your back door. Well get your whole family out.
If my dad will go. Hes pretty committed to smuggling people out of here.
Well, I owe your family a very big favor. Youre going to collect on it. Ill 
come for you someday in the fall, if I can.
She looked into his eyes. I think three years from now, youll have more 
important things to worry about. Be careful with promises. You know that saying, 
Tomorrow is promised to no one, right? Thats like the law of the Kurian 
lands.
Youve got five years promised to you and your family.
Well see, David. That bond might be as worthless as the ring he tossed into 
the audience. Just go tonight, okay? But can you tell me one thing, David? Was I 
your first time you know lovemaking?
Valentine owed her the truth. Yes. I hope you liked it. Ive never been very 
lucky with women.
Good. Youll remember me, then.
Ill remember you as the Wisconsin beauty who was re-ally good at pointing out 
the obvious, he said, giving her nose a gentle tweak.
They embraced, kissed, and touched each others faces as if trying to record 
memories with their fingertips.
Believe it or not, Ill come for you. Its a promise, Molly. He read hurt 
disbelief in her eyes. No, not a promise: a vow. Now only the hurt remained.
Dont, she said, unable to look at him. A lot can happen in three years.
A lot can happen in three days. Like falling in love, Melissa.
David, stop. Youre just making this hard, making it painful. This is an end. I 
dont want you to talk like its a beginning.
He kissed her, trying to win a concession through sheer sensual power.
No, she said, lowering her eyes from his. I cant. Not when I have to go 
like this.
She turned and fled.
At dinner that night, Valentine and Gonzalez decided to leave with the first 
light of dawn. A morning departure, with a quick good-bye to the Breitlings, 
would seem less suspicious than a midnight escape.
After a final farewell talk with the Carlsons, Gonzalez and Valentine lay in the 
basement, their guns and packs stored for the last night in the secret room. 
Gonzalez hid his anxiety about his injured arm well, but Valentine knew the 
worry dragged at his scout. Gonzalez worked best when the only thing worrying 
him was what might be around the next bend or over the next hill, so he talked 
frankly about how they would accommodate his injury on the trip home. The rest 
of the household had long since retired, and they burned only a foul-smelling 
tallow dip for light.
Youll ride, Valentine said after rolling his maps back up into their tube. I 
wish we could hang around longer, but it might be months before your arm is 
totally healed.
You think it will get better?
Of course, Gonzo. Nerve tissue just takes forever to heal.
Gonzalez moved two painful fingers. I dont know about that. Might never grow 
back.
Well, you can move your hand a little. I think thats a good sign. In fact 
Hey, an engine.
Both Wolves used their hard ears. It sounded like a truck engine. Perhaps one of 
the semi drivers was passing through with another foundling. But it stopped in 
the road, idling with thick coughs of exhaust.
Valentine and Gonzlalez exchanged looks. Without another word, they got up and 
moved to the secret door. They carried the tallow lamp behind the false wall 
with them and shut the panel behind. They ignored their packs, grabbing knives 
and guns. A crash sounded from above through the air vent, the house-shaking 
sound of a door being kicked in.
A whisper came from the other side of the secret door.
Guys, are you in there? Frat whispered.
Shouts from upstairs, a mans voice issuing orders to search the house.
Yes, Valentine answered softly.
Two men in a big van and two more in a patrol car. Theyre all armed and coming 
in. Gotta go, Frat said. Valentine finished tying his parang sheath on his leg 
and picked up his rifle.
Hey, kid, an unknown voice barked. Get outta that bed and get up here.
Im coming, Frat answered, voice cracking from strain. Dont point that 
shotgun at me, okay?
Gonzalez blew out the tallow dip in case the smell was wafting up to the living 
room.
They heard Mr. Carlsons voice, angry and scared, as he descended the stairs 
from the second story into the living room. What in the heck is all this, 
Toland?
Orders. Youre wanted for questioning.
Orders? Well see what Major Flanagan has to say about that!
He gave the orders, pard, the harsh voice answered. Think your days of being 
under his wing are over. Your little girl stuck a steak knife into Mr. Brass 
Rings neck
Oh, my God! Mrs. Carlson gasped.
a couple of hours ago, Toland continued. Your brother is fucked, and he 
knows it, and he thinks the only way out of the jam is to arrest everyone here.
Can I at least tell my hired help to take care of things while Im gone?
The Breitlings? Were supposed to arrest them, too. Wheres those two from up 
north, the guy who was seeing your daughter? The major wants him brought 
personal to his office.
They left after dinner, Frat volunteered. David was pissed about the whole 
thing with Molly.
Shuddup, Sambo. If I want your opinion, Ill slap it out of you. Carlson, is he 
right?
Yes, you searched the house, didnt you? Carlson said, voice still tremulous.
Which way did they go, and when?
After dinner. They didnt even eat with us. I think they went north, but I 
dunno. Ive had other things on my mind today than watching them leave. You 
should leave us alone and go after them; they probably put her up to it.
A rattling came from above. I got them leg irons, Sarge. Should we link em up 
now?
Yeah. Pillow, go out to the car and radio that we got the Carlsons in custody. 
Also put out a general call to pick up two men on horseback. Ones got a bum 
hand. You other two get busy with those shackles.
Valentine touched Gonzalez on the shoulder in the darkness, and they felt for 
the door. They cut across the shadowed basement, listening to the rattle of 
chains as the patrollers fixed the family into the leg irons. Valentine led the 
way up the basement steps, keeping to the edges to lessen the sound of boards 
creaking. They padded through the kitchen barefoot, Valentine with his repeater 
to his shoulder and Gonzalez with his held against his hip. Valentine paused for 
just a second to listen at the corner between the kitchen and the front living 
room, attempting to place the occupants by sound. All he could hear was a 
frightened crying from young Mary Carlson and the sounds of shackles being 
clicked closed and chains passed through steel eyes. He gestured to Gonzalez, 
who moved to the kitchen door of the house.
With a quick sidestep Valentine rounded the corner, gun tight to his shoulder, a 
shotgun-wielding man already in his sights. Nobody move, he said, in a low 
tone. You with the shotgun, put it on the floor, holding it by the barrel. You 
two with the chains, facedown on the floor!
As he spoke, Gonzalez opened the back door, holding the rifle in his armpit, and 
disappeared into the darkness.
The patrollers, conditioned by years of practice in using their guns to bully 
unarmed farmers and townspeople, complied with alacrity. The Carlsons, dressed 
in their bedclothes, kicked the weapons away from the uniformed Quislings.
Okay, you with the stripes, facedown, too. Good. Spread eagle, gentlemen. Ive 
got eight shots in this repeater; the man who moves gets the first one. Frat, 
get the guns away from them, before they get any ideas.
Frat began collecting pistols and shotguns. Thisll cut it, Carlson, Sergeant 
Toland said, speaking into the floor. Before, you were just wanted for 
questioning. This means youre all dead within a day or two. Not an easy death, 
either, if the Reapers
A pistol thrust into the sergeants mouth cut off the imprecations. Shut up, 
Sarge. When I want any of your lip, Ill blow it off, Frat said, cocking the 
revolver.
Mr. and Mrs. Carlson, start putting the shackles on them, hands and feet, 
please, Valentine said.
The screen door swung open, and the fourth patroller entered, his fingers laced 
behind his head and the muzzle of Gonzalezs gun pressing him behind the ear.
Pillow here just reported the situation as being under control, Gonzalez said. 
Is it, sir?
Seems to be. Where are the Breitlings?
They hadnt gotten around to them, yet, Mr. Carlson said. Theyre probably 
still asleep.
Mrs. Carlson, after youve finished, do you think you could go get them? 
Valentine asked.
Could I get some more clothes on first?
Of course. The patrollers were now securely shackled and handcuffed. Theyre 
scared, Valentine thought, looking at the sweat stains on the blue uniforms. He 
was also pretty sure that the one named Pillow had pissed himself. Scared people 
confuse easily.
Boy, that major is fucking things up, Carlson, Valentine said, winking at his 
benefactor. Hey, Sarge. Do you know what youve stumbled into?
Youre a corpse, boy. Youre a corpse that happens to be walking and talking 
for a few more hours.
Dont think so, Sarge. Look at this, he said, thrusting his rifle butt under 
Tolands nose. Youve just busted in on a Twisted Cross double-secret blind 
operation.
What the fuck is the Twisted Cross? Double secret bullshit! Sergeant Toland 
said, unimpressed.
You wouldnt know, would you? We wanted Touchet dead, but we couldnt get at 
him in Illinois, because hes bought off so many of the people around him. But 
why am I telling you this? He was trying to spy out the operation at Blue 
Mounds.
Bullshit, the sergeant responded. Bangin the Carlson girl aint going to 
accomplish that, nor giving speeches, neither.
Sarge, you dont have to believe me. But let me give you two facts. One is that 
youre still alive, and the other is that all this is way over your head. 
Somethings gone wrong with our operation, or you wouldnt have gotten those 
orders to bring these folks in. I suggest that in the future you have Madison 
confirm everything before doing what Major Flanagan says. Gonzalez?
Yes, sir, his scout replied.
Were switching to plan Red Charlie.
Er youre in charge, sir, Gonzalez said. Valentine hoped the patrollers would 
interpret Gonzalezs confusion for reluctance.
Lets go outside and discuss it. Mr. Carlson, Frat, keep an eye on these four.
In the cool night air, Valentine patted Gonzalez on the back. Good job with 
Pillow, Gonzo. You still havent lost your touch, injury or no.
Sir, whats our next move? Are we going to leave now?
Valentine nodded and walked down the road toward the vehicles. A dirt-covered 
patrol car and a delivery-van-type truck stood in the blackness. The clouds had 
still not dispersed.
Gonzo, Im going to have to give you a lot of responsibility. Maybe it will 
take your mind off the pain in your arm. I want to get the Carlsons and the 
Breitlings out of Wisconsin. All the way to the Ozark Free Territory.
We can do it.
Maybe we could. But, Gonzo, its not going to be a we. Its going to be a you. 
Im going after Molly.
Gonzos eyes bulged with surprise. My friend, he said finally. Shes probably 
dead already.
If she is, shes going to have some company. That asshole of an uncle, for 
one.
What is more important, getting you and me and these people back safely, 
telling about what we saw behind all those skulls, or killing one Quisling? I 
hate to tell you your duty, but
Fuck my duty, Valentine said. Just the words themselves could subject him to a 
court-martial and firing squad, but he might as well be hanged for a sheep as a 
lamb. Ive had too many people I care about die. Not this one, not this girl.
Ive already forgotten what you just said, sir. But you will still have to 
explain this if you get back. What am I supposed to do with these civilians? The 
prisoners? Id have a tough time making it back to the Ozarks, just me and my 
horse, let alone all these people.
Heres the plan Valentine said. Gonzalez listened as his lieutenant gave his 
final orders.
An hour later, everything was ready. The patrollers were locked in the feed 
shed, still shackled. The feed shed had the best lock and was the only 
all-cinder block construction on the farm. The delivery van waited with its ramp 
brought up and rear liftgate closed; horses were saddled and tied to the rear 
bumper. Inside the spacious interior, empty except for numerous eyebolts for 
fixing prisoners in position, were the Breitlings, Mrs. Carlson, and Mary 
Carlson, clutching a few blankets and some travel clothing, along with the 
family dog. Mr. Carlson was at the wheel, and Gonzalez rode shotgun. Both were 
dressed in blue patroller uniforms taken from the Quisling captives.
Valentine and Frat stood outside the passenger door. Valentine wore the best of 
the uniforms and carried the identity papers of the patroller who most resembled 
him, the pants-wetting Pillow.
We meet south of the bridge outside Benton, okay, Frat? Gonzalez asked, 
rolling Valentines map back up and returning it to the tube. Frat nodded.
Mr. Carlson, if I cant get your daughter, Im going to leave one hell of a 
trail of dead Quislings, Valentine said. Theyll come after me with everything 
theyve got. Should make it a little easier for you.
No ones asking you to do this, son, Mr. Carlson said from the drivers seat. 
Mollys probably already dead. Maybe she used the knife on herself after 
killing Touchet. Carlsons lips trembled as he spoke.
I dont think shed give up that easy, Alan. If shes alive, Im going to get 
her back. Im coming back with your daughter, or not at all. He turned to 
Gonzalez and shook his friends good hand. Gonzo, I know you can do this, 
Valentine said quietly. Youve got the brains and the skills. Just keep them 
moving. Eat the horses one by one if it helps. When you get back, tell them 
everything you remember, even if it doesnt seem important. Theyve also got to 
get a Cat or two up here to find out whats going on at Blue Mounds. One other 
thing: Get Frat into the Hunters, or at least have him posted as an Aspirant. 
Hell make a better Wolf than either of us, at least someday. Take every 
buckchit Ive got and draw it to get the Carlsons started. Ive got some friends 
in a little place called Weening.
Valentine racked his mind, searching for another suggestion to increase 
Gonzalezs chances. There was always one more order to give, one more 
contingency to consider.
I will do it, all of it, sir. Vaya con Dios, jefe. And Ill be praying for you, 
sir. Every day.
Back to praying, Gonzalez? I thought your mother was in charge of that.
Shes in charge of my soul. Ill take care of yours.
Youre going to have plenty to take care of in the next couple of weeks without 
my soul thrown in. But thank you anyway; Im honored.
Carlson started up the truck, and Valentine hopped to the ground. Gonzalez gave 
a little salute from his perch. Good luck, Lieutenant.
Send my respects to the Zulus, Gonzo!
The truck rolled off into the darkened west. Hours to go before daylight.
Okay, Frat. You and me now. I wish I had learned how to drive better.
Its okay, Lieutenant, Frat said, moving around to the drivers side. I know 
the way, so its just as well.
You can call me David, bud. Drive slow and careful. Keep the headlights off.
I know, I know. You told me. Where to?
Valentine checked the contents of his pack and a spare feedbag, which held extra 
restraints and a few packets from the Carlsons kitchen. Your uncles house. 
You can tell me everything you remember about it on the way.
Frat covered the twenty miles in just over an hour, switching to tractor trails 
and cattle paths as he drew close to Monroe. The roads were empty, and the night 
seemed to be waiting for the curtain to go up on the last act of the play. The 
radio squawked occasionally, reporting from the patrols looking for two men on 
horseback. Valentine mentally prepared himself for a tragic ending to the drama. 
As Frat drove, leaning far forward as if the extra foot and a half of viewing 
distance made a difference, Valentine applied a hacksaw to the double-barreled 
shotgun, taking off the barrels from the edge of the wooden grip onward. He then 
filled the pockets on its leather sling-bandolier with buckshot shells. A second 
pump-action shotgun lay on the wooden backseat of the car.
Okay, were in the fields behind his house. Its right beyond that line of 
trees there, Frat informed him. Weve stayed over here a few times, back when 
he had a wife.
Whatever happened to her? Valentine asked.
Dont know. Nobody does. One day she was just gone, and we learned not to ask.
So hes not much for answering questions, then? Valentine stepped out of the 
car and took the pump-action shotgun, pocketing shells into his stolen uniform. 
Ill try to change that. Keep the scattergun handy, Frat. Dont be afraid to 
use it, and pull out if something comes after you. Keep alert.
I will, sir. You be careful.
Valentine walked silently up to the line of trees, listening and smelling for 
the guard dogs. Their scent seemed to be everywhere across the lawn. Perhaps 
they were around front.
The extravagant house had bright security lights mounted high up just under the 
roof, angled out to bathe the lawn in white light. Their brilliance threw the 
surrounding terrain into harsh, black-and-white relief, blazing white wherever 
the lights touched and utter black in the shadows. Valentine whistled softly.
One of the great black rottweilers appeared from around the garage corner. 
Valentine reached into his feed bag and placed a few strips of meat on the flat 
of his parang. He whistled again. The dog growled and took a few steps closer. 
Valentine stayed very still, offering the meat from the brush at the edge of the 
woods.
Good dog, good dog, Valentine said soothingly. The dog licked its chops and 
padded forward. Valentine lowered the blade to the grass, and the dog began 
eating. Flanagan obviously used the dogs only for show; a real guard dog would 
be trained not to take food from anyone but its keeper. Having made friends, 
Valentine stood for a moment patting the hopeful-looking dog.
Valentine watched the sleeping house for a few moments then jogged across the 
lawn to the back door. The rottweiler trotted along happily. The second hound, 
curled up on the mat at the door fast asleep, startled at their approach. Seeing 
the other dog, it came forward to greet the late-night visitor. Valentine issued 
more tidbits to the dogs and began feeling along the top of the windowsill to 
the left of the door for the key Frat said was hidden there. He found it, placed 
on a small nail hammered into the top of the windowsill.
The key fit the dead bolt on the back door, but Valentine was able to open the 
door only an inch or two. A heavy chain across the inside of the door barred 
further progress. He reached into his bag of tricks for the rusty crowbar from 
the patrol cars trunk, fixed it to the chain near its mounting on the doorjamb, 
and pulled. The chain parted with a loud ting.
Valentine entered the kitchen behind the business end of the shotgun. The 
tabletop was a mess of dirty dishes and paperwork. The main light over the table 
was still on, bathing the littered octagonal surface in a puddle of yellow. A 
heavy electric typewriter sat before a chair, a cold mug of coffee next to it, 
nestled like a small brown pond in a forest of empty beer bottles. A raspy 
snoring echoed from the living room.
He looked at the typed report on the table, flipping to the second page. 
Apparently it was a statement by the one patroller standing sentry outside 
Touchets VIP suite door at the New Universal Church building. A paragraph 
caught Valentines eye.
When the cook entered with Mr. Touchets nightcap of coffee, I heard him scream. 
I drew my gun and entered the bedroom. Mr. Touchet was facedown on the bed, nude 
except for a pair of socks. The young woman was trying to force up the window of 
the bedroom, not knowing that it was nailed shut. As I entered, she smashed it 
with an ashtray but I was able to restrain her. 
After she was handcuffed and held down by the cook, I examined Mr. Touchet for a 
pulse. He was dead. He had a steak knife handle sticking out of the back of his 
head right were the neck meets the skull. His back was coated with some kind of 
oil and he lay on a towel. There was very little blood on the towel. Mr. 
Touchets brass ring had been removed from his finger and was placed around the 
handle of the knife.
The young woman was screaming obscenities at us, so I hit her. She had not been 
injured by Mr. Touchet; the bruise on her face was from me.
Valentine walked to the living room and looked in. Virgil Ames lay stretched out 
on a leather sofa, sunglasses finally off, pistol belt looped around his arm. 
The air around him smelled of beer breath and stale flatulence. Beyond, in the 
glass turret-room, he could make out Maj. Michael Flanagan. The major slept in 
his chair, phone in his lap, widespread feet propped up on his desk.
The prowling Wolf shifted the shotgun to his left hand and took up the parang. 
No making friends with this dog, he thought, putting the wedge-shaped point just 
above Virgils Adams apple. At the swift inward thrust, the late Virgil Ames 
opened his eyes. Valentine wiped his knife on the rich leather sofa and moved 
toward the office.
Major Flanagan woke when the blued steel of the shotgun barrel poked him between 
the eyes. As Flanagan sputtered into surprised wakefulness, Valentine changed 
the angle of the shotgun barrel, pointing it between Flanagans outstretched 
legs.
You wanted to see me, Major? he asked.
What the? Virgil! Flanagan shouted.
Dead, sir, Valentine reported. Better speak up, or youll be joining him in 
five seconds. Tell me, is Molly Carlson still alive?
Virgil! Flanagan cried.
Valentine stuck the shotgun toward Flanagans screaming mouth. Major, your 
screaming is not doing you any good, and its giving me a headache, so cut it 
out. Or I might cut your tongue out and have you write down your answers.
Fuck you, Saint Croix. We dont just have Molly, weve got all the Carlsons, as 
of eleven this evening. If you back out of here and never let me see your face 
again, they might live. You might even live.
The powerful, spearlike thrust of the shotgun shattered two incisors and left a 
worm-tail of lip dangling as it hung from a thin strip of bleeding skin. The 
majors hands flew to his wounded mouth, and Valentine clipped him on the side 
of the head with the shotgun butt. The major fell over, knocked senseless. 
Valentine busied himself with handcuffs and rope.
The house was dark when Major Flanagan came to. Valentine splashed cold coffee 
into his face. Groans rose from the Quisling just before he vomited all over 
himself. The paroxysm showed how securely he was tied into his office chair.
Handcuffs fixed his wrists against the arms of the chair, and heavy lengths of 
rope cocooned his chest and shoulders into the back. His legs were tucked under 
the chair and secured by ankle shackles with a short length of chain winding 
behind the central column that attached the chair itself to the little circle of 
wheels below.
No hint of morning could be seen through the windows of the office. Valentine 
stood next to the desk, a breathing shadow.
A metallic ping sounded, and Valentine picked up the silver cigar lighter, 
waving the lit end hypnotically in front of Flanagans face. Its dim red glow 
reflected off piggish, angry eyes. Okay, Uncle Mike, do you want to talk to me, 
or do I have to use this thing?
Talk about what?
Where Molly is.
Shes in the Order building in Monroe.
Valentine grabbed his pinkie and thrust the cigar lighter over it. An audible 
hiss was instantly drowned out by the majors scream. Valentine pulled away the 
lighter and stuck it back into its electric socket, pushing it down to turn it 
back on.
Wrong answer. I read some of the papers in the kitchen. According to your 
report, you put her in a car for Chicago.
Ping.
Why Chicago, Major?
We called the Illinois Eleven as soon as it happened. Thats what they told us 
to do, send her to Chicago.
Where in Chicago? Valentine asked, extracting the lighten.
How should I know? The Illinois Eleven dont like being questioned any more 
than the Madison Kurians, Flanagan said, watching the lighter wave back and 
forth in the darkness. No! God, Saint Croix, I dont know.
This last was addressed to the approach of the lighter to his left hand. 
Valentine forced Flanagans fist open and inserted his index finger into the 
cigar lighter. The smell of burnt flesh wafted up into his nostrils as he ground 
the glowing socket home. Flanagan screamed again, and Valentine withdrew the 
lighter. He pressed it back into the socket, reheating it.
The pain will stop as soon as you tell me where she is in Chicago. You want me 
to stick your dick in this next?
The tip of Flanagans forefinger was a blackened lump of flesh and blisters. 
Even the fingernail was burned back.
Ping.
I think theyre putting her in the Zoo, Flanagan gabbled, seeing Valentines 
hand move to pick up the lighter. Ive been there, its on the north side of 
Chicago, near the lake. Lots of boats tied up permanent.
Why there? I thought they just put everyone in the Loop when they wanted to do 
away with them.
They knew Touchet. They asked me if she was a real looker. I told them about 
her. I mean, if she werent my niece, one of the patrollers would have raped her 
a long time ago. Saint Croix, you havent been around much. Ive risked my 
jobmy life evento help my sister and her family. Molly was never going to be 
hurt. Sweat coated Flanagans face, wetting his bushy eyebrows and running down 
his neck in rivulets.
So whats this Zoo?
Its in a place called Lincoln Park. Ive got a little map of Chicago in my 
desk, bottom drawer. Even has phone numbers for cab companies. The Zoo is a big 
brothel, that kind of thing. There are a lot of bars there; they do sports, too. 
Kind of a wild place, anything goes, like Old Vegas.
Valentine popped up the lighter and left it resting lightly in its socket. Good 
enough, Flanagan. Theres one more thing I want before I go. I need a travel 
warrant made out for one Private Pillow. Giving him a weeks leave or whatever 
you call it to go to Chicago. And some money to spend.
Flanagans massive eyebrows rose in surprise. Madison papers no good there. 
Our guys bring things to barter. Jewelry, beer, food, stuff like that. But what 
youre thinking is nuts. Id like to see Molly alive as much as her parents, but 
it aint going to happen. Therere hundreds of soldiers from Illinois, 
IndianaMichigan, even. Ive heard of officers coming all the way from Iowa and 
Minnesota to go to the Zoo. Even if you can find her, youll never get her out. 
The Black Holes a one-way
Black Hole? Valentine asked.
I dunno where she would go for sure. But the Black Hole is kind of a prison. 
Women dont last long there. Theyre used treated badly. Some of the men like 
that kind of thing. Never went there myself, but you hear stories.
Just tell me where to find the papers to fill out.
Flanagan gave detailed instructions, and soon Valentine had his travel warrant. 
The major applied his seal and signed it; Valentine had freed the mans 
uninjured right hand to do so. The major wiped his face with his good hand. 
Youre tough, Saint Croix. I had no idea.
So he thinks fawning is his ticket to safety. Interesting. Has it gotten him out 
of jams with the Kurians? Valentine thought. He put his new papers and the 
folded map in one of the front pockets of his shirt. He then walked over to the 
front of the desk. The shotgun leaned up against one of the carved wooden lions.
Take my car. Its in the garage, and the keys are in my breast pocket here. 
Ill tell them you went north. Ill keep the Carlsons under lock and key for a 
few days, then release them. Well shout questions at em for a few hours; dont 
worry, theyll be fine. Of course, Molly cant ever come back here, but Im sure 
you can get her somewhere safe up in the woods if your plan works. Watch 
yourself in Chicago, though. Must be a hundred Reapers there, easy. But if
The major stopped in openmouthed amazement as Valentine brought up the shotgun, 
pointing it at his head. No, Saint Croix. Be fair! I gave you everything
Valentine put the butt tightly to his shoulder and placed his finger on the 
trigger. You once said that if it were up to you, youd hand me over to the 
Reapers for not having a work card. Well, now that its up to me, Im going to 
follow a little rule we have in the Wolves. I call it Special Order Twelve, 
section Double Ought. Any high-rank Quislings bearing arms against their fellow 
men shall suffer death by firing squad.
You said you wouldnt kill me! Flanagan shrieked, holding out his hand, palm 
outward.
I said the pain would stop, Valentine corrected, pulling the trigger. The dark 
room exploded in noise and a flash of blue-white light like an old-fashioned 
flashbulb. At the last instant, Flanagan flung his arm across his face, but the 
blast of buckshot tore through his arm, head, and the back of the chair. Bone, 
blood, brain, and wood from the chair splattered the brick wall behind the 
chair.
Valentine went through the house, filling a pillowcase with anything of value he 
could find: Virgil Amess sunglasses and beaded pistol belt, Flanagans cheroots 
and electric lighter, a solid silver cigarette box, gold jewelry belonging to 
the missing Mrs. Flanagan. The liquor cabinet contained two bottles of bonded 
whiskey. They joined the other contents of the pillowcase.
He went into the furnished basement and flicked on one of the electric lights. A 
pool table filled one end and a small workshop the other. Three rifles hung from 
an ornate gun-rack, set between two eight-point deer heads. Valentines eyes lit 
on an old Remington Model 700. He shouldered it. Then he crossed to the workshop 
and found a tin of kerosene. He opened it and splashed it along the pool table, 
carpet, and wood paneling. He struck a match and tossed it into the puddled 
liquid on the pool table. Flames began to race across the green baize surface. 
Sure that the fire was well on its way, Valentine climbed back up the stairs.
Frat pulled the car out of the field and onto the little path leading back to 
the road. Now what, Lieutenant? he asked. Oddly enough, Frat had asked no 
questions about what had transpired in his uncles house.
Where can I catch the next train to Chicago? Not a station, though. I mean to 
jump on.
Frat considered the problem. The line connecting Dubuque goes right through 
Monroe. A train goes along that every day. Takes you right into Chicago, or the 
meatpacking plant, that is. Youd be in the city by tonight. Youll know youre 
close when you go through this big stretch of burned-out houses. Reapers burned 
out a huge belt around the city. Great Suburban Fire, it was called. Happened 
before I was born. Then they did something to the soil so nothing but some weeds 
grow. Mile after mile of old street and rubble. Of course, I was pretty young 
when I saw it. But youll never find Molly in the Loop. You could look for days. 
How you gonna get her out again?
They didnt put her in the Loop. Shes in someplace called the Zoo.
Frat smacked his head. Zot me! I shoulda thought of that! They would put 
someone who looks like her there. My momma used to tell my older sister, What 
you trying to do, get a job at the Zoo? whenever she didnt like what Phila was 
wearing.
What else can you tell me about Chicago?
Frat turned the car onto a road heading south. Its big, really big. But what 
you got going for you is that theres people from all over, so strangers dont 
get noticed. If you cause any trouble, they grab you and throw you in the Loop. 
They use the old United States money there, too, but it has to be authorized. 
The bills theyve authorized have a stamp on them, kind of like the stamp on our 
work cards. Im pretty sure some of your people who fight the Kurians are there, 
but I dont know how you would ever find them. And Id hide that big curved 
knife of yours. Too many of the soldiers know about those.
They reached a bend in the road. Frat pulled the patrol car to the side.
Frat, youve been a great help. You know what to do now, right?
Drive fast with all the lights on, like Im hurrying somewhere, Frat recited. 
Put the car in a ravine and then walk to that bridge. Go cross-country and keep 
out of sight. I think I can manage.
Im sure you can.
All you have to do now is go south, and youll hit the railroad tracks. They 
curve where they run along the Sugar River, and I bet theyll slow down. Lots of 
guys bum rides. As long as you got identity papers, youre okay getting into 
Chicago. Just take my advice and dont cause any trouble until youre sure you 
can get away with it. Getting out again isnt so easy. They check the trains 
heading out for runners.
Valentine offered his hand, and Frat shook it. Listen to Gonzo on the way back, 
pup. You can learn a lot from him.
Yeah, hes cool. He thinks a lot of you, by the way. Says the Wolves in Zulu 
Company call you the Ghost.
The what?
The Ghost. On account of you walk so smooth and quiet, like youre floating. 
And theres another reason: Mr. Gonzalez says you can tell when there are 
vampires around. He says its spooky, but kinda comforting.
The Ghost, huh? Well, have Gonzo tell them to keep their rifles clean and 
oiled, or Ill come back and haunt them. Good-bye, Frat.
Good-bye, Lieutenant Valentine. Dont worry, Ill get everyone out, if Mr. 
Gonzalez just points the direction. You aint the only one good at smellin out 
Skulls.
* * *
While Valentine waited for the train in the morning shade beneath a willow, he 
ate from a bag of crackers and a brick of cheese he had taken from Flanagans 
kitchen. He had already improvised a shoulder strap for his pillowcase of loot 
and admired the manufacturing on the stolen Remington rifle; he figured it would 
bring enough money for a bribe or two, or serve as one itself. He studied his 
map of Chicago, memorizing as many of the street names as he could. It must be 
quite a city, he thought. Over a hundred Reapers. Great place to visit, but I 
wouldnt want to die there.
Twelve
Chicago, October of the forty-third year of the Kurian Order: The Second City is 
still a town on the take. A resident twentieth-century Pulitzer Prize-winning 
journalist once suggested that the motto for the city should be Wheres Mine? 
Nowhere is the art of bribery, corruption, and widespread beak-wetting more 
common than in the-Kurian-controlled, Quisling-run City of Big Shoulders. No one 
is even sure exactly how many Kurian Lords run the city, as the Kurians divide 
it not by geography but by business and property ownership. A Kurian Lord might 
control a steelworks in Gary, an automobile-parts plant on the West Side, 
several apartment buildings on the Gold Coast, and a few antiquated airplanes 
that fly out of O Hare. His Reaper avatars will travel among holdings, going 
into the Loop for regular feedings.
To prevent the Reapers from taking too much of an areas vital labor force, the 
Loop system was developed lifter twenty years of fractious and chaotic rule. The 
Kurians had little use for the high-rise business centers of the downtown, and 
after emptying the assorted museums and stores of anything they fancied, they 
created the walled enclave as a dumping ground for undesirables. Here the 
Reapers could feed without worrying about taking a vital technician or mechanic 
and starting a series of inter-Kurian vendettas that might escalate into a 
full-scale feud.
The workers of Chicago enjoy a security that few other communities under the 
Kurians know. But their existence depends on paying their way in old federal 
greenbacks. The destitute receive a quick trip into the Loop. But the elite 
Quislings who run the city for the Kurians amass sizable fortunes in a variety 
of barely legitimate ways.
One might wonder what the point of wealth is with the Kurians in control, but 
the Kurians have become infected with the viruslike corruption that seems to 
thrive in Chicago and are often bought off by their ostensible slaves. The top 
Quislings use their money to bribe the Kurians not with cash, but with tital 
auras, the one thing the vampiric Kurians prize above all else. The Quislings 
buy captives from a soulless body of men and women called the Headhunters, who 
in turn buy them from wandering bounty hunters who lurk on the fringes of the 
Kurian territory, grabbing everyone they can. These latter-day fur trappers pick 
up strays in a circle moving clockwise down from northern Michigan, across 
southern Indiana and Illinois, and then up the eastern shores of the Mississippi 
to the northern woods of Wisconsin.
When a wealthy Quisling has turned over enough vital aura to the Kurians, a 
brass ring is awarded. Only in Chicago is this practice of buying brass rings 
allowed. With the security of cash and a brass ring, these robber-baron 
Quislings then retire to Ringland Parks, a twenty-mile stretch of stately homes 
along the shore of Lake Michigan just to the north of Chicago, the only large 
area of suburbs to survive the flames that desolated greater Chicagoland. But as 
brass rings cannot be passed down to sons and daughters, their progeny are left 
with the tiresome task of doing it all over again.
Chicago has become what Vegas was to the pre-Kurian world: an anything-goes city 
where anything, including human life, can be bought or sold if the price is 
right.
The Chicago skyline looked to Valentine like the bones of a titanic animal 
carcass. His position atop the freight train gave him an unobstructed view as 
the train bore southeast, straight as an arrow in flight, toward the city. He 
would have felt naked and defenseless riding the rocking platform, clattering 
across the uneven points on the rail line, but for the companions scattered 
across the last few boxcars. Now and then other hitchers made the run-and-vault 
onto the line of cars.
He first spotted the skyline in the blackened ring of former suburbia that 
encircled the city like a burned-out belt. It reminded him of a picture of the 
town center of Hiroshima after the atomic bomb: nothing but rubble and cracked 
pavement. He wondered what the Kurians had done to the ground to poison the 
plant life; just dry-looking brown weeds and the occasional withered sapling 
grew from the bare patches of soil. He wondered why the Kurians wanted to create 
this vista of desolation. He asked an Illinoisan, a thirtyish man who had hopped 
on as the train left the hills north of Rockford.
The Chicago Blight? the man said, looking at the expanse as if seeing it for 
the first time. You got me. My brother is in the Iguard, and he says its a 
no-mans-land between the Chicago Kurians and the Illinois Eleven. They depend 
on each other, but they had a big fight back when I was just five or six. 
Anyway, the Blight makes them refrain from wandering out of their territory to 
feed. Then I got a sister-in-law in Chicago, and she says its to make getting 
out of Chicago harder. Guess burning everything was easier than building a wall 
that would have to run for fifty or sixty miles. But Ive still heard of a few 
people managing to run across it in daylight. If they get lucky and dodge the 
Security Service and make it out by nightfall, Ive heard of people escaping 
Chicago just using their legs. A lot of times they run right back, though; its 
more dangerous downstate. Ive been trying to get a good-paying job in Chicago 
for years, but I dont have the toke for a good position.
You dont have the toke? Whats that? Valentine asked.
You must be on your first trip to Chicago, blue boy. A toke is like a tip, but 
its more of a bribe. Moneys the best, but its got to be their authorized 
stuff. You try to palm off a bill you picked up in Peoria, and youre asking to 
get your face smashed in. Cigarettes are good tokes, too. And if you are doing 
anything major, like getting a cab ride or checking in to a hotel, you toke 
twice, once when you arrange it and again when youre done. If the first one is 
too small, they might blow you off and look for someone else. If the second is 
too small, theyll just swear at you, but youd better not expect any more 
favors. Ive seen fistfights over too small a toke at the end of a cab ride, so 
be careful. But getting back to my point: For me to get a decent factory job, 
Id have to toke the doorman, the union boss, and the manager. Maybe a couple of 
managers. And those would be big tokes, in the thousands. Hard to scrape up that 
kind of money on the farm.
Valentine reached into his bag and extracted one of the majors cheroots. 
Thanks for the tip, he said, handing it to his fellow traveler.
Hey, you catch on fast. Listen, if you want, you can come with me when we get 
off. I know a good route out of the railroad yard. Thats a fine rifle, and some 
Chicago Security Service officer is gonna quote regulations and take it off you 
if you go through channels. Unless you can cough up about a hundred bucks worth 
of toke, that is.
Youre a pal. My names Pillow, Valentine said, using the name on his identity 
papers.
Norbu Oshima. Most of the guys call me Norby. Pleased to meet you, Pillow.
My friends call me Dave. Its my middle name.
They made small talk as the city grew steadily larger. At last the train pulled 
into a bustling rail yard spread out over several square miles and dominated by 
a thick concrete tower. The train eventually switched to a siding near a series 
of livestock pens. Produce trucks and horse-drawn carts waited nearby, ready to 
accept the contents of the boxcars as the shipping clerks sorted them.
Cmon, Oshima said as they jumped off. Through the cattle crushes. Theres a 
storm drain to the Halsted Bridge.
Other figures were hopping off the train and scattering, pursued by a few police 
in navy blue uniforms. A corpulent CSS cop jumped out after them from between 
two cars, but Valentine and his guide vaulted over a series of fences as they 
ran across the pens, and their pursuer gave up after mounting the first two 
bars, settling for yelling a few obscenities after them.
Fuckin yokels, the distant voice protested. Wheres my toke, you bastards!
They rolled under a chain-link fence and slid into the concrete drainpipe, 
dragging their bags after them. Welcome to Chicago, Oshima said, panting and 
slapping dirt from his clothes.
Looks like he lets his uniform do his fighting for him, Valentine observed.
Yes, those CSS guys got it made. Everybody tokes them. Hes had one too many 
free burgers and beers at the Steak and Bun. Speaking of which, Im starved. 
After I drop my stuff off at my sisters, you wanna eat?
Thanks, but I have to find someone. You know where I can find a bunch of bars 
in a row called the Clubs Flush? On Rush Street, I think.
Norby whistled appreciatively. You must have some good barter in that sack. 
Those are some nice places. Never been in em myself. They take up a whole 
block. Rush is easy to find; it runs at an angle to the rest of the streets. 
Watch yourself around the vacant lots. Ill get you to Division Street and point 
you in the right direction.
Thanks, Valentine said, and meant it. He handed Oshima two more cheroots.
Dont worry, David. Youll do fine. As long as those cigars hold out, anyway.
Valentine walked down the street, consulting his tourist map. Even in the 
afternoon, there were more people on the street than Valentine was used to 
seeing in the most populated parts of the Free Territory. Despite the people, he 
felt strangely alone. The city smelled noxious; a mixture of tar and garbage 
assaulted his nostrils. Sewage odors wafted up from the storm drains, and trash 
overflowed from Dumpsters in the alleys. Public sanitation was not a priority 
with the Kur.
Hey, blue boy, want a ride? a man in a straw hat called from the front of a 
carriage. A horse stood patiently in harness. Take you to the Zoo. I got a 
friend at one of the entrances, let you in half-price. Your buddies in Wisconsin 
wont believe their ears when you get back.
Maybe later, Valentine said.
Cats seemed to be everywhere, especially in the rubble of the empty blocks. 
Hungry-looking stray dogs prowled the alleys, sniffing the gutters.
Valentine spotted the Clubs Flush. Had it been night, he would have seen it from 
farther off; electric lights on the building illuminated a ten-foot mural of a 
hand holding four kings and a joker. In sight of his goal, Valentine realized 
how tired he was. His last night in bed had been interrupted by Mollys visit, 
and he had been active ever since. He unbuttoned his shirt and smelled his 
chest. Mollys rosebud-soap scent still clung to his skin. The memories gave him 
new strength, even as he considered the hopeless task ahead of him. How could he 
have imagined a city this size?
He reached the bars, but there seemed to be no way to get inside. Nor could he 
see through the dark-tinted glass windows to get a hint of what waited within. 
He passed a woman wearing a dirty smock, standing out of the wind and smoking a 
cigarette.
Entrance is around the side, she informed him, pointing her thumb over her 
shoulder. She took a long pull on a cigarette. I work there, three-to-eleven 
shift. Good luck getting past Wideload. You looking for a job?
No, just a little fun. Thanks.
Hey, she said conspiratorially, removing a brown-paper-wrapped package from 
under her smock. Check it out. Sixteen-ounce porterhouse, right out of the 
Diamonds cooler. Twelve bucks, what do you say?
No, Im fine for food. 
Eight bucks. Cant do better. You can sell it for at least twenty on Michigan 
Avenue.
Valentine turned the corner and found the entrance. It was a decorated alley, 
with a brick arch above, wide enough to allow a wagon inside. Red and black 
painted wooden double doors with the Clubs hours stenciled on showed that it 
must still be before six, as they were closed and locked. A smaller door was 
fitted into right side of the gate, and Valentine knocked.
A face that would not encourage casual conversation scowled out from a crack in 
the door. What? it said in a deep, monotone bass.
You Wideload? I want to see the Duke, if hes in.
Not for you, hick. Beat it.
Im forgetting my manners, Valentine said, reaching inside his pack. Looking 
at the fleshy face, he opted to hand over the brick of cheese he had snacked on 
earlier.
Thats more like it, the heavy-framed man said, opening the door and engulfing 
the three-pound brick in a paw that resembled a gorilla-hand ashtray. Valentine 
watched Wideload as he sampled the Wisconsin dairy gold. Both of the Wolfs legs 
would have fitted in the mans shirtsleeve, and he and Gonzalez could have slept 
out of the rain in his trousers. Mmmm, not bad, blue boy. Go up the spiral 
staircase. Therere two doors at the top. Ones marked office. Go in the other 
one.
Valentine nodded and entered the courtyard. Plants sprouting through a mulch of 
cigarette butts decorated the brick-paved enclosure. Beautiful brass and glass 
doors, one facing in each direction, indicated the locations of the four bars. 
Each was named for a suit of cards.
Curious, Valentine looked in each door. The one marked spades seemed to be 
devoted to gambling; the kidney-shaped green baize tables could mean little 
else, and brightly lit slot machines filled the walls. The Diamonds bar looked 
like a dining room. Valentine had heard about, but never before seen, white 
tablecloths, polished silver, and flowered centerpieces. All were in opulent 
abundance inside the restaurant. The Clubs room was the only one open for 
business. Comfortable leather chairs lay scattered around next to small tables, 
and the bar appeared as devoted to cigars and pipe tobacco as to alcohol. A few 
men, some even wearing suits and ties, lounged around, reading newspapers or 
playing cards. Most were smoking. The Hearts bar looked like a glitzy brothel. 
It was the largest, taking up two stories, and had an open space in the center 
that featured the traditional strippers pole mounted on a circular stage. 
Valentine counted three bars within the mirror-decorated main room.
Hey, Tori, Valentine heard Wideload say from his door.
Hey, a bored female voice answered, and a woman who seemed mostly made of 
blond hair and legs strode into the courtyard, carrying an angular purse over 
her shoulder big enough to sit in and paddle down a river. She glanced at 
Valentine with an appraising eye and disappeared down a narrow hallway branching 
off from the central area.
Valentine shrugged to the cheese-eating doorman and climbed the metal spiral 
staircase. He went to the unmarked door and knocked.
Its open, a familiar female voice sang out.
He entered, and recognized the Dukes escort sitting behind a desk larger than 
the one in Flanagans office but somehow more delicate and feminine in its rich 
glossy sheen. Debby? No, Dixie. Valentines mind cast about for her name. 
Denise, of the revealing decolletage dress, he remembered. Today she was wearing 
a simple gray sleeveless outfit.
Hi, Denise. Can I see the Duke?
She looked up at him, puzzled. Does he know you?
Sort of. We met at the Bunker in Madison. He said to drop by if I was ever in 
Chicago. David Tiny, remember?
Thats it. I thought I saw you before. Youre the guy with the nice hair. The 
Duke says some wild stuff after a few drinks, but you might be able to see him 
for a minute before we, er, he goes to dinner. Hey, you wouldnt have an extra 
toot of that happy-dust, would you?
Ill see what I can do later, Valentine said.
Great, thanks. If you want to sit, therere a couple of chairs. Hes meeting 
with the guy who brings in the drinks and eats. Theyve been at it all 
afternoon, so they should be done soon. She favored him with a smile.
Valentine offered Denise a cigarette. Her smile widened, and she tucked it away 
in her desk. He sat, trying to stay alert. Faint, muffled voices came from the 
inner office behind a door painted with a king of clubs. Trust someone with the 
Dukes taste in clothes and women to carry an idea too far.
Needing something to occupy his mind to prevent himself from dozing off, 
Valentine hardened his ears and listened to the voices inside the office.
I tell you, its hell, Duke. The whole Kurian system would work better if they 
just formed a New Order bank or something and had a currency that was good 
everywhere. This business of shuttling around boxcars full of people is just 
ludicrous. All Ive got is a two-hundred-pound male, can I get a hundred-pound 
woman and a fifty-pound kid as change?
Valentine heard the Duke laugh.
Okay, Im exaggerating again. Its a little better organized than that. Its 
one thing for the Kurians here to send a few boxcars full of people up to 
Milwaukee and then bring the cars back here loaded with beer. But lets say I 
want to buy beef in Texas. If its hot, some of the currency is going to drop 
dead on the trip. Plus you got the local Reapers in Tennessee and points south 
looking to take some people off you in exchange for riding their rails.
Well, the Duke countered, you got to look at it from their point of view. 
Money doesnt mean much to them. Some of them like art and stuff, but auras are 
the only recognized currency. Theyre like a bunch of damn junkies.
Yeah, youre right. But it still makes me nuts. Plus the people know whats 
coming at the other end of the ride, which makes them tough to control. And 
finding good men to do the work of keeping them in line aint easy. Most of the 
ambitious ones are in the military. Leaves me with the idiots and thugs who just 
want to push people around.
I hear that, the Duke agreed. Listen, if the side meat is a little late, 
were okay. Ill just do a special on pork chops or something. But you gotta get 
home to those pretty wives of yours, and my stomach is growling. Call me 
tomorrow and let me know if youve made any progress.
They said their good-byes, and the man, richly dressed in a matched set of 
pin-striped pants and a vest, walked out and waved at Denise. She picked up the 
telephone and pressed a button.
Hi, big guy. Can you see someone really fast? Its that sailor with the black 
hair, David Teeny No, we met him in Wisconsin last month Yeah, at the buy I 
dunno, he said he might have some later Okay.
You can go in, Dave, she said, getting up and opening the door. The empty eyes 
of the pale painted king stared into his.
The Duke, who seemed to draw his fashion inspiration from Elvis Presley, wore a 
white silk jumpsuit with the four suits of cards printed as racing stripes going 
down his arms and the seams of his pants, which were tucked into white leather 
boots. His office was all business, save for a rug made out of a polar bear. Its 
snarling mouth pointed at the door.
The Duke was putting away papers and clearing his desk. Valentine noticed a 
gleaming revolver in easy reach used as a paperweight.
Well, well, well. David Tiny, right? Didnt expect to see you so soon. I heard 
a boat from the Fleet was in, but it wasnt yours. What are you doing in 
Wisconsin blues? You jump ship?
Bulls-eye, Valentine said with a smile. There was some bad blood with the 
captain. Im searching for fairer horizons.
Valentine reached into his bag and pulled out one of the bottles of bonded 
whiskey. Here you go, Mr. Duke. A little token of my esteem. Thanks for the 
great party that night at the Bunker.
Hey, thanks, Tiny, youre two flavors of all right, the Duke said, reading the 
label. So youre seeking a new opportunity. Ambitious fellow. Good for you. 
Hey, you wouldnt have another load of that high blue, would you?
Sorry, sir. But if I did, youd get it. All of it, Valentine thought. Wonder 
how youd look after swallowing a pound of cocaine?
The Duke seemed to lose interest. Too bad. So, you gave up life on the waves 
and are toting a gun in Wisconsin. Any other plans?
Just a brass ring.
Well, I wish you luck. Heres a card; you can get an evenings drinks at any of 
my clubs. And heres a backstage pass for the Hearts room. Youre good-looking. 
One of the girls might take a shine to you. Youll find theyre a lot more fun 
than those would-be dykes on that ship. Have Denise endorse it on your way out, 
would you? the Duke said, putting his hand significantly on the phone.
Sir, Im new in town. Ive got some barter I want to turn into cash. Where 
wont I get ripped off?
The Dukes interest returned. Sure, buddy, I can give you an opinion on that. 
What you got?
Valentine placed the contents of his sack, save for his parang and Virgil Amess 
pistol belt, on the Dukes desk, finishing by laying the Remington carefully on 
top. The Duke picked up the gun and worked the action. Not bad, Dave. Howd you 
come up with this stuff after only a month in uniform?
Same way as I got the pass to come down here for three days. I did my captain a 
big favor.
A favor? What kind of favor?
I promised not to say.
The Duke smiled. I get it, he said, flicking the side of his nose with a 
finger. I bet you took out the captains rival. Or did the colonel get shot by 
insurgents and the captain take his place?
Youre warm, but I cant tell you, sir. Sorry.
The Duke examined the rest of the loot. He plugged in the silver cigar lighter 
and worked it. Hey, thats aces. Look nice down in the Club Room. Tell you 
what, since youre an old friend and all, Ill buy it all off you. Make it three 
grand, plus free drinks in the Hearts room while youre on your pass. This your 
first trip to Chicago? You can have a lot of fun on three grand.
Yes, it is, Mr. Duke. But I think I can do better on Michigan Avenue.
Hold on, son. Okay, five grand. I wish I could do better, but jewelry just 
isnt worth what it used to be.
Mr. Duke, some patrollers told me about the Zoo. Whats that?
The Duke laughed. The Zoo, huh? I guess your balls are working again after that 
kick you took. Well, the Zoo is the place for you, then. Its pricey, but its a 
blast. Every night is anything-goes night. Ever seen a Grog fuck a woman? They 
got one there with a dick like your forearm. Hey, Tiny, tell you what. Just to 
seal the deal, how about I give you a three-day pass to the Zoo. Save you a 
grand right there.
Valentine reached into his pocket and pulled out the mirrored sunglasses. You 
do that and give me a place to crash while Im in town, and Ill throw these 
in.
Let me see those, the Duke said. Valentine passed the shades over, and the 
Duke looked at the wire-thin frame. These are twentieth century, maybe. He 
gently flexed a bow. Hell, real titanium. Okay, Dave, you got your place to 
sleep. Have Denise set you up in one of the rooms above the Club Room. Theres 
even a shower down the hall. You can get yourself all squeaky clean for your 
night at the Zoo.
And my five grand?
Coming, coming. Gotta hit the old bank.
The Duke walked across his office to the rear and swung a velvet painting of a 
grinning jesters face away from the wall. A gray, formidable-looking safe sat 
in the wall behind. Whistling, the Duke spun the combination and opened the 
door, which was layered with multiple panels of steel. He extracted a pad of 
bills with a thick rubber band around it and walked over, handing it to 
Valentine.
Five thou, my friend. Pleasure doing business with you.
Valentine pulled up the first bill and flipped through the others. Hey, most of 
these arent authorized! he objected.
The Duke slapped him on the shoulder. Good eye, Dave, good eye. I knew you were 
sharp! That was just a test to see what kind of an edge your mental blade has. 
Here, give me that back, Ill get you the real stuff.
The Duke wandered over to a decorative roulette table stacked with bottles of 
fine liquor. He spun the wheel to a point Valentine could not determine and 
pulled up the spinner. He reached into the space beneath the wheel and took out 
a sheaf of bills. He hurriedly counted.
Okay, all this is authorized, Dave. Scouts honor. But spend it allthat 
stamps good only for a couple more weeks. Then you gotta stand in line for a 
new issue. Counterfeiters make it tough on us hardworking smugglers.
Valentine checked again, seeing the red circle with cryptic squiggles stamped 
over the face of Ben Franklin on each bill.
He picked up the now almost-empty sack. Thanks, Duke. I want my first trip to 
Chicago to be a memorable one.
Dont mention it. If you decide to move here, I might be able to connect you to 
a job. For, say, fifteen percent out of your first years paychecks. I could 
even need a favor myself someday. You might be able to help me with that, and 
Id be able to give you a hell of a lot more in return than your captain, or 
whatever he is. And Chicago beats the hell out of living up in Cheeseland.
Its my kind of town, Valentine agreed.
Valentine arranged for his room with Denise. The room was small and clean and 
had a mattress to die for. Valentine inspected the late Virgil Amess pistol 
again. It was an old army Colt automatic, firing the powerful .45 ACP cartridge. 
It wouldnt necessarily stop a Reaper, but it would give it something to think 
about. The gun belt also held four spare magazines, all of which were full. With 
the ammunition in the gun, that gave him thirty-five rounds. More than enough, 
as he did not want to use the weapon except as a last resort.
Valentine stretched out on the bed and forced himself to sleep for two hours. He 
showered and put the gun belt and his knife back in his pillowcase sack.
He ate downstairs in the Club room. The food was simple, satisfying, and 
overpriced: He paid twenty-five dollars for an overloaded sandwich and a pot of 
tea. He looked at an employee working on a case that held smoking paraphernalia 
and had a thought.
Excuse me, sir, he said to the server behind the counter. Do you have any 
waterproof matches?
Huh? the waiter asked, flummoxed.
He means the big matches in the tins, the man arranging cigars in the display 
case said. Valentine noticed a tattoo with a dagger stuck through a skull on his 
arm. They work good even in the rain.
Yeah, thats what Im looking for, Valentine agreed. Im outside a lot, and 
its a bitch to light a cigar in wet weather.
Heres what you want, the cigar man said, putting a circular tin in front of 
Valentine. Valentine unscrewed the lid and extracted a three-inch match. The 
entire thing was lightly coated with a waxy substance. Valentine struck one on 
the strip at the side of the tin, and it flared into a white light. He could 
feel the heat on his face. Thats magnesium, the man explained. Itll get a 
cigar going in any wind, unless your tobacco is soaked, of course.
Hey, thanks. Cant find these in Wisconsin. How much for a tin?
They aint cheap. Fifty bucks for a tin of ten matches.
If I buy five tins, will you give them to me for two hundred?
Sure, seeing as youre a friend of the man upstairs.
Done, Valentine agreed, and toked the man the other fifty.
You must not get to Chicago often.
No, theres lots of things here that you cant get in Wisconsin. Like the Zoo.
The tattooed man looked wistful. Yes, but I cant afford to go there often. 
Once in a while I buy a cheap pass off the Duke.
Ever been to the Black Hole?
Oh sure, Ive checked it out a couple of times. Ive got a strong stomach for 
that kind of thing. Some of it even turned me on.
Do they ever let regular guys get at the girls, or is it just shows?
Oh, if youve got a couple thou in cash, they got these rooms in the basement. 
Soundproofed, you know. And you can do anything you want. Anything. After all, 
the women and men in the Black Hole, well, theyre the people that the Kur 
decided deserved something worse than the Loop.
You dont know anyone who works there, do you?
Nahh, sorry. Wish I did. But you seem to know how to toke. Just get the money 
in the right hands, and youll be fine.
Valentine paid for his matches and took his leave of the eatery. He approached 
Wideload, still on duty, blocking the door like a parked dump truck.
Leaving? Wideload said, stepping aside to open the door after a glance 
outside. Fun starts soon.
Valentine squeezed past the human obstacle and entered the street.
He turned and looked up the sidewalk in the direction of Lake Michigan. A black 
van, its windows reinforced with wire, stood on the curb in front of him. The 
initials CSS and a small logo were stenciled in white on its side. The Chicago 
Security Service?
Two grubby youths leaning on a corner stubbed out their half-smoked cigarettes.
A silent siren went off in Valentines head. Tobacco in Chicago wouldnt be 
wasted by street punks. He heard footsteps behind him. 
For a moment his body betrayed him: His legs turned to bags of water. When the 
handle on the back door of the CSS van turned, he knew the trap was being 
sprung.
Two massive arms enveloped him. Wideload locked his hands in a deadly variation 
of the Heimlich maneuver, but instead of pushing up into his diaphragm he pulled 
Valentine to him in a rib-squeezing embrace. Valentines breath left him.
A second pair of men approached from across the street.
One, tall and thin wearing a red tank top and pair of chain-mail gloves, removed 
a pair of familiar sunglasses as he ran toward Wideload and his victim.
Youre, Wideload started to say, when Valentine brought his booted heel down 
hard on his captors instep. He thrust back his head, and felt a solid thunk. 
The bear hug ceased.
The four men closing on him were trying to trap him between the Clubs Flush wall 
and the CSS van. Its rusty back door swung open. He lashed out with his foot, 
kicking the door closed again. It shut on something, fingers or a foot; muffled 
howls echoed from inside the van.
He ran across the street, accidentally spilling a pair of riders on bicycles as 
they turned on their rubberless wheels to avoid him. The four pursuers tried to 
triangulate in on him, but he called on his speed and his legs answered. He 
cornered around a parked horse wagon so fast his feet skidded on the pavement. 
But he maintained his balance just.
With open sidewalk ahead of him he broke into a loping run. A few loungers on 
doorsteps stared as he passed. He chanced a glance over his shoulder; the four 
were sprinting to catch him.
Thirty seconds passed, and the four became three. In another minute, the three 
were two. By the time Valentine turned a corner, running up a series of short 
cluttered blocks, the two had become one: the tall man with the chain-mail 
gloves. His red tank top was dark with sweat.
Valentine turned down an alley and found breath in his body to do one more 
sprint. He zigzagged around fetid mountains of refuse, scattering rats with his 
passage. His pursuer just managed to start down the alley as Valentine turned 
the corner at the other end. To the east down this street he saw an end to the 
buildings. I must be near the lakeshore and the Zoo.
He pressed himself up against the corner and listened to his pursuers heavy 
breathing and heavier footsteps as he trotted up the alley. The man slowed, 
sucking wind as he approached the alleys exit.
When he knew the man was about to come around the corner, Valentine lunged. He 
brought his knee up into the winded mans groin. Chain-Mail Gloves managed to 
avoid the blow, but Valentines thick thigh still caught him in the stomach. The 
blow was just as debilitating: The Chicago air left Chain-Mail Glovess lungs in 
a gasp, and he bent over in breathless agony. In no mood for a fair fight, 
Valentine grabbed his assailant by his hair and brought his knee up again. 
Cartilage gave way with a sickening crunch. The man went down, now out of what 
wasnt much of a fight to begin with.
The Wolf shuddered, still keyed up. He pulled the gloves from the unconscious 
man and added them to his sack of weapons, then trembled again. But for a 
different reason.
A Reaper. Coming, and already so near.
Valentine tried to clear his mind, make it as empty and transparent as a 
paneless window. He stepped back into the shadows of the alley, moving away from 
the Reaper. At the other end, he dug himself into a pile of trash, burrowing on 
his knees and elbows into the filth. He felt cockroaches crunch and crawl as he 
joined them at the bottom of the sodden refuse pile.
The alley grew colder.
up, you, up, Valentine heard a Reaper say, seemingly in his ear.
The Wolf almost leaped to his feet, ready to fight and die, when he realized the 
voice was at the end of the alley with the Dukes thug.
Center, center, Ive got to center or, David thought frantically.
you, foodlingwhere is the terrorist?
Murfer motherfucker jumped me, the man groaned, in the sharp honking tones of 
a man with a broken nose. I dunno speak clear, willya? Who? Ohmygod!
awake now?
Yessir umm, I think he went toward the lake? Thats where he was running. 
Sorta.
you were supposed to follow him, not take him.
The Duke said
the duke isnt here, or he would be taken instead of you!
A motor at Valentines end of the alley drowned out the Reapers low hissing 
voice. He looked out from beneath his garbage and saw a gleaming red car stop. 
One of the punks who had dropped out of the footrace sat on the hood, directing 
it. Rats scattered again as the man jumped off and the passenger door opened.
Valentine heard screaming, the terrible gurgling sound of a man being fed on, 
from the other end of the alley. The cold spot on Valentines mind marking the 
Reaper swelled and pulsed as it conducted the aura to its Master Vampire. All 
around the neighborhood Valentine heard doors slamming and windows closing.
From beneath a mass of flattened cardboard Valentine watched the Duke, in all 
his gauche splendor, blanch as he looked down the alley. The Duke gulped, and 
slunk into the alley toward the scene. His henchman trailed him for two steps, 
then thought better of it and returned to the car. The Duke rubbed the brass 
ring on his finger. Valentine wondered if he sought comfort in its touch, or 
perhaps imagined what having his finger pulled off would feel like. The Wolf 
read mortal fear in the Dukes eyes before he passed. He let his ears take over, 
afraid to shift his position. The Reaper had senses other than that which 
allowed it to read auras.
the good duke, the Reaper whispered, slowly and thickly. eight years with a 
brass ring courtesy of his aura-drunk lord, dealer of powder-white chemical joy. 
harborer of terrorists.
How was I to know, sir?
you are too ready to do business first and ask questions not at all. you have 
tap-danced close to the edge of the law too many times: others in the order are 
beginning to take notice, like this fiasco, my instructions were not clear?
I just thought
youre kept alive to do, not think, the Reaper hissed.
Well, why should that damn renegade get my money anyway, sir? Hes up to no 
good; throw him in the clink and be done with him.
that damn renegade is something special, one of my clan sensed him coming into 
the train yard, we want to know, who he is going to meet, what they know, and 
what they plan, his kind do not just wander into town to look around, hes one 
of that breed our foe-kin use for their dirty work, clean up this mess and 
return to your club, we will take over the search.
He said he was going to the Zoo.
a cover story, or perhaps
What shall I do with my man?
throw the corpse to the snappers, i go now, to find what you have lost, i felt 
his aura hot and clear for a moment as he fought with your man, i can find him 
again.
The chilling spot in Valentines mind moved away. He waited while the Duke had 
another henchman carry the corpse to his trunk. By the time they left the alley, 
it had grown dark.
Valentine emerged from underneath the garbage and left the alley. He 
concentrated on keeping lifesign down, casting about for somewhere to get some 
clean clothes. He found a used-leather-goods store and purchased four cheap 
belts and a long leather trench coat that was missing some buttons. He put the 
black coat on after paying for it. In an alley, he put on the gun belt and the 
parang and filled his pockets with the tins of matches. He tucked a belt up his 
left sleeve and rolled the others up and put them in his pants pockets. His 
remaining cash lay folded in his breast pocket, next to his identity papers and 
a small white card.
Well, Im as ready for the Zoo as Ill ever be, Valentine thought. Pray God the 
Zoo isnt ready for me.
Thirteen
The Zoo: Lincoln Park, a green oasis between the shores of Lake Michigan and the 
shattered city, is considered the premier entertainment tract of Chicago, and 
indeed the Midwest. From what had been the oldest zoo in the United States at 
the south to the Elks temple in the north, Lincoln Park as run by the Kurians 
is a mixture of Sodom and Mardi Gras. Along with its adjacent gambling ship tied 
up at the old Chicago Yacht Club in Belmont Harbor, it offers diversions to suit 
the most jaded palate. From late March to November, Carnal-val is in session. 
This nonstop party provides much-needed relief for the favored Quislings who are 
allowed to attend. During Chicagos dreary winters, the action is limited to the 
indoors but remains just as wild. With good behavior, a Midwestern Quisling can 
expect a trip into Chicago to visit the Zoo every few years. They are released 
in groups, and anywhere from two to a hundred go to Chicago together,-with the 
direst warnings about what will happen to the rest should any desert. Parties 
from places as far away as Canada, Ohio, and even Colorado and Kansas visit for 
up to a month. But as the money runs out to the point that even shoes are sold 
to pay for unholy delights, the trips are ended early by mutual consent. 
Everyone knows the destination for those left penniless in a city where there is 
no such thing as a free meal or room. Within the confines of the Zoo, there is 
no curfew as there is everywhere else in the city. There is ample if 
poor-quality food and drink to be had at any hour from street vendors, tented 
cantinas, and permanent restaurants. Mounted officers, equipped like the statue 
of Phil Sheridan with sword and pistol, patrol the area from their headquarters 
in the old Chicago Historical Society building. They do very little to break up 
disturbances, and only a fistfight that threatens to grow into a riot will cause 
them to do anything but pause and sit their horses to watch. Everyone from 
magicians to three-card monte operators to street musicians tries to make a 
living on the streets, but nothing can be sold on the grounds of the park save 
food, drink, tobacco, drugs, and flesh.
It is this last that is the real attraction of the Zoo. Under every lamppost, at 
every corner, and inside every barroom, women, a few men, and the occasional 
child can be found for a price. At the top of the carnal hierarchy are the 
showgirls, performing everything from stripteases in the clubs on Clark to 
variegated sexual displays behind the bars of the Zoo that would make those 
performed in pre-Kurian Bangkok seem tame. Next come the geishas. These women, 
found in some of the better bars, act as short-term girlfriends to the Quislings 
on vacation who want more than just sex, providing a sympathetic ear as well as 
other favors. The full-time companionship of a geisha for a week or two is out 
of the price range of all but the wealthiest Quislings, but bar girls in the 
saloons will do the same as long as the soldier keeps buying them watery drinks. 
Finally there are the colorful streetwalkers in a variety of flavors, offering 
their services anywhere from alley and bush to the little flotilla of old boats 
anchored in the parks Lake Michiganfed waterways.
The careers of the Zoo women are short, and most come to a sad end in the Loop. 
A few make enough money to retire to Ringland or open an establishment of their 
own. A few more leave the Zoo permanently in the company of a Quisling. But for 
most, it is a degrading road that leads to servicing the most perverted and 
violent customers before the final trip downtown.
As for the Quislings, like carnivorous flowers attracting insects with bright 
color and perfume, only to trap and devour them within, the wanton joys of the 
Zoo leave many too broke to get home and, unless they are smart or lucky, they 
become prime candidates for the Loop.
The night breeze no longer blew just cool, but downright cold. Scattered clouds 
crossed the full moon like inky stains. Below, the color had drained from 
Chicagos streets, leaving a world of low-contrast black and white. As Valentine 
drew farther away from Rush Street, the streetlights became irregular, and those 
that still functioned gave light to a few square yards around the pole. 
Scattered figures clutched their coats or thrust hands deep into their pockets, 
shoulders hunched against the wind as they brushed past Valentine without a word 
or a glance. Beater cars and small trucks chugged along the streets, most 
without benefit of headlights, as clattering bicycles dodged out of their way. 
Valentine could hear the clopping sound of hoofbeats on pavement down a nearby 
alley. He cast about with his nose; the city seemed overwhelmed by an oily 
petroleum smell and dusty coalsmoke. The gutters reeked of urine.
Valentine glanced up again at the moon. Its chalky whiteness comforted him 
somehow. Full moon, good night for a Wolf. But a sudden wave of fear passed 
through him, leaving his back running with cold sweat and his hair bristling. He 
paused under a light, ostensibly to check his map, when motion ahead caught his 
eye.
Pedestrians parted like a school of fish swerving to avoid a cruising shark. A 
Reaper garbed in a shirt, trousers, boots, and a caperather than the usual 
robesmoved toward the dead heart of the city. It ran with great multiyard 
leaps, like a deer bounding through the woods. Valentines hand fell 
instinctively toward his gun, but he managed to change the gesture into a simple 
thrust of his fist into his coat pocket. The Reaper passed without a glance in 
his direction, its sickly yellow eyes blazing like tiny lightbulbs. Valentine 
turned and watched it go. It reached the back of a slow-moving car, a ramshackle 
vehicle with wood planks where the panels and roof used to be. The Hood leaped 
over it in a single bound, cape flapping like bat wings in the night, and 
disappeared out of sight as the startled driver stood on his squealing brakes.
Somewhere to the east, Valentine could hear Lake Michigan lapping at its 
breakwaters. He sensed lights and music somewhere to the north, a mass of noise 
that could only mean the Zoo. To either side of him, ruined blocks of rubble 
sprouted shanties like wooden toadstools. Some buildings still stood and showed 
signs of irregular maintenanceeverything from glass to iron bars to wooden 
shutters covered the windows, and the smells of cooking wafted out into the 
street. He could make out trees in the lights ahead, and now several figures had 
joined him in moving toward the Zoo. Most of them had brightly colored cards 
dangling from thin beaded chains around their necks.
He noticed a line at a kiosk on the edge of the park and joined the cluster of 
waiting men, almost all of whom wore assorted uniforms. An elephantine redheaded 
woman sold the white cards on chains to the lined-up men under the supervision 
of a cigar-smoking baldie with the watchful, sullen air of a pit boss. Valentine 
looked at the prices, which started at five hundred dollars a day. He extracted 
the pass hed obtained from the Duke and passed it to the meaty hand of the 
redhead.
Three-day pass, huh, boy? the woman said, reaching under her counter for a 
card on a chain. You one of the Dukes couriers?
The supervisors eyes narrowed as he evaluated Valentine.
Sort of, Valentine said. What do I get with the pass?
She did not really smile so much as smirk, but her eyes favored his with a 
friendly twinkle. About anything your heart desires. She peeled a covering off 
the paper and began to recite the rules in almost a singsong manner. This card 
will stay green for seventy-two hours; thats guaranteed. When it turns red, you 
gotta leave the premises. But while its green you can see any show, go in any 
bar, and get free coffee or iced tea on the Lady Luck of the Lake if youre 
playing. Thats the gambling boat, she added, breaking out of the recitation. 
Real plush carpets and more lights than youve seen at once in your whole life, 
Ill bet.
A gruff voice broke in from over Valentines shoulder. Hey, theres people 
waiting.
Shut your trap, you, she barked, or Ill start readin to him outta the 22 
yellow pages. She turned her attention back to Valentine, drawing close enough 
for him to smell the beer fumes on her breath. You take my advice; just spend 
your three days here. The foods cheaper than most anywhere in Chicago, and when 
you want to sleep just pay one of the girls for an all-nighter. Youll get a 
woman and a bed for what youd pay for a bed alone in one of them ripoff hotels 
by the Michigan Avenue Market. And a guy with your looks will maybe get another 
tumble in the morning, free of charge.
Valentine slipped her a bill. She slid the toke into her udder-size bosom with a 
deftness that belied her size. You got a map? he asked.
Listen to him, the voice from behind grunted. Kid thinks hes in Dizzyland.
Naw, it aint that big a place. Youll find your way around. Why, you lookin 
for something in particular?
The Black Hole. I heard its really weird.
She did not look surprised. Its always you nice-looking, quiet ones, she 
mused. You cant miss it. North side of the Zoo, a big lit-up pit with walls 
all around. Last night the Grogs worked over this little beauty from Michigan. 
By the time they were done, she didnt have enough blood in her to fill up a 
Reapers tongue. I hear the main attraction tonights gonna be some real cute 
young thing from your Wisconsin. Enjoy.
VNattie, you got other customers, the cigar-chomper said.
Okay, okay. Just talkin to the Dukes friend. The Duke would want us to make 
sure he got happy here. Geez, whered he go?
Valentine heard her expostulation as he strode off across Clark Street and into 
the Zoo, but the noise of music and shouting soon drowned her out. Bars lined 
the road on Clark, marching up north toward darkened high-rises. He glanced at a 
few of the names: Paradise Found, Jack Off With Jill On, the Gold Coast Grotto 
Heavily made-up women enticed customers inside, strutting and promising greater 
delights within. He ignored the twinkling tableaux and moved into the cluster of 
old Zoo buildings. Women in assorted stages of undress challenged him with 
everything from a throaty Hi, there, to a bellowed Best head in the Zoo, 
twenty bucks!Over here, handsome. A sickly stench struck him, and he stepped 
around a pool of vomit half covering the sidewalk. A shoeless drunken shape in 
bright orange overalls leaned against a boulder with the words everything goes 
scrawled in white paint across its chipped surface.
There seemed to be nothing preventing people from coming and going as they 
wished, but security troops mounted and on foot wandered the grounds, mostly 
looking at the colored cards dangling from the revelers necks. One of them 
motioned to an apelike Grog, pointing at the shoeless drunk. Valentine watched 
as the Grog hoisted the man into a wheelbarrow cart and trotted off, pushing the 
drunkard south on wobbly wheels.
A long lagoon filled with little boats bordered the Zoo. Couples got on and off 
in a steady stream. Far to the north, Valentine spotted a glittering 
wedding-cake shape of light, obviously the Lady Luck of the Lake. He circled 
back into the Zoos cluster of buildings from the north. A couple of small Grogs 
were picking up trash from the sidewalks and grass. Valentine walked up to them 
and pressed some very special toke into their hands before moving off toward 
another crowd.
A domed cage the size of a tepee stood in the center of a little depression. A 
ring of twenty or thirty laughing soldiers stood around it, hurling small stones 
and pieces of fruit through the bars. An extraordinarily tall man, dressed in a 
simple khaki uniform, stood before the crowd with a long pole with a metal club 
on one side and what looked like a noose on the other.
Hey, lets have him change shape again, one of the men called, throwing a 
small rock into the well-lit center of the cage. He passed some bills to the 
khaki-uniformed man.
Valentine craned his neck to look within the bare cage. A single tree, barkless 
and dead as a piece of driftwood, decorated the twelve-foot circle within. A 
serpent lay coiled around the tree, hiding its head in the crotch between two 
branches.
I can get him to switch, no fail, the keeper said, and poked the metal end of 
the pole into the cage. He rapped the snake twice on the head.
A shiver seemed to course up the body of the snake, a shiver that turned into a 
blur. Before Valentines astonished eyes, the snake transformed into an 
orangutan, which hung from the tree by one long arm and then dropped to the 
ground. It thrust a rotten apple in its mouth and worked its jaws hungrily.
How the hell did you do that? a voice called from the crowd.
I didnt do it, he did, the keeper explained. What you have here is a 
relative of the Kurians. Its the only one thats been captured and put on 
display. They can change their shape at will, and they can practically go 
invisible. Theyre the masters of some of the terrorists and rebels that hide 
out in the hills. The rebs worship them as gods. Only way to please them is to 
bring scalps, and the rebs arent particular about whose hair they take. They 
tell me this one had fifteen, twenty little blond scalps. God knows what the 
rebs did to them before lifting their hair.
Motherfucker, one of the soldiers said, throwing a stone in at the seated 
figure. The rock made an impact in the sand next to the orang, kicking dirt up 
onto it.
The orangs eyes gazed sadly over the crowd. A few more stones flew in, some 
hitting the illusory ape on its broad back. Its eyes met Valentines, and he 
jumped as if shocked by the spark that passed between their eyes.
Lee Lee Valentine, a voice said inside his head. Please let this not be the 
madness again. Oh, Lee, is it you, can you be here? Its Rho, the Ancient. Of 
the firstwalkers. By the Bonds and by the Gates, have you come to end my 
torments? Please say Paul Samuels is with you somewhere, and Ghang Ankor. The 
years the years have sung their songs and moved the earth itself since we last 
met. Please say I will be finally free of their smacks and stares.
All this passed through Valentines mind in a flash. He responded. No, I am not 
the Valentine you knew. I am his son, David. My father has been dead for over 
ten years.
Son? Son? I can sense you are a Hunter. I do not know what brings you here, but 
I feel it is not I. You are anxious to be gone and fearful and worried and 
hateful and hopeful and in love. Oh, I would cast myself into oblivion if I 
could, but they watch, always watch, with their dull eyes. You cannot know what 
Ive been through. Years of abuse and bad weather and no food and torment. The 
orangutan stared at Valentine. Please just kill me if you cannot get me out. If 
my life runs its course, I could be here for hundreds of years until these bars 
turn to rust and new ones replace it.
Something sought his mind. Valentine pulled back and into himself.
Im sorry, so sorry, Valentine thought, breaking out of the ring and filling his 
mind with sorry over and over again. The agony of the trapped Lifeweaver had 
been palpably transmitted through its thoughts. Valentine could not let despair 
overtake his mind with Molly waiting in some cage and a Reaper hunting for his 
lifesign.
He hurried past the converted animal displays. Inside one, a nude woman cavorted 
upon an artificial tree, alternately hiding and exposing herself to the 
whistling admirers. A few men threw money into the cage, and she picked up a 
thick green cucumber and sucked on it. More bills littered the floor of the 
cage, and she began to move one end of the spit-moistened vegetable down across 
her breasts and belly.
He reached an open pit. Black paint covered the stone barriers surrounding it 
and forming the deep walls of a large hollow. A uniformed Zoo patroller sat on 
the wall, idly smoking a sharo-smellin' cigarette. Valentine approached the nit 
and looked in. A central mound, built up to the point that it was al-most level 
with the ground outside the pit, sported two stone lions facing each other. From 
the mouth of each dangled a long leather strap, and the ground between the 
opposing lions had badly stained rugs spread out, covering the dirt. A Grog was 
scrubbing at the broad back of one of the lions, trying to remove bloodstains. 
To the far south in the pit, a gallowslike structure had a pair of ladders 
leaning against it and numerous hooks embedded in the posts and lintel. To the 
far right on the north end, a simple pole lay buried in the ground, with four 
sets of shackles dangling from the top. Valentine took in this three-ring circus 
of de Sade and moved over toward the smoking patroller.
Is there going to be a show tonight? Valentine asked, handing him one of the 
few remaining cheroots.
You bet your ass. In a couple hours. You lining up for a good view?
Maybe. What do they do?
Make the ladies here scream themselves to death, the patroller said, putting 
the cheroot in his mouth and lighting it with the end of the hand-rolled 
cigarette. The scrubbing Grog paused in his work and watched the glowing red tip 
of the cheroot as the patroller inhaled.
A group of soldiers, civilians, and hookers walked by. Half-empty bottles 
dangled from their hands. While passing the pit, one of the prostitutes 
whispered something into her escorts ear. Yeah, I seen a Black Hole show 
before, her John answered. Ive even seen Reapers in the audience.
I heard that private parties can be arranged, Valentine ventured, after the 
party passed on.
The officer blew out the rich smoke with an air of approval. If youve got the 
cash, just about anything is possible.
Valentine slipped the officer a hundred dollars. He glanced at the bill for a 
second before it disappeared into his shirt pocket. Ill get you in to see the 
Head Keeper, sport. Wait here. He agrees to talk to you, you gimme another toke 
the same size.
Fair enough, Valentine agreed. The patroller moved off toward a long brick 
building with a busy rooftop eatery.
Valentine looked at the Grog, who was similar in size to the one at the 
Miskatonic University. He lit a match from the tin and waved it back and forth. 
The Grog applauded with a childlike, patty-cake motion and waddled down toward 
the edge of the pit by Valentine. It looked up at Valentine expectantly.
You want to see more? Valentine asked. The Grog cocked its head from side to 
side like a woodpecker looking for termites. Valentine looked around, but the 
few Zoo patrons close by were paying no attention to the empty Black Hole.
The Wolf took out one of his tins of matches and rattled it for the Grog. The 
Grog held out both of its hands, just like the inhabitant of the Institutes 
catacombs. Valentine tossed the tin down to it. The Grog gave a little hoot of 
pleasure and thrust the matches into a pocket in its tattered trousers. 
Valentine made a slow circle of the Black Hole and found another Grog changing 
lightbulbs on a lamppost. He tried to hand a few more matches to the low-caste 
worker, but it shook its head and put its hands behind its back. Perhaps it had 
been punished in the past for something to do with matches.
Valentines patroller, still smoking the long cheroot, returned. Youre 
golden, he said. Its getting toward the end of the year, and theyre not so 
busy anymore. You want to visit before or after the show? Sometimes it gets a 
little crowded after. Plus, theres a few less girls to choose from, you know?
Valentine forced a smile. Thanks. Ill see him now, if thats okay with you. 
Valentine handed over another hundred dollars in toke.
Wise choice. After the show, Burts usually drunk and ornery anyway. He tries, 
but hes just not smart enough to come up with new ways of killing people every 
week. Plus, hes pissed cause theyre making him do a show tonight. Hed rather 
wait until the weekend, advertise it a little bit and work up a decent crowd. 
They toss in money and tell him what to do. But I guess the management wants 
this girl done fast and dirty ho now, button up a sec, the patroller said, 
looking up at a Reaper moving down the path. It felt similar to the one who had 
pursued him to the alley. David assumed it was still searching for him. Or 
perhaps it was one of his siblings, animated by the same Master Vampire.
Valentine breathed slowly and deeply, letting his eyes go out of focus. Death 
passed in silence.
The officer led Valentine though a wooden fence screened by trees and overgrown 
shrubbery. The patroller rapped on the door and called, Open up, Todd, its me. 
Ive brought a customer for Burt.
The brown-painted door swung open, and Valentine followed the patroller past a 
shotgun-toting guard and into a long brick building with a green peaked roof. It 
was half barn, half fort. The patroller brought Valentine to a metal door and 
opened it with a key from a small ring on his belt. He entered, holding the door 
open for Valentine.
They walked down a hallway and entered a linoleum-floored room. An unshaven man 
sat in a chair, legs extended and arms dangling tiredly. A few more chairs stood 
against the walls, and an empty desk at the corner shone under a hooded light. 
The cop gestured toward one of the open chairs.
Take a seat. Looks like theres not much action tonight. Ill go get Burt.
Valentine sat down opposite the rag-doll figure. The bedraggled man wore a 
jumpsuit, new and shiny, made out of what looked to Valentine like nylon. He had 
long, unkempt black hair and a mustache. A prisoner-like pallor made his skin 
seem anemic against his dark beard. A pair of comfortable-looking black sports 
shoes with new soles covered his feet. Obviously a favored Quisling, if a tired 
and dirty-looking one. The jumpsuit had a high collar, almost a turtle-neck, and 
Valentine had to look twice at the insigne in silver stitching just under the 
mans chin: a reversed swastika. The Twisted Cross? Valentine thought.
The man, noticing Valentines stare, yawned and looked across the room at him.
Howdy, pal, the man in black said. Burts kinda slow tonight. Hes probably 
in one of the bars on Clark drinking. Ive been waiting almost an hour. He had 
a drawling accent which Valentine identified as more western than southern.
Valentine looked at the pattern on the linoleum floor. It resembled a cross 
section of sedimentary rock strata. Im in no hurry. Got a three-day pass, and 
its my first night.
You in the Service?
Yes. In the patrols. Madison Triumvirate. How about you?
I get around. Im on the Generals Staff.
Valentine hazarded finesse. Youre Twisted Cross, right? You guys work pretty 
tight with the Reapers. Where are you operating now?
Some people up here call us that. Cant discuss it, though. You know, 
security.
Oh, I hear you. Looks like they work you pretty hard.
The man smiled. Depends on your definition of work. But it is exhausting, in 
its own way.
Valentine nodded. You look kind of sick or something.
This is nothing. You should have seen me when I first got out of the tank. Id 
been connected for six days. Couldnt even stand up until they got some orange 
juice in me.
Valentine nodded. Sounds like tough duty. Im sure its more interesting than 
driving around in an old car, though, making sure nobodys hiding milk cows in 
the hills.
Funny, Ive never been to Wisconsin, but damn if you dont look familiar, the 
man mused.
 You been up in the north woods?
No.
Valentine fought the urge to lower his face, but he looked the man square in the 
eye. Then I dont know where else you mightve seen me. Ive never been south 
of Indianapolis.
The man shrugged. I dunno. I never forget a face, and
A heavy tread echoed from the hallway, and the cop returned, escorting a 
shuffling man with the bulky build of a power lifter. He had a battered face 
that looked like he drove railroad spikes with it. Burt, this guy wants to do 
some business with you, the patroller said.
Sure, sure. Be with you in a minute, kid. Hey, Jimmy King, you look tuckered. 
You need the usual?
A nice juicy one, Burt.
There was a look of raw lust in the mans eyes like nothing Valentine had ever 
seen. It sickened him, but he was glad of it; the mystery of Valentines face 
was plainly the last thing on Jimmy Kings mind at the moment.
Burt grinned. Then follow. Pickings are a little slim this time of year, but I 
know you aint particular. Some of your friends have been through, and I have a 
lot of empty cells.
As Burt and Jimmy King left the room, Valentine toked the cop yet again. Thanks 
again, he said.
Have fun, kid. Pleasure doing business with you.
As soon as the cop had passed out the metal door to the yard, Valentine hardened 
his ears. Burt and the Twisted Cross man seemed to be going down some stairs.
Got the old thirst, huh? Burt asked.
You know it, King said, his rubber-soled feet squeaking a little against the 
stone stairs.
Your bro recovered from that shotgun blast yet?
Yeah, sure. He wont win any dance contests, but he gets around well enough. 
For a while there, I was limping even when I wasnt in the tank.
How long were you hooked up this time?
Almost a week. Fucker fed three times. Made me want it so bad I almost bit the 
guy pulling me out. But the general was happy with what we did; gave the whole 
team two weeks off. We wiped out a whole nest of rebs in the Smokies.
Valentine heard keys rattling and the sound of a door being opened somewhere 
below.
General shouldnt make you pull such long shifts. I heard some of your guys 
went nuts after
The clang of the door shutting echoed loudly enough for Valentine to hear with 
soft ears. The voices were gone.
He waited fifteen minutes before the basement door opened again, and Burts 
ponderous step ascended the stairs, key ring jangling. Burt returned to the 
linoleum-floored room, and Valentine rose to meet him.
My names Pillow, sir. First visit to the Zoo.
Burt Walker. Chief of One-Way Exhibits.
One-Way?
Now and then we get troublemakers the management wants to make an example of. 
Dont matter how they die, as long as its ugly. Whatcha lookin for, Pillow? 
Something the girls out there cant handle?
You might say that. Its something I dont like talking about.
Hey, kid, I heard it all, believe me, Burt said, in a rich, world-weary tone. 
But I respect peoples privacy. You just gotta let me know one thing Will she 
still be alive when youre done? Cause if you kill her, I gotta charge you 
big-time.
Shell live, Mr. Walker. Thats a promise. 
"Okay, then, but remember what I said and dont get carried away. I gotta see 
the cash, though.
Valentine flashed his breast-pocket wad. I want to see the girls first. Im 
willing to pay, but I dont want anyone whose already used up. Someone kind of 
innocent and fresh, Valentine said.
Hey, Pillow, you want innocent and fresh, you have to come to the special show 
tonight. When I saw her, I almost decided to come out of retirement. But Ill 
let Clubber and Valkyrie and my two best Grogs do her.
Walker took Valentine to the basement stairs.
Thisll be private, right?
Kid, theres curtains on the cells. Dont worry about noise; no ones going to 
disturb you.
They came up against the metal basement door. Walker thumbed through a ring of 
keys and opened it. They passed though to a spacious lower level.
It reminded Valentine of a stable, except for the dirty white tile everywhere. A 
series of cells with barred doors lined the walls. Valentine smelled blood, 
urine, and feces without even using his hard sense of smell. Another man in a 
khaki uniform sat at a desk, talking animatedly over a phone.
Hey, Burt! There are problems up top. Theres a fire in the Grog pens, and the 
stables. Can you believe it?
Oh, fine, Walker said, disgusted. Stupid Grogs. Cause theyre cheap and eat 
anything, we gotta employ em. Theyre more trouble than theyre worth. Find 
Clubber and go help out at the stables. I dont give a shit if the Grog pens 
burn right to the ground. They can spend the winter under Lakeshore Drive for 
all I care.
The man nodded and disappeared up the stairs to the first floor.
Okay, kid. Check out the cells, and then well talk price.
One of the doors slid open, and Jimmy King staggered out. He was nude, hollow 
chested, with spindly arms and legs. His face was covered in blood, and it ran 
down his chest into a mat of sticky black hair. He wiped blood from his eyes 
with slow, tired movements.
Hey, King, Walker called. Go use the hose, will ya? Youre dripping all over 
the place.
The Twisted Cross man went to a washbasin with a floor drain beneath and began 
to hose himself off. Valentine walked up and down the cells, looking at the 
battered, pathetic figures behind the bars. Most of the stable-stall-size rooms 
were empty, and one held the remains of Kings purchase, lifeless legs spread 
wide and throat torn messily open. Valentine reached a smaller hallway, empty of 
cells with another gate at the end of it, and wandered down it. The sliding 
barred door blocked his way, and he could see a long, poorly lit tunnel on the 
other side of the bars.
Something from down the tunnel tickled at his nostrils. He hardened his sense of 
smell and sniffed at the air. His heart skipped a beat as he recognized the odor 
of rose-petal soap. He returned to the tiles of the wide central hallway.
King had dressed again and was leaving, almost scuttling out the door to the 
upstairs. Walker shook his head and hefted his bulk up from behind the desk.
Okay, boy. Im a busy man. Which one? Kings left me with a mess for the Grogs 
to clean up.
Sir, how about you let me have the one for tonights show? I wont even bruise 
her.
Naw, sorry, kid. Im already in Dutch about her. One of the guys got a little 
rough when she first got here, and I caught hell. They want her with a lot of 
energy for the show, you know? The guys always like it better if they arent 
half-dead to begin with. Valentine looked in one of the pens at a curled up, 
sleeping black woman. This one looks unspoiled. But I think she might be dead. 
I cant see her breathing.
Eh? Whats that?
I dont see anything moving. And her heads at sort of a funny angle.
Walker came over to the cage, reaching for an old-fashioned key. He looked 
inside.
What the hell are you talking bout, junior? I can see graak!"
Walkers last choked cry came as Valentine whipped the thin leather belt, 
wrapped tightly in each fist around the mans neck. The chiefs massive frame 
heaved, and latissimus muscles the size of halved watermelons bulged against his 
shirt. Valentine leaped onto Walkers back, wrapping his legs around his thick 
waist, and pulled on the leather garrote until his muscles flamed in agony. 
Walker crashed over backwards onto Valentine, trying to crush him with his 
weight, but the Chief of One-Way Exhibits weakened. Valentine rolled him onto 
his stomach with a heave, digging his knee into his opponents kidneys. Walker 
flapped like a landed fish as the muted crackling of his throats collapsing 
cartilage sounded through his gaping mouth. Valentine continued pulling until he 
could no longer hear a heartbeat. Then he stood, the odor of Walkers feces and 
urine rank in his nostrils.
He turned the chief over, avoiding looking into the bulging eyes. Removing the 
key ring and a club from Walkers belt, he pulled the body feetfirst into an 
open stall, closed the curtains, and slid the door shut, locking it. His hands 
shook as much from nerves as from muscular exhaustion as he went to the smaller 
corridor. The rose smell cahned him as he tried the barred gate. It did not 
yield until after he tried several different keys.
Perhaps the corridor had been brightly lit once, but now only a dank gloom 
filled his eyes. He used his nose to guide him, following the homing beacon of 
the rose smell to a cell door. The sound of quiet breathing behind the door 
reassured him.
Molly, its me, David Im here to get you out, he whispered, trying the keys. 
She did not respond, and he grew frantic. The lock finally yielded. He pushed 
the squealing door open. The cell was bare and dark, the cracked cement floor 
sliding down to a drainage hole.
Molly Carlson lay curled up in a corner, arms around her drawn-up legs, head 
resting sideways on her bare knees. She wore the tattered remnants of her white 
shirt from yesterdayyesterday, he thought, or a year ago?and blood smeared the 
side of her face where it had dried from a bloody clot of pulled-out hair. 
Valentines heart ached at the purple bruises on her face and in her eye 
sockets. He knelt next to her.
Molly, Molly! Molly, he almost shouted, gripping her hand. He patted the side 
of her pallid cheek and futilely searched for a response. He felt a strong, 
steady pulse under her wrist. Was she drugged?
He reached around her shoulders and under her knees. Ill carry you out, then, 
Melissa, he said, lifting her into his arms.
Like a jinni summoned by the use of its name, her eyelids fluttered open. 
David? she croaked. No yes how?
He bore her out of the cell and down the tunnel, away from the basement. 
Explanations will have to wait. Were both in a fix. But were getting out of 
here, he said, quietly but with all the confidence he could muster.
Tearing himself away from the smell of roses on her skin, he caught the scent of 
fresh air and followed it like a bloodhound on a trail. Soon they reached a 
small corridor, jutting off from the main one at an empty doorframe. Following 
the now stronger odor of the outdoors, Valentine reached a short set of stairs.
Can you walk? he asked.
I think so, David. I thought I was dead. I made my mind die-Valentine looked 
into her battered features. He wanted to kiss her, but something in her haunted 
eyes held him back.
Did they hurt you? Were you?
Dont ask, David. Maybe Ill tell you someday. Now now its out of my mind, 
and its staying out for a while. Where are we?
Chicago. The Zoo.
Thats where they said they were taking me. They said some big shots from 
downstate were going to come here and watch me die.
Youre going to disappoint them, Molly.
But you cant get out of Chicago. Not with me, anyway.
Watch us.
David, just shoot me. Shoot me and go, because after I want you to get out, no 
matter what.
He looked down at her, shaking his head. Oh, no promises to keep, and miles 
to go before I sleep. Well be out of their reach by midnight, one way or the 
other.
But how?
A Reaper is going to help us.
The arena of the Black Hole glowed under bright arc lights. Valentine heard 
distant fire bells and smelled smoke; the Grogs had made good use of their 
matches. He covered Molly with his leather coat and took her wrist, then brought 
her out into the bright lights of the pit. Giving her a boost up the side of one 
of the walls, he followed, taking her offered hand.
The cool night air chilled his skin, and Molly gripped the coat around her as 
her teeth chattered. Confusion hung in the air along with the smoke from the 
fires. Through the scattered trees, Valentine could see two fires burning, and 
noisy crowds clustered around, perhaps helping, perhaps simply enjoying the 
excitement. Valentine got his bearings and hurried along the deserted sidewalks, 
ignoring the knots of people rushing to and fro. He sensed Reapers searching 
near the fire.
In the little dome-shaped cage, the Lifeweaver now wore the shape of a large 
sloth. The audience that had been present earlier was gone now save for two 
drunks passing a greasy bottle back and forth. Ignoring them, the tall keeper 
snapped shut a final shackle to the sloths curved paw and rapped it across the 
nose with a short black club similar to the one Valentine had taken from the 
body of the strangled chief. Looks like youre done for the night, he said. 
Everybodys watching the Grog Quarter go up in flames.
Valentine brought Molly around to the low cage door. Hello, in there, he 
called, flashing a handful of bills. When youre done, I need a favor.
A look of tired distaste came over the keeper. Hey half-breed, beat it. Go get 
your Big Medicine elsewhere. Just cause it looks like an animal doesnt mean it 
actually is. Its just a trick. If youre looking to fuck an ostrich or 
something, youre outta luck.
The keeper fastened the last cuff to the dried-out tree limb and approached the 
door. Valentine passed him the bills with his left hand, casually holding the 
right behind his leg. The keeper grabbed the money, counting it with his eyes. 
Okay, okay, you got my attention. Now what, he began, bending almost double 
to squeeze his frame out of the low door to the The keeper never ended his 
sentence; the hard wooden shaft of the club crashed into the back of his skull 
with a kraak. The keeper dropped, unconscious or dead.
Valentine added the keys to his growing collection and hurried to the tree. The 
ones for Rho the Lifeweaver hung from a second, smaller ring. If we make it, we 
live. If we dont, nobodys going to be an exhibit, he silently promised 
himself, and Molly. And Rho. As he unfastened the leg irons on the sloth, he 
patted it gently on the head.
A Hunter? The other mind inside his head asked. A fleeting mental touch. 
Valentine, its you.
The shape blurred again as it fell to the ground, released from its bonds. 
Valentine knelt and grasped it by the shoulders. He found himself looking into 
the rugged face of his own father.
Dad? Valentine found himself saying without even thinking about it.
The shape blurred again and became a hawk-nosed, deep-eyed old man with a tuft 
of white hair at the temples. Sorry, Valentine the Younger. I was thinking of 
your father. My control isnt what it was, it said in a croaking voice.
Molly grabbed at the bars behind him. David, we dont have much time. Those two 
drunks just took off!
Valentine helped the Lifeweaver to his feet. Sir, we have to move. Can you 
walk?
I would love to walk. Run even, Valentine. But I fear I wont be able to go 
far.
Ill see what I can do. Now lets see what you can do, Valentine said, 
explaining his plan. But we have to hurry.
Somewhere, somehow, the Reapers knew. He felt them coming.
Following a Reaper through the crowds made negotiating the press of humans a 
simple task. People parted for the Reaper like the Red Sea before the 
Israelites. Valentine and Molly only had to stay a respectful distance behind 
the flowing cape.
Open your stride a little more, Valentine said in a low tone. The Reaper 
complied, almost goose-stepping into the street. That one, the cab, Valentine 
added.
A dirty yellow lump of dented metal sagged to one side on a broken suspension. 
The Reaper stepped to the drivers side, reaching up to tap at the window, and 
paused, finding no window to tap on.
i need your ride, the Reaper breathed down at the driver. The grizzled driver 
looked up and lost perhaps two pounds while staring at the deaths-head face 
gazing down at him.
Valentine and Molly climbed in, and the young woman sagged against Valentine the 
instant they were seated on the badly sprung bench. The Reaper joined them, 
squeezing into the backseat. The driver did not offer to have the Reaper sit up 
front.
Where to, sir? the driver asked, the effort to sound normal sticking in his 
throat.
the great pier, the Reaper said as Valentine pointed to his small map, which was 
illuminated by the streetlights shining into the car.
Be there in five minutes, sir. The driver started his car. Valentine wondered 
if the mans hair had always been that gray. The taxi began to roll, engine 
sputtering as diesel fumes leaked into the car.
The Lifeweaver switched to his telepathy. It gripped Valentines hand to make a 
more secure connection. Valentine, you have saved me. In ways you cannot 
imagine.
Don t fool yourself, he thought back. Were not out of it yet.
The audacity of this It is worthy of your father. Once a rat passed through the 
Zoo, but she was so sickened by the goings-on she barely touched my mind before 
hurrying away.
How well did you know my father?
I trained him, Valentine the Younger. I invoked him as a wolf and saw in him the 
potential to be a great Bear. He and others forged Southern Command out of a few 
camps in the mountains. The worst days. But the Kurians grew to know and hate 
your father. He killed five of them. Not Grogs, not Reapers. Kurian Lords. They 
had a fortress in Saint Louis, suspended from the arch like a spiders egg sac. 
He stole a small plane and parachuted onto it. When he finished, no Kurian 
within ever drank another aura.
I never knew this, Valentine thought back after a moment.
He was the best of men, beyond our design.
Design?
He once had a family in the Free Territory, but they were swallowed in a battle 
that raged years before your birth. He sought solace in the remoteness of the 
north, and I never met him again. I hope he found some measure of happiness 
before he died.
He did, Valentine responded.
They made their way through the pier, checkpoints and all, with the same 
simplicity granted by Rhos Reaper aspect. Guards looked busy elsewhere, and 
port officials sprang into action, driving their work gangs into greater and 
greater efforts. Valentine urged them on, sensing a Reaper approaching from 
behind.
What had been Chicagos Navy Pier was now only an ill-lit and deserted 
utilitarian warehouse for merchandise moving into and out of Chicago by water. 
The great concrete pier sprouted wooden docks like leaves from a branch. 
Valentine found a responsible official by searching out the most well-maintained 
uniform.
You there, he said, stepping from behind the Reaper. Is there a ship here, 
the White-something-or-other?
Whitecloud, sir? the officer said briskly. She left this evening. Just under 
two hours ago. Probably halfway to Milwaukee by now.
Valentines disappointment may have helped with the act. He thought for a 
moment. Is it possible to still catch her?
Yessir. We have a fast motorized patrol boat. She could catch up in an hour.
bring it, the Reaper said, searching the dark horizon of the lake.
Uh, follow me, sir, the man stammered. Theres only a skeleton crew. If you 
want more men for boarding, the White-cloud is pretty big, crew of a dozen or 
so
I think well be enough. The woman there just needs to go on board and identify 
someone. Theres a terrorist on board, Valentine explained.
The port official walked them down a long, narrow wooden dock extending into the 
lake, held up by thick wooden pilings. The warped wood creaked under their feet.
Ahead they could see a long, low shape. The aged speed-boat gleamed in the 
distant reflected light of Chicago. Valentine prayed that they would still get 
away with no one questioning a Reapers orders.
The Reaper.
The real Reaper was somewhere close.
Valentine tried to hurry the other three along by trotting out ahead toward the 
boat, his hackles rising like a wary dogs. Rho seemed to blur, but his Reaper 
aspect re-formed.
Theyve found me. They are homing. I give off life sign like a firework, 
Valentine the Younger, the Lifeweaver thought to him.
The Reaper grew closer. Valentine knew it was just behind them now.
The port official scuttled up the gangway. He began speaking to a pair of 
figures on board. Valentine pressed the pistol into Mollys hand. Keep this in 
your coat pocket, he whispered. Dont let them take you alive.
The Reaper approached. Its cold shadow was at the jetty, moving down the boards.
Valentine drew his parang, turned, and went to meet it.
When Valentine was fourteen, he had read Livy. Tonight his was the role of 
Horatius at the Sublician Bridge. What had seemed heroic now felt suicidal, with 
two meters of genetically engineered death moving toward him at cheetah speed.
At first he was afraid that the Reaper, coming out of the dark like a bounding 
tiger, would simply leap over him to tear and toss his charges lifeless into the 
lake. But Valentine stood, legs planted with the balanced blade of the parang 
resting in his hand against the back of his thigh.
The Reaper stopped.
It regarded him, drawn skull-face expressionless and yellow eyes sunken in bony 
sockets.
ahh, thefoodling stands, curious after the long chase, it is your nature to run, 
human, it breathed, did you think you could steal and escape with our bauble? 
you would not get out of sight of this pier. It crouched, froglike.
Valentine tried to keep the fear out of his voice even if he couldnt banish its 
shadow from his mind. His bowels suddenly seemed made of water, and his tongue 
was thick and dry.
Your time is up, Valentine said, speaking quietly to keep his voice from 
cracking. In a few seconds, your Master is going to have one less drone.
Go, Rho. Take Molly and haul out of here, he mentally implored.
The Reaper did not laugh, did not smile. It pulled back its lips to reveal 
obsidian pointed teeth.
oh, no, foodling. it is high night, and your world is mine, soon you will be as 
cold and empty as the moon, your woman, too. all you have done is spit into a 
hurricane.
Behind him Valentine heard the motorboat sputter into life. The thing looked for 
a moment at the vessel, ahh, a boat, i thought so. your luck has run out. It 
reached into its robes and pulled out a short, thick gun. Valentine took a step 
back in confusion; he had never heard of a Reaper using a gun, but it fired into 
the air, in the direction of the speedboat. A parachute flare opened, bathing 
the pier in red light.
Do you know me, creature? Valentine asked.
i know your kind, boy. weak and easily emptied, i feast on your fathers at will, 
as i shall consume you, the Reaper hissed, rising and opening its arms for the 
deadly embrace.
Valentine brought his blade up. Not my father. My name is David Valentine. Son 
of Lee Valentine. Have you met my kind, creature?
The things face lost animation. Perhaps the Kurian Lord at the other end knew 
dismay.
Valentine attacked. He lunged, hitting it with a backhand swipe that narrowly 
missed its neck. His blade struck the skull, cutting and glancing off its face 
with a resounding thwack.
It lashed out with a foot, almost caving in Valentines chest. He fell backwards 
onto the dock, gasping for air, his parang teetering at the edge of the wooden 
jetty.
With a soft plop it dropped into Lake Michigan.
And David Valentine knew he would die. The vampire-avatar advanced four steps, 
then bent to take him up in its long arms. But Valentine would meet it on his 
feet. He rolled away in a blur and got up with the balance of a judo champion 
recovering from a throw. Exhilarated, he felt a rush of power, a presence that 
lifted the fear away.
With him stood a phalanx of spirits who had also faced the Kurians. His father 
and mother, holding hands. Steve Oran and Gilman DelVecchio formed an 
unflinching wall to his right and left, and behind him Gabriella Cho went on 
tiptoe to reach his ear.
Go on, Davy. Hes not as tough as he seems, she seemed to whisper in his mind.
A terrible strength filled Valentine as the rush infused his belly with fire. 
The thing paused to wipe sticky black blood from its eye, and Valentine was upon 
it. The force of his leap knocked it over. Valentine clawed at its back, pinning 
an arm that tried to tear him off. He wrapped his arms around it. The Reaper 
flopped and rolled like a netted fish.
It rose, bearing Valentine like a backpack. It began to totter down toward the 
boat, which seemed to Valentine bathed in a red mist. It tried to shrug him off, 
but Valentines arms had turned to steel cables.
Molly Carlson stepped out of the darkness, sighting down the pistols barrel 
with tear-streaked eyes. The Reaper moved toward her, no longer struggling with 
Valentine but reaching for the woman. Valentine shifted his grip and tore open 
the Reapers robes at its chest, baring the rippled surface of its rib cage.
Shoot! Molly, shoot! he yelled.
She fired, putting bullet after bullet into the vampires chest. Valentine felt 
the impact against his own body as the heavy slugs tore into the Reapers flesh. 
Black blood fountained out of its mouth.
He slid off the things back to avoid the bullets, falling to the ground. It 
turned its armored back to Molly and staggered toward Valentine, leaning over 
him as if it sought to at last crush and smother him under the fall of its body. 
Its deadly jaws opened wide, revealing the pointed tongue behind its fangs.
Valentine brought his knees to his chest and grabbed at the Reapers sleeves. He 
brought the creatures weight to the soles of his feet, using its momentum 
against it. Now almost standing on his head, Valentine kicked out with both 
legs.
The hissing nightmare flew, thrown upside down into Lake. Michigan, arms 
clawing at empty air. It splashed into the water. 
Valentine rolled onto his stomach, looking at the circle of waves emerging from 
where the robe-weighted Reaper sank from sight. Turbulence broke the water; 
perhaps the thing was still struggling as it descended into final darkness
Now it was Mollys turn to help him up. The pair returned to the motorboat, 
where the fake Reaper still glowered at the two-man crew.
What the hell was that back there? Who called the Snappers to the pier, of all 
places? Theyll kill us all! the port officer yelled as they climbed on board.
nothing for you to know about, if you wish to see the dawn, Rho said in 
imitation of a Reapers breathy hiss, return to your duties, and let us catch 
the whitecloud.
The port officer ran.
Molly sat next to Valentine, leaning against his shoulder. He watched the two 
men nervously casting off the boat under Rhos glowing eyes. Just in case, he 
reloaded the gun. While moving out of the slip, the boat hit something and 
rocked to a halt.
What the? the man at the wheel said.
The engine sputtered and died.
You have more guns? Valentine asked. They ignored the question and stood 
looking out at the water around them in confusion, He fired a bullet into the 
windscreen. It spider-webbed, and the men turned to him.
Get your damn guns!
The pilot grabbed a shotgun, and the other followed his example and took a 
revolver from the map case. The boat rocked, and Valentine lurched toward the 
side. Molly threw herself down, pulling him into the bottom of the boat. Rho 
clutched at the throttle levers.
Humanlike hands and a dripping face appeared over the side. The Reaper. 
Valentine fired the pistol and missed, but the face disappeared nevertheless.
Grenades on this boat?
We have a few, he said. He reached into a locker.
Drop them over the side.
Cant we get away? Molly asked.
The propellers wedged, the pilot shouted.
Here! the man at the locker said, finding a canvas bag with soup-can-style 
grenades.
Valentine handed his gun to Molly and grabbed a sharpened boathook. He listened 
and tried to guess where the Reaper would appear next while the mate yanked the 
pin of a grenade and turned to throw it overboard.
An arm lashed up out of the water, catching the man in the temple. The unpinned 
grenade fell into the bottom of the boat, bounced and rolled toward Valentine.
Molly scrambled for it on her hands and knees. She scooped it with a shoveling 
motion, as if it were a hot rock. The grenade spun into the water. It exploded, 
sending a column of water into the air.
The Reaper climbed onto the front of the boat. It had shed its robes and boots. 
Bullet wounds showed as black patches on its chest like three extra nipples.
What the hell? shouted the man at the controls.
Valentine raised the boathook and leaped onto the bow of the speedboat, but the 
Reaper knocked him aside. It went straight for Rho, jumping into the back of the 
boat. The Reaper struck the Lifeweaver with a raking blow across his chest.
Rhos masquerade blurred for a moment as he fell, giving Valentine a glimpse of 
an amorphous blue-green shape. Molly reached for Valentines gun.
His vision blurred from pain, the Wolf grasped the boathook in both hands. He 
moved toward the Reaper as it bent to take up the Lifeweaver, a hungry light 
shining in its eyes.
now, i take
Valentine buried the curved prong into the things back. It reared up, and 
reached for the boathook in its back by using its elbow joints in the opposite 
direction from how they worked on a human being.
shoot him, stupid foodling, the Reaper hissed at the pilot, pulling at the hook.
Dont, Molly shrieked. She pointed the Colt at the pilot.
The Reaper lunged at Valentine. The blow sent him flying. He landed on the prow 
of the boat. Something hard poked him in the back: he had fetched up against the 
anchor.
The thing launched itself in the air, landing astride him. It bent, yellow eyes 
blazing.
Blue-white light flashed, and a shotgun blast tore through the side of the 
Reapers face. Skin and stringy black hair exploded in shreds from the skull. A 
second shot caught it in the back, toppling it over Valentine and into the 
water.
Always wanted a crack at one of those sumbitches, the pilot said, breaking 
open the shotgun to reload it.
Valentine could only lie and watch as a pair of ghostly white hands gripped the 
tube-steel of the low front rail of the boat.
No, goddammit, Valentine said. Youre through. He put the pain away and 
unclasped the anchor, making sure the line was not attached.
Mechanically, the Reaper pulled itself onto the boat. Its face had lost all 
animation, its limbs moving in uncoordinated jerks.
Valentine lifted the Danforth anchor by the shank, and turned it so the twin 
flukes pointed down. He brought it down on the Reapers spine, burying the steel 
into its torso. Still holding on to the anchor, the Wolf strained every muscle 
and picked up the Reaper. He heaved and threw the weighted abomination into Lake 
Michigan.
Beyond the splash, he saw gray humps in the water moving toward the boat.
Shit, the Snappers are coming, the pilot said.
Rho rose to his feet, the Reaper disguise gone. His human form looked like a 
wind-bent old tree, white hair streaming in the lake breeze. A misty patch at 
his chest throbbed with a faint blue light.
Im so tired, he said. But perhaps I can help.
The Lifeweaver closed his eyes and gripped the boat. It began to move.
The boat picked up speed. Valentine saw more humps closing in from the sides. 
But they avoided the boat, gathering around the turbulence where the Reaper had 
disappeared in its final plunge.
Ive got the other grenade, the pilot said.
We wont need it, Molly said, looking out over the stern. Whatever they are, 
I hope they have strong stomachs.
Once clear of the harbor, Valentine and the pilot went over the side and unwound 
the Reapers robe from the propeller.
You two just helped three terrorists escape Chicago, Valentine told the 
Quisling as Molly helped them back into the boat. His friend was still 
unconscious, under a blanket in the forward cabin. You can come with us and be 
set down somewhere, or join the fleet if theyll have you. Its the least I owe 
you for your help. That is if you dont want to paddle back and have a talk with 
the Reapers.
I think wed better come with you, sir. The names J. P., by the way. My mates 
name is Cal Swanson.
Thought you might, J. P.
With the powerful motor again in action, they spotted the two-masted ships 
lights before dawn. The speedboat tied up against the Whitecloud in an easy 
swell. The sailors, a mixed group of ten men, women, and children, came on deck 
to look at the visitors.
Rho stood still as a carving for a moment, looking at the new faces, then sank 
to his knees.
Valentine rushed to his side. He turned the Lifeweavers face to him, but Rho 
did not react.
Im exhausted, Valentine the Younger. You are among your kind now?
Close enough, Valentine said. Were safe, if thats what you mean.
The masklike expression did not change. Valentine looked into eyes filled with 
thousands of years of memories. I will go in peace, then. Something that might 
have been a smile appeared on his lips. I escaped them after all.
Maybe you just need rest and food, sir. Ill help you up.
The Lifeweavers mind touched his.
Too tired to talk. Youve helped me more than you know. They would have dined 
long on me, but now Ill fly away free in death. Bring me to the cabin, the 
others should not
Molly, you and J. P. clear out the cabin, would you? Valentine said.
He picked up the featherweight Lifeweaver. The former Quisling dragged his 
comrade Cal out into the night air.
Help us, please, Molly implored to the faces above. Two sailors from the 
Whitecloud swung down.
Valentine took Rho into the dim compartment. A pair of tiny bunks angled 
together into the sharp prow of the vessel. He laid the Lifeweaver down.
Thank you, Lee David. You have a strong aura. It might be best if the others 
didnt see me, after... The minds touch faltered.
Its not over, sir. Just rest.
It Rho began, but never finished. He flickered one final time, before shifting 
back to his natural form. The thing he knew as Rho collapsed into a rubbery mass 
the size of a teenage boy. Rho saggedthere was no skeleton to support his 
bodyinto something that looked like a blue octopus with a bit of bat in the 
evolutionary tree. Leathery fins ran the sides of his tentacles, the longer 
limbs at the back of his body joined by the veiny membranes almost to the 
sucker-tipped ends like a ribbed cape, the shorter ones at the front unattached 
and with smaller, more delicate suckers. His aqua-colored skin, more blue around 
cephalopod skull, changed to sea-foam green along his limbs, with a latticework 
of delicate black lines covering the skin that he found eerily beautiful, though 
if they were decorative or functional Valentine could not say. Spicules and 
flaps formed a band under the brain-in-a-bag of its head, but whether they were 
noses, ears, breathing tubes, or even sexual organs was anyones guess. The 
bulging eyes, lids opening wider and wider as it relaxed into death, drew 
Valentines gaze back every time he looked elsewhere. They were like yellowish 
crystal balls flecked with red, with a black band running across the middle.
God, it was ugly for an angel. Or a devil, for that matter.
Valentine hugged the moist, limp form to himself. He owed his and Mollys life 
to the dead Life weaver. When the warmth had left the body, he covered it with a 
blanket.
He should stuff Rhos body in a bucket or a big jug, preserve it with alcohol, 
and get it back to the Miskatonic. The researchers there might be able to find a 
weakness, some flaw that would allow them to kill the Kurians without blasting 
into their lairs and blowing them to bits. Duty, and loyalty to his species, 
demanded it.
He exited the cabin and went to the engine.
Take any gear and fixtures you want out of her, he said to the crewmen of the 
Whitecloud. But dont go in the cabin.
He found a hose and siphoned some gasoline up into a water bottle. He took the 
fuel down into the forward compartment and splashed it on the carpet and wood 
paneling. He repeated the process until the gas was gone and the speedboat 
reeked of fumes. He followed his shipmates into the sailing vessel as the 
sailors pulled the powerful outboard up out of its mount with a block and 
tackle.
Valentine reached into his pockets and found one more tin of matches. He struck 
them all at once, and tossed the flaming handful into the cabin. Flames raced 
through the boat, and the Whitecloud sailors cast it off.
He watched and waited until the lake consumed the flaming wreck. The smoke 
dissipated into the fresh breeze.
Sailors are used to the unexpected. A woman with a long, thin-boned face 
introduced herself as Collier, the captain of the Whitecloud, and offered them 
blankets and hot coffee.
She invited them below to the cramped galley. Valentine showed the captain his 
card, the chit given him by Captain Doss of the White Lightning. She agreed to 
take them north, where they could transfer to another ship, which could take 
them anywhere in the Great Lakes they wished to go. Id do it anyway, even 
without Dossies card. Something tells me you went through a lot to get here.
He, Molly, and J. P. discussed their options on the coming voyage. They decided 
to winter in the familiar (at least to Valentine) reaches of the Boundary 
Waters. He would see Father Max again. Only when spring came would he have to 
make new decisions.
A very weary David Valentine took Molly into the clean, cold air of the Lake 
Michigan morning. They looked west as the shoreline slowly became distinct and 
the sun penetrated the clouds. He thought of all the doomed souls beyond the 
distant, mist-shrouded shore. He had saved Molly, but how many others had died 
to feed the Reapers in the last three days?
He remembered a story that Father Max used to tell, and a quote he had to 
memorize from the green blackboard, of a tireless nun named Mother Teresa. She 
and her Sisters of Mercy had worked with the multitudes of impoverished, 
disease-stricken people in India. A journalist had asked her how she managed to 
keep her spirits up, when despite her unceasing labors there would always be 
more suffering than she could possibly cure.
Mother Teresa had thought for a moment, and then said: You start with one.
David Valentine turned to watch the dawn, Mollys hand in his.
One.



This ends the first volume tracking the career of David Valentine. He will 
return to face the mysterious Twisted Cross in Choice of the Cat, the second 
book in the Vampire Earth series. For more information on it and other tales of 
Vampire Earth, please visit the authors Web site at www. vampireearth. com.



Glossary
Aspirants: Teenagers, often sons and daughters of those in a particular caste, 
who travel with the Hunters and perform assorted camp functions.
Bears: Hunters and the most fearsome of the Lifeweavers human weapons. The 
Bears are proud to take on anything the Kurians can design.
buckchits: The plastic currency of the Ozark Free Territory, they are 
doughnut-shaped coins of various denominations.
Cats: Trained by the Lifeweavers, these Hunters act as spies, saboteurs, and 
assassins in the Kurian Zone. Some work in disguises; others work openly.
Grogs: Any of the multitude of creations the Kurians have designed or enhanced 
to help subjugate man. They come in many shapes and sizes; some are intelligent 
enough to use weapons.
Hunters: Human beings who have been enhanced by the technomagic of the 
Lifeweavers to cope with the spawn of Kur.
Interworld Tree: An ancient network of portals between the stars, the doors of 
which allow instantaneous transportation across the light-years.
Kurians: Lifeweavers from the planet Kur who learned how to indefinitely 
lengthen their lives by absorbing vital aura. They are the true vampires of the 
New Order.
lifesign: Energy given off by any living thing in proportion to its size and 
sentience. The Reapers use it, in addition to the normal senses, to track their 
human prey.
parang: A short, fat machete with a slight curve at the tip. Its three cutting 
edges can be used to skin game, chop down small trees, or even dig.
Pre-entities: The Old Ones, a vampiric race that died out long before man walked 
the Earth. From their knowledge the Kur learned how to become vampires by living 
off vital aura.
Quislings: Humans who assist the Kurians in running the New Order.
Reapers: The Praetorian Guard of the New Order, they are in fact avatars 
animated by their master vampire. They permit the reclusive Kurians to interact 
with humans and others, and more important, absorb the vital aura through a 
psychic connection with the avatar without physical risk. The Reaper lives off 
the blood of the victim, while the aura sustains the Master Kurian. Also known 
colloquially as Capos, Governors, Hoods, Rigs, Skulls, Scowls, Tongue-Tong, 
Creeps, Hooded Ones, and Vampires.
vital aura: An energy field created by a living creature. Sadly, humans are rich 
in it.
Wolves: The most numerous caste of the Hunters, trieir patrols watch the 
no-mans-land between the Kurian Zone and the Free Territories. They also act as 
guerrilla fighters, couriers, and scouts.



Read on for a special preview of E. E. Knights next volume of the VAMPIRE 
EARTH.
Available from Roc in May 2004



Lt. David Valentine looked back down into the gully. His platoon, numbering 
thirty-five in all, rested against leafing trees, using their packs to keep 
their backsides off of the rain-soaked earth. They had covered a lot of ground 
since skirting the northern edge of Lake Oologah that morning, moving at a 
steady, mile-eating run. The Wolves held rifles in their laps. Their leather 
uniforms were cut in variegated styles. Some Wolves still wore their winter 
beards, and no two hats matched. The only accoutrement his three squads shared 
were their short, broad-bladed machetes known as parangs, though as would be 
expected of the individualistic Wolves, some wore them on their belts, some 
across their chests, and some sheathed in their moccasin-leather puttees.
Valentine signaled with two fingers to the men waiting in the gully, and 
Sergeant Stafford climbed up the wash to join him in the damp bracken. His 
platoon sergeant, known as Gator off-duty because of his leathery skin and 
wide, toothy grin, worked his way slowly to Valentines overlook. Wordlessly, 
the lieutenant passed Stafford his binoculars. Stafford examined the compound as 
Valentine worked another inch off of the grass stalk clamped in his teeth.
Looks like that last sprint was for nothing, Valentine said. The tractor 
trailer pulled in here. We wouldnt have intercepted anyway. This must be a 
pretty good stretch of road.
How do you figure that, sir? Stafford said, searching the compound in vain for 
any sign of the tanker truck they had spotted crawling through the rain that 
morning. Using a map, making some guesswork, and trusting to luck, the platoon 
had dashed cross-country to ambush the tanker, hardly a forlorn hope given the 
terrible state of the roads in this part of the Kurain Zone.
Look at the ruts by the gate, turning off the road. Theyve got to have been 
made by an eighteen wheeler, Valentine said.
Could have been from yesterdayeven the day before, Lieutenant.
Valentine raised an eyebrow. No puddles. Rain would have filled in something 
that deep. Those were made since the shower ended, what, a half hour ago?
Err, okay, yeah. So the trucks in one of those big garages getting worked on. 
We get in touch with the captain, the rest of the company is here in a day or 
two, and we burn the compound. I figure fifteen or twenty guarding this place at 
most. Tens more likely.
Id like nothing better, Staff. Times a problem, though.
Val, I know foods short, but what else is new? Theres enough game and forage 
in these woods.
Sorry, Gator, Valentine said, taking the binoculars back. I misspoke. I 
should have said times running short for them.
Staffords eyebrows arched in surprise. What, those four tied up down there? 
Okay, its ugly, but since when have we had much control over the punishment 
handed out by these little Territorial commandants?
I dont think its just punishment, Valentine said, his eyes now on the 
two-story house.
Hell, sir, you know these collaborator creepstheyll flog a woman for not 
getting the skid marks out of their skivvies. These four probably were last out 
of the barracks for role call or something. God knows.
Valentine waited for a moment, wondering whether to give voice to a feeling. 
Staff, I think theyre breakfast. Theres a Reaper in that house, maybe more 
than one.
Sergeant Tom Stafford blanched. H-how d-do you figure that, sir?
Valentine read the sergeants terror with a species of relief. He wanted a 
subordinate in mortal fear of the Reapers. Any man who did not tremble at the 
thought of facing a couple of Hoods was either a fool or inexperienced, and 
there were far too many inexperienced Wolves in Foxtrot Company. Whether or not 
the whole lot, officers included, were fools was a question Valentine sometimes 
debated with himself on long winter nights until his thoughts became too much 
for him.
Look at the first story of the house, Sergeant, Valentine said, passing the 
binoculars back. Its a nice day. Someone is letting in the spring air. But 
that second storyshuttered. I think I even see a blanket or something stuffed 
between the slats. And that little stovepipe coming out of the wallthats got 
to be for a bedroom, not the kitchen. See the vapor? Someone has a fire going.
Dark and warm. Hoods like it like that, Stafford agreed.
My guess is that after the suns down, the visitor will rise and go about its 
business. It wont feed till almost morning. It wouldnt risk taking them before 
it could sleep safe again. You know how dopey they get after feeding.
Okay, sir, then thats the time to hit em. Tomorrow morning. Stafford 
couldnt keep the excitement out of his voice. Maybe the captain could even get 
here by then. That refinery hes scouting cant be more than thirty miles away. 
They feed, dawn comes, and they button up in that house. We burn them out, even 
if it rains again, and have enough guns to knock em down and keep em down till 
we can get in with the blades.
That would be my plan exactly, Sergeant, Valentine agreed. Except for one 
thing.
What, you think that house wont burn if it rains again? Those phosphorous 
candles, Ive seen them burn through tin, sir. Theyll get the job done.
You missed my point, Staff, he said, spitting out the thoroughly chewed blade 
of grass. Im not going to let the Hoods get their tongues into those poor 
bastards.
Valentine knew the word incredulous was probably not in his platoon sergeants 
vocabulary, but Staffords expression neatly illustrated the meaning of the 
word. Er, sir, I feel for them too, but hell, its too much of a risk.
Having thirty Wolves within a mile of the Reapers is a risk too. Even if we all 
concentrate on lowering lifesign, they still might pick up on us. Then wed be 
faced with Reapers coming from who knows where in the dark. The sun isnt 
waiting. Ive made up my mind. Were going to hit them now with the platoon 
while most of the guards are off in the fields. Thats all there is to it, 
Sergeant. Keep an eye on the camp up here. Whistle if anything happens.
The lieutenant returned to his platoon, scooting backwards on his belly until he 
reached the cut in the hillside. He gathered his three squads around him.
Heads up, Second Platoon. The captain detached us with orders to raise a little 
hell if we get the chance, and we just got it Theres a pretty big civvy 
compound on the other side of this hill.
Looks like farm workers and maybe some mechanicstheres a couple of big garages 
behind the wire. Two guard towers with a man in each. I figure most of the 
able-bodied are out in the fields to the north, and most of the garrison is 
keeping an eye on them. Chances are there are only a few left in the compound, 
counting the two in the towers. But it looks like there could be Hoods in there 
too.
Valentine gave them a moment to digest this. Newer Wolves comprised the majority 
of Foxtrot Company, which had been rebuilt after being bled white in action east 
of Hazlett, Missouri, in the summer of 65. Each of his three squads had only 
one or two reliable veterans. Most of the experienced men were with the captain 
or leading smaller patrols on similar scouting forays into the Gulag lands north 
of Tulsa. While all of Foxtrot had gone through arduous training by Southern 
Command, the gulf between training and experience had been crossed by only a 
handful of his men. But they were eager to prove themselves as true Wolves, and 
all had reason to hate the Reapers and the Quislings assisting them.
Valentine searched the expectant eyes for a pair of almost cherubic young faces. 
Jenkins and Oliver, take a map and head south. Sergeant Stafford will show you 
where the captains headquarters is supposed to be. If hes not there, go back 
to summer camp south of the Pensacola dam and report. If you do find him, tell 
him were about to hit some Reapers. I expect the Territorialsll react, and 
therell be columns from all over converging on this spot. Maybe he can 
bushwhack one. Were going to run east and wait at camp. Got it?
Marion Oliver held up her hand. Sir, cant we be in on the attack, then go find 
the captain?
Valentine shook his head. Oliver, I could sure use you, but just in case this 
goes to hell, the captain would want to know what we found, where we were when 
we found it, and what we were going to do about it. Getting that information to 
the captain might save our lives.
When it was raining earlier, I saw a few of you with those new rain ponchos you 
lifted outta that storehouse we broke into a couple days ago. I need to borrow 
three of them, and two volunteers.
An hour later Valentine walked down the empty road towards the camp, watching 
clouds build up again to the southwest. He hoped for more rain overnight. It 
would slow pursuit.
He wore a green rain slicker, an oily-smelling poncho borrowed from one of his 
men. Behind him two of his best snapshooters walked down the road, brisk and 
bold in the open daylight, also wearing the rain gear stolen from the Quisling 
Territorials. Valentine had his sleeves tucked together like a Chinese mandarin 
hed once seen in a laminated placemat pinned to an eatery wall.
As the trio approached the camp, the guard in the south tower near the road 
waved lazily and called something down to the cinder-block guardhouse below. 
Valentine smelled concentrated humanity ahead, along with the odors of gasoline 
and oil.
Thanks to the Lifeweavers, humanitys allies in the battle against their fallen 
brothers, Valentine, like all Wolves, possessed an almost feral sense of hearing 
and smell, superhuman endurance, and remarkable reflexes. Valentine made use of 
his hearing as he approached the camp, focusing on the two guards walking up to 
the gate.
Guy in front looks Injun if you ask me, one uniformed figure commented to his 
associate. Valentine, still a hundred yards away, heard every word as if from 
ten feet. Mebbe hes Osage or something.
Didnt ask you, Gomez, the older of the two replied, scratching the stubble on 
his chin in thought. Better go tell the Looie, strangers comin to the gate on 
foot.
Franks is having a beer with that truck driver. Any excuse for that pisser. 
Theyve been through six by now, prolly.
Youd better tell him or hell have you stripped. Hes jumpy, what with the 
Visitors.
Valentine worked the safety on the pistol in his left hand. The gun in his right 
hand was a revolver; he covered the hammer with his thumb, so it would not catch 
when he pulled it from the baggy sleeves that covered his arms and hands. The 
seconds seemed to stretch as the Wolves approached the gate. The Territorial 
named Gomez returned with a tall thin man who threw away a cigarette as he 
exited the gatehouse.
Shit, four at the gate, Alpin, the young Wolf behind him, muttered.
Stick to the plan. I just want you two to get the guy in the tower, Valentine 
said, quickening his step. Hi there, he called. Im supposed to see a 
Lieutenant Franks. Hes here, right? I got a message for him.
The bored guard at the southern tower leaned over to hear the exchange below, 
rifle held ready but pointed skyward. Valentine took a final glance around the 
compound. Back towards the barracks, a few women and children squatted on the 
steps or peered out of tiny windows at the visitors.
The tall lieutenant stepped forward and eyed Valentine through the wire, hand on 
his stiff canvas holster. I dont know you, kid. Wheres the message, and who 
sent you?
Its verbal, Lieutenant, Valentine answered. Let me think It goes Uke this: 
youre a shit-eating, traitorous, murderous disgrace to the human race. Thats 
about it.
The guards inside the gate froze.
What? Franks barked. Franks seized his side arm, the Velcro on the clasp 
making a tiny tearing sound, but Valentine had his two pistols out before the 
Quislings hand even got around the grip. Valentine squeezed off two shots from 
the automatic and one from the revolver into the lieutenants chest, spinning 
the man in a full 180 with the impact.
Behind him, the two Wolves raised their carbines. One had some trouble with his 
poncho, delaying him for a second, but Alpin aimed his gun up and put a bullet 
through the guards chin while the sentry was still shouldering his rifle. The 
other Wolf got his gun clear in time to put another shot into the lurching 
figure even as the magazine-fed battle rifle fell out of the tower.
In the time it took the guards rifle to smack into the wet dirt twenty feet 
below, Valentine emptied his two pistols into the other Quislings at the gate. 
The three Wolves dived for the roadside ditch, splashing into puddled rainwater. 
Valentine abandoned the empty revolver and slipped a fresh magazine into the 
automatic, sliding the action to chamber the first round. A shot fired from the 
northern tower whizzed overhead.
Alpin slithered along the ditch as Valentine popped his gun arm and one eye over 
the crest of the depression, gun following his gaze as he checked the door and 
windows of the old guardhouse. An unlatched metal screen door with the word 
Welcome worked into the mesh squeaked in the gusty breeze. Valentine ducked 
back into the ditch.
Should I make a try at the gate, sir? McFerrin asked, muddy water dripping 
from his face.
Valentine shook his head. Stay put and wait for the Sarge.
Farther down the ditch Alpin popped up to swap shots with the northern tower.
Alpin, stay down, dammit! Valentine yelled.
The young Wolf brought his gun up again, and a bullet burrowed into the ground 
right in front of this face. Dirt flew, and with a pained cry Alpin dropped his 
gun and brought his hands up to his right eye. Valentine crawled toward the 
youth, swearing through clenched teeth, when he heard a wet smack followed by 
the report of the shot. Alpin toppled backwards into the ditch. Valentine risked 
a dash to Alpin, whose one good eye fluttered open and shut next to the bloody 
ruin of the other.
A distant, challenging wail reached Valentines ears as he pulled Alpin along 
the ditch, seeking to put the gatehouse between them and the rifleman. Stafford 
had the platoon attacking the northern fence. Valentine heard a shot and the 
sound of breaking glass. His other gunman was shooting at God knows what in the 
guardhouse.
Valentine found the wound in Alpins arm and pressed hard to stop the bleeding. 
Thankfully, the sticky flow welled up underneath his palm in a steady stream 
rather than short arterial bursts. He called the other Wolf over.
McFerrin! Alpins hit!
Someone came to a window thereI missed, McFerrin gabbled.
Keep your head down. Cmere and put a tourniquet on Alpin right now, Valentine 
barked. McFerrin scuttled over, but seemed at a loss as soon as he looked at 
Alpin. First-aid training always took place in a quiet meadow with plenty of 
space, not stretched out in a wet ditch with no elbow room. Valentine blew out 
an exasperated breath. Never mind. Just put pressure right here, Valentine 
said, placing McFerrins hand on the underside of. Alpins arm jus; below the 
armpit. Press hard. Dont worry, hes in shock; he doesnt feel anything.
Valentine ripped material from the flimsy poncho and used the revolvers barrel 
to wind the tourniquet tight. Valentine popped his head up againstill no sign 
of the other Wolves, although no more shots came from the direction of the 
northern tower. The guard had either run or been shot. McFerrin seemed to catch 
on and took control of keeping tension on the tourniquet.
Mister, mister, someone yelled from the guardhouse. We surrenderI surrender, 
I mean. Im coming out, no gun. I got a woman with me.
Im just a housekeeper. I aint one of the Territorials! a womans voice 
added.
He cautiously looked out of the ditch. Come on out, then! Valentine called. 
Hands up in the air!
The Welcome door opened, and a young man in camouflage fatigues emerged, 
followed by a woman in a simple smock. Valentine aimed the pistol at the 
Territorial. You in the uniformface down on the ground. Now!
The Territorial complied. No more shots came from the other side of the 
compound, but Valentine could see Oklahomans running from the barracks toward 
the north fence. The Wolves must have reached the compound.
Open the gate, please, Valentine said to the woman, who rushed to comply. The 
unlocked gate swung easily on its hinges, and Valentine entered the camp. He 
walked up to the Territorial, still on the ground, face turned sideways and 
fearfully eyeing Valentine.
Okay, Terri, unless you want to piss off the man holding the gun, you better 
tell me whos in the house with the big porch.
Mister, its four Skulls and some administrator guy out of Tulsa. And I aint 
really a Territorial, I just wear the uniform because Im in the transports. I 
drive trucks. I just drive trucks, I swear.
Did you drive a tanker in here today?
Yes, sirthat was me. They got a pump for the road vehicles and the tractors. 
Im sposed to spend the night here at the Rigyard, then
I found the lieutenant, called a Wolf pointing his gun around the corner of 
the guardhouse.
Sarge, Lieutenant Valentines here. Hes okay, another Wolf added.
Keep an eye on these two, Valentine ordered. Sanchez, help McFerrin carry 
Alpin in. McFerrins head and shoulders popped up like those of a curious 
prairie dog. Wolves rushed to help McFerrin with their wounded comrade.