Bonner got a real good look at the advancing army around Angola, Indiana. The column—as big as Swayne said it was—was laboring along the fairly well-preserved interstate up in the northeastern comer of that state. Like Swayne, Bonner heard it before he saw it. He swerved into the ruins of a Dairy Queen, killed the engine, grabbed his Steyr AUG automatic machine gun, and climbed up the giant, broken-in-places, plastic ice cream cone that had a commanding view of the shattered countryside.

There it was, maybe a mile away. The three killing machines were now in the lead of the column. Bonner whistled as he gazed on them.

"That," he said aloud, "is very bad news." Bonner's eyes shifted from the monster machines to a familiar figure. There he was, Leatherman, lolling in the front seat of his shiny jeep, the vehicle moving in a swarm of Radlep escort bikes, just to the left of the foremost land destroyer.

If Bonner had had a long-range weapon he would have taken a shot at Leather and gambled that he would get away with a piece of his skin intact. He wondered as he drove away if he would have traded his life for a single clean shot. A vibrant, violent picture forced itself into his mind. The crack of a high-powered rifle, the pulse as it jumped in his arms. His eye looking down the barrel . . . Leather's forehead opening like a bloody flower, his body leaping with the force of the bullet. The end. After that Bonner didn't care what happened . . .

Bonner's hands had locked on the wheel. He was breaking his own rule: Kill without pleasure. Enjoy it and you would never succeed. When the time came he would kill Leather just the way he had killed all the others. Thinking. Quick. Sure. Nothing personal. Cold.

He found the Lash of the Little People before he found the Hungry Men.

The Lash of the Little People was a motorcycle gang made up entirely of midgets and dwarves. They were very sensitive about their height. In fact, they tended to kill people unwise enough to make short jokes in their hearing.

Floyd, the leader of the Lash, greeted Bonner enthusiastically.

"Man, we ain't never seen anything like it. The whole fuckin' Hotstates . . . it's like almost empty, man. A couple of Skag Devils and nothing else. We were getting fat down there. We got a lotta stuff, man, and didn't hardly have to work for it."

"Listen, Floyd . . ."

Floyd didn't listen. "I'm only telling you this, you being a good friend of the Lash and everything. We're gonna drop this shit off in Chi-town then we are heading back. Man, it's unbelievable down there."

"Find any gas?" "That's the funny thing. Pract'ly none. Weird.

The whole thing is weird."

"Let me tell you what's going on," said Bonner. Floyd listened in silence. When Bonner was done,

Floyd said, "Hea-vy."

"This is the big one, Floyd," said Bonner, "this is going to be a firelight bigger than anything we've ever done before."

"An' I can tell by the look in your eyes that you can't fuckin' wait, can you, tall guy?"

Bonner shrugged. He had spent the last hundred miles telling himself that it was nothing personal. And here it was, his hate written all over his face.

Floyd laughed and slapped Bonner on the arm. "Don't worry, man, we all got scores to settle with someone. You gotta look at your life every so often. If you don't it ain't worth living, know what I mean?"

"Yeah," said Bonner, wondering what the little man was babbling about, "I know what you mean."

The Lashmen, a hundred and fifty strong, got on. their bikes and were about to hit the road. They had a pretty large stash of valuables in Chicago and they were gonna go down fighting if anyone tried to take their hauls away from them.

"Hey," shouted Bonner over the roar of the massed engines. "One more thing . . ."

"What?" yelled Floyd.

"The Hungry Men. You seen 'em?"

"Ugh," bellowed Floyd, "you inviting them freaks to this party?"

"Need all the help we can get."

"We saw 'em down to Owensboro, couple a days ago. Gave them a pretty wide berth, I can tell you."

"Thanks, Floyd."

"Don't mention it."

You had to stalk the Hungry Men. Bonner knew the leader of that weird tribe and they were on pretty good terms, but the Hungries were wild, primitive men and if you came to them unawares then they would react like cornered beasts, turning on you, striking out, and then checking the corpse to see if it was friend or foe. Once they had a look at the body, they ate it. Hence their name.

Bonner found them camped around a lake. He watched them carefully from a rise on the highway, located the leader, Oscar, and then showed himself.

"Hey, Oscar!" he shouted.

The effect of his greeting was electric. The sixty or so men sitting around the camp jerked and bolted, diving for their weapons.

"Don't shoot," said Bonner. "It's me." He stood with his hands well away from the weapons on his belt.

"Who?" yelled Oscar.

"Bonner," yelled Bonner.

"Whaddya want?"

"Gottatalk to you."

"What about?"

"Can I come over to the camp?"

"Tell me what you want to talk about."

Bonner sighed. There was only one subject that really interested the Hungry Men. "Eating," shouted Bonner.

There was a hurried consultation on the far side of the lake.

"Come on over," called Oscar. "No funny stuff."

The Hungry Men were the only really healthy-looking people that you saw around in the big C. That was because they more than anybody else got a steady supply of protein, good lean meat. Their predilection for eating their fellow man made them less-than-sought-after company. You could never tell when they were going to get peckish.

They were happy with their lot in life. Where other riders spent their days looking for scarce valuable commodities like gas and ammunition, the Hungry Men found what they were looking for virtually everywhere they went. There was nothing more common on the continent than fresh meat of the type that the Hungries looked for.

They were sensitive about their reputation, though. They didn't see anything odd in how they lived and resented the obvious disgust they inspired in people they considered as crude as themselves.

Bonner knew of their touchiness and he needed them. He was unwilling to offend them but his stomach shifted when Oscar nodded towards a roasting body on a spit and said:

"Hey, Bonner, you're just in time for lunch."

"I already ate."

Oscar shrugged. "Suit yourself."

A Hungry Man pulled a long knife from his belt and began carving juicy steaks from the flank of the carcass that had been gutted and slow roasted over a charcoal fire. Bonner tried not to look as the tribe lined up to get their fair share.

"Hey," shouted Oscar, "save some for me. I'm gonna talk to Bonner a while . . ."

Oscar took Bonner by the arm and led him down to the water's edge.

"We don't get a lotta visitors," said Oscar.

"I guess not."

"Peoples, they afraid of the Hungry Men. Real afraid."

Bonner saw that the roast had been carved down to the ribcage. With good reason, Bonner thought. We wondered who the roast rider had been. Wondered if he had known him.

"People are funny that way," said Bonner.

"How come you ain't scared?"

"I figure we're friends," said Bonner. "Besides, I don't think I'd be very good eating."

Oscar laughed. "Nawww. All bone and muscle.

Not too much meat there."

' 'I know some guys real scared of you.''

"Yeah? Who?"

"Stormers. All the Tax Men. Devils. Snowmen." "Tax Men are real good eats. They get fat off the slaves. Leathermen feeds his stormers pretty good, too. Sometime you get real fat Stormers."

"Listen," said Bonner, "I need your help . . ." Oscar listened carefully. He was not the brightest guy in the world but Bonner figured he was more or less getting through to him.

"So," he said triumphantly, "the big bad riders up in Chi-town need the help of the Hungry Men."

"That's about it," said Bonner.

"Never wanted us around before," said Oscar.

"No, but you have to understand, Oscar, that people find what you do a little, well, strange. It makes them nervous."

"Ain't they gonna get a little nervous if we come up and fight with 'em?"

"Not as nervous as getting slaughtered by Stormers." Oscar thought this over for a minute, then said suddenly:

"You know the Hungry Men don't eat no 'lepmeat.

That's disgusting."

Bonner nodded vigorously. "I know, I know." "I don't want people getting the wrong idea."

"I can appreciate that." "So if the Hungry Men do come along, what's in it for us?"

"You get guns—"

"Guns? To keep?"

"Yeah," said Bonner, "to keep." The Hungry Men tended to arm themselves with spears, axes, and swords. They had some rusty old firearms but nothing that could do a lot of damage.

"That's good. We need guns."

"You'll get all you need."

"Anything else?"

"What do you want?"

"Couple of new trucks."

"You got it."

"Good. That'll make the Hungry Men happy."

"I'm glad."

"What else can you give us?"

Bonner played his last card.

"All the Stormers you can eat."

"Deal," said Oscar.

Web Site Contents (Unless Mentioned Otherwise) ©2012 By Atlan Formularies, Post Office Box 95, Alpena, Arkansas 72611-0095
Phone: 870-437-2999 - Fax: Out of Order -  Email: Addresses

[ Back ] [ Home ] [ Up ] [ Next ]