Текст книги "Hastrom City Rising (The Adventures of Letho Ferron Book 2)"

Автор книги: Doug Rickaway

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

“We should go, Letho,” Thresha said.

Letho gritted his teeth and uttered a few choice Tarsi expletives. “We’re not splitting up,” Letho said. He turned to look at Deacon, who was remarkably unconscious even in the midst of absolute chaos. Letho offered a silent prayer to anyone who might be listening that Deacon would remain unconscious through the horrible death that no doubt awaited him. “I’m not leaving Deacon to these animals,” he continued. “I’ll fight until I have nothing left in order to protect him. To protect you.”

“But you heard the sword: there’s a much better chance of survival if we split up and run,” she said.

“There’s also the chance that everyone dies. Go if you want; I won’t hold it against you.”

The body of the mutant that Thresha had killed suddenly disappeared, leaving bits of flesh and innards on the jagged glass as something on the outside pulled it from the window. Letho was fairly certain he knew what it was that had removed the creature’s carcass, but any doubt dissolved when a hideous snarling face thrust itself fully through the broken window, shrieking and snarling, ropes of spittle clinging to its chin as its head wagged from side to side.

Thresha wedged her rifle between the creature’s teeth and fired, causing the top of the thing’s head to disappear in a mist of black. Chunks of bone and brain matter painted the wall behind it.

Thresha looked over at Letho, and their eyes met. In that moment there was a transmission of data—no words nor overt changes in expression, just an understanding between them that transcended speech and body language. The mutant’s blood, spread across the wall in a glorious, high-velocity splatter pattern, was the writing on the wall. Escape would only prolong the inevitable. Death in the great unknown that loomed beyond the old school’s cinderblock walls was more terrifying than the death that had now revealed itself to them. Better to die together and in a fight than die from the slow death of starvation—or worse.

Maybe someday someone will find our bodies, along with the piles of mutant corpses we leave behind. And they’ll tell the story to others, the one about the brave strangers who stood their ground and eliminated hordes of Je-Ha’s forgotten creatures.

It was the closest thing to immortality that he could achieve, Letho thought. But it would come at a price, and he was ready to pay it.

Letho turned to Bayorn and Maka, who were crouching near Deacon’s body. They had both taken on a tranquil demeanor, and Letho sensed that they were ready as well. The choice had been made, it seemed. They nodded their heads in solidarity, and Letho felt an unwelcome tear at the corner of his eye.

“My brothers. Je-Ha awaits,” Letho said in Tarsi.

“We shall go to the feasting halls of our forefathers,” Maka offered.

“The Elders await us,” Bayorn said.

“You guys finished with your song yet? It’s catchy, but we’ve got some bad guys to kill,” Thresha growled.

Letho felt a twinge of fear pass through his body as he pictured the two Tarsi charging forward and silencing her sarcastic mouth by twisting her head off. But instead they laughed.

“Well said, Mendraga,” Bayorn offered. “Perhaps your race has its redeeming qualities after all.”

“Bayorn!” Maka shouted. “Blasphemy!”

“It is well, Maka,” Bayorn replied, and then offered a Tarsi expression that roughly translated to: Sometimes the devil becomes your ally when all hope is lost.

“What did he say?” Thresha asked.

“He said you’re good people, Thresha,” Letho said.

“Yeah, right,” she said through a smirk. “Do I look like an idiot?”

“Well, you do have chunks of mutant brain stuck in your hair.”

“Asshole,” she said, then turned and began to fire through the shattered window. The agitated roars of the creatures outside were growing louder, more insistent.

“Takes one to know one,” Letho shot back. The sound of shattering glass and screeching metal filled the air, and Letho knew that the hastily crafted barricade on the south wall of the building would soon give way, if it hadn’t already.

“Death comes now. Fight well, brothers!” Bayorn shouted. The sound of the Tarsi song-speak filled the air, rumbling in Letho’s chest. All fear was gone, washed away by the triumphant defiance in the last Tarsi battle cry Letho might ever hear. He sheathed Saladin and withdrew his Black Bear. As he pulled back the slide and checked the chamber for a round, his thoughts turned to Zedock Wartimer. Wherever the old man was, Letho hoped he would be proud.

Letho’s eyes went to Thresha, the progeny of his greatest enemy. Upon catching his gaze, she gave him a lopsided smile that ignited in him a half-mad euphoria. He smiled back, and then looked to his Tarsi brothers, Bayorn and Maka. Their eyes burned with rage and despair, and an angry froth had risen around their snarling mouths. Bayorn and Maka bumped their chests with their hands, a gesture of respect toward Letho. He saw no reproach in their eyes. It would seem that the incident between him and Bayorn had been forgiven.

And lastly, Letho looked at Deacon, who had finally managed to find peace. His expression was tranquil as he continued to sleep through the sounds of rifle fire.

Saladin’s words echoed in his mind.

I could survive this.

Letho was uncertain of the gift he had been given, was still uncomfortable in the extraordinary new skin into which he had been reborn. He had pondered the reason for this gift, why he had been chosen out of all the beings in the entire cosmos. His brain was churning so much that it seemed as though his very thoughts were manifesting into a physical sensation. After a moment of deep introspection, he knew exactly what he had to do.

“Bayorn! Maka!” Letho shouted.

“Yes, Letho?”

“Swear to me that whatever happens, you will not abandon Deacon.”

“Deacon is a great friend to the Tarsi, we would never—” Maka began, but Bayorn silenced him with a hand on his shoulder. The Elder’s face looked confused, but realization was dawning. Letho knew he had to act fast, before the venerable Tarsi could act to stop him.

“Letho, you couldn’t possibly—” Bayorn began.

“I’m going to create a distraction. Bayorn, I want you to get everyone out of the building. I’ll meet you guys on the other side of that line of trees just beyond the school.”

“Letho, you can’t!”

But Letho had already disappeared through the window.

FIVE – Light Our Darkest Hour

Just as Saladin had said, the throng of mutants currently converging on the north side of the school building was significantly thinner than the horde he had seen on the south side—the horde that would burst through the windowed wall at any time. Letho knew that if those creatures broke through before his friends could get out, there would be no one for him to regroup with.

As he watched the mutants stumbling and scrabbling toward him, Letho’s thoughts turned to a show he had once seen from Eursus’s golden age of television, in which the enemy was an unfathomable sea of undead creatures who always seemed to show up just when the intrepid group of survivors were at their breaking point, or when there was a convenient failure in the defensive wall around wherever they were taking shelter. Letho often thought it rather pathetic when one of the characters on the show was captured and eaten by a group of the slow-shambling dead people. How hard is it to escape a bad guy with the coordination of a drunk teenager and the reflexes of a brick wall?

Those visions of televised horror dissipated, replaced with the living nightmare Letho now faced. As he watched the creatures’ numbers ever increase and saw the moonlight glinting off tooth and claw, he began to regret his decision, as most do when faced with the repercussions of a brash choice. But then he thought about Deacon, and his flagging resolve returned tenfold.

He dashed toward a group of roughly ten mutants and bowled into them like a freight truck. The sheer force of the impact shattered two of his ribs and sent several of the monsters tumbling up and away. He sat atop one of the creatures, who was mewling and brandishing a mangled arm, trying to ward him away. Letho silenced the mutant’s cries with a downward stab from Saladin. Two more of the creatures grappled him about the arms and shoulders, pulling him up and attempting to throw him on his back. But with a twist of his shoulders, Letho was able to wrest himself from their clutches. He spun and extended Saladin in one fluid motion, severing their heads just above their quivering mouths.

More came, an endless tide, drawn by the smell of their brethren’s blood and pitiful cries. Letho positioned himself so that his back faced the copse of ruined trees. He kept slashing, slowly edging back toward the trees as he swung his sword over and over again. Blood was everywhere: in his eyes, hair, nostrils, and in his mouth, a taste like burnt copper.

Thresha was the first out, bursting from the same window through which Letho had exited, her gun blazing. A few Tarsi followed suit through other windows, and he saw even more escaping through a side exit he hadn’t even known was there. At last Bayorn and Maka emerged. Bayorn was carrying Deacon over one shoulder, his left arm wrapped around the man’s limp body, his other clutching an assault rifle. It looked like a toy replica in his hands, and Deacon looked like a napping child thrown over his shoulder.

The Tarsi and Thresha began to spread out, heading in different directions, drawing the mutants after them. But to Letho’s dismay, even more mutants began to pour out of the windows behind his friends; they had broken through the windows on the southern wall of the building after all. Another wave was now coming around the corners of the building, spilling toward him like a tidal flow.

Letho was no military strategist, but one didn’t have to be to see that the field was about to be lost, swept clean by an army of ravenous, malformed lunatics with no plan or commander. He had hoped that the barricade on the southern wall would have kept them occupied longer, that many of them would have forced their way through and into the various bottlenecks and dead-end hallways that the school building would have provided. But as he watched them tumbling over one another, and felt the clouds of dust they were kicking up, the grit lodging in his eyes and between his teeth, he knew that this was not the case.

“BAYORN! GO!” Letho roared. The sound of his voice shattered the atmosphere like a thunderclap and shredded his vocal cords so that his voice began to rasp and he tasted his own blood at the back of his throat. Bayorn froze in apparent agony and looked at Letho for a moment. But after what seemed like an eternity, he respected Letho’s wish and bolted for a gap in the mad mutant horde.

“HEAD FOR THE TREES!” Letho shouted after them.

Letho agonized over whether he should follow after Bayorn, Maka, and Deacon, or run to Thresha, who was alone and would likely die that way. But the decision was made for him, as the horde quickly encircled him. Even if he bulldozed them it would not be enough to get through the tightly packed wall of diseased meat all around him.

“Come on, you bastards! I’m ready. I’ll get you asses!”

He had just enough time to laugh a breathless, madman’s cackle at his failure to properly execute what he believed would be his last words, and then they were on him, pulling, clutching, slashing. He screamed as a set of claws clutched a length of his hair and yanked. Still other hands latched onto his jumpsuit and began to tear, eager for the tender flesh beneath. The creatures bore him down, piled on top of him. Elbows, knees, shoulders, teeth, and slobber became his reality. No part of his body was safe from the rain of blows and jostles as the creatures squirmed atop him, jockeying for position to be the first to taste his flesh. Letho kept waiting for intrepid claws to find an artery and open it, for teeth to sink into thick muscle tissue, but the creatures were too busy fighting among themselves and on top of him. He couldn’t breathe; the press of their sinewy flesh and the putrid heat from their bodies smothered him. The whole-body panic sensation of asphyxiation overtook him, and he began to thrash, to no avail. He only hoped that he had provided enough diversion so that his friends had been able to escape.

Letho’s mind screamed in panic. He was dimly aware that Saladin was attempting to tell him something about an approaching vehicle, but Letho’s thoughts had gone rogue—his brain was apparently not receiving messages at the moment. Telltale tendrils of black began to appear at the corners of his vision, followed by a cavalcade of spots and stars. He was losing consciousness.

Several flat cracking sounds. Blinding light.

The writhing mass of inhumanity on top of him broke into a collective scream that shattered his eardrums and filled him with terror. He felt the weight of them begin to lessen, and he gasped like a beached sea creature, his lungs screaming for air. At last he was able to move, but as he attempted to turn over, his body screamed out in agony. Bones were broken in every limb, ribs were shattered, and his ability to heal hadn’t kicked in yet. The thought crossed his mind that perhaps this healing ability was a finite resource; maybe it had already been squandered.

The sound of unfamiliar voices, both male and female, shouting and cursing, drew his attention, and it was at that moment that he realized he couldn’t see. The brilliant blast of white light had blinded him. He rubbed his eyes with a closed fist, fearing that he would find the liquid remains of ruined eyes on his cheeks. The vigorous rubbing did nothing to return his vision, but at least he found no eye-jelly there. Small arms fire crackled around him, muffled by the ring in his ears. He heard mutants shrieking as they fell under a withering wave of automatic fire.

Wait. Something wasn’t right. When he had rubbed his eyes, only one hand had reported for duty. A dull, thudding ache, like someone repeatedly striking him with a sledgehammer, wracked the entire left side of his body.

A radio hissed and crackled, and Letho heard a voice say: “We picked up a group of Tarsi and humans. You find anything? Over.”

“Copy that, Saul. I got one here that had a whole slew of sloths piled on top of him and he’s still alive. You believe it? Over.”

“Miracles abound in the land of the dead and dust,” the one called Saul said.

“Ah, the philosopher speaks!”

“Let’s cut the chatter. Puddin’ heads will be back soon. Heading back to base. Suggest you do the same. Saul out.”

****

“Jeez, look at this guy! He’s torn to pieces. Half his arm ripped right off,” said the male Eursan to the female.

It was if Letho had been shot by a frozen bullet. Had he not been so shocked by what he had just heard, he might have spoken, but he simply couldn’t get his mouth to cooperate. His vision had returned, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

I don’t want to look.

You have to look.

Just get it over with.

He looked.

His left arm had been completely torn away just below the elbow. He brought the remainder of his arm up so that he could see it. The splintered end of his humerus protruded from raw, ragged flesh. Thoughts of food, of uncooked meat, caused his stomach to contract. He turned his head and voided his stomach.

Letho’s paradigm had shifted entirely. Never had he imagined that he would suffer bodily mutilation such as this. He remembered his body being violated by Alastor’s blade, and the wounds he had suffered at the hands of Crimson Jim. But this was different. Those wounds had left behind only jagged little scars. But this… a part of his body had been bitten off. His mind reeled, running through an unpleasant montage of the many ways in which his life had been forever altered. He would never play a musical instrument. He chuckled a little, that this was the first sacrifice that came to mind.

As he sat up to peer out the window of the truck he was stowed in, he was pleased to see that his captors/saviors were fellow Eursans. He hoped that their intentions were good. The man and woman had pleasant faces at least, but their eyes had an emptiness to them that made Letho wonder what horrible things they had seen and done to survive since they had left the Fulcrum station. Still, they looked fairly clean, and their clothes were well maintained, if a little bit worn. They were wearing station inspector armor and were armed with station inspector rifles.

Letho wondered if it was possible to determine if a person was a cannibal just by looking at them. At least they weren’t wearing any jewelry made from human body parts.

You’ve watched too many Eursan post-apoc films, Letho.

“Wonder if he’ll even make it. Risking our asses for these dummies,” the woman said, punctuating her sentence by expelling spit and phlegm from her throat.

“Boss says we have to. Right? We need more hands to hold more guns, remember? Hey, get a load of that sword!”

Hands rolled him over onto his side, divested him of his weapons.

“Don’t touch my sword!” Letho shouted.

Or at least he attempted to. His brain was still disconnected from his mouth. He focused on the mental command, hoping that the message would somehow make it out of his head, through his mouth, and into the minds of the man and woman who were now robbing him.

Sir, do you wish for me to engage anti-theft protocols?

Saladin, in his mind, speaking to him.

What would that entail, exactly, Saladin?

I can administer an electric shock to the person who is now holding me, enough to incapacitate or terminate. Do you wish for me to initiate anti-theft protocols? If yes, please choose incapacitate or terminate.

Letho thought for a moment, then made his decision. He wondered if there was even a point to parsing it all out. Perhaps Saladin could read him well enough to predict the choice. Or even more terrifying, what if Saladin was assisting him in making the choice?

Do not initiate anti-theft protocol.

A wise choice, sir.

“Check out that pistol!” one exclaimed.

“Does that look at all familiar to you?” the other asked.

“Saul’s gonna want to see this,” the first one muttered. Letho heard him key the microphone. “Saul, you better get over here. I got something you need to see.”

“Can it wait? We’re already halfway back to the compound. As you should be, I might add.”

“Well, this fellow appears to have a gun just like yours. If I remember correctly, they once came in a pair.”

There was no response, but far in the distance, Letho thought he might have heard a vehicle come to a gravel-skidding halt.

****

 

The strangers that had rescued him—or robbed him, depending on one’s perspective—had laid him across the seat of a vehicle that smelt of must and old canvas. It wasn’t long before another dusty vehicle appeared, a massive truck, and a small but broad-shouldered man leapt down from the step rail. His uniform was identical to the ones worn by Letho’s rescuers, but somehow it appeared crisper, better maintained. The man’s head was shorn, and his face was smooth from the recent kiss of the razor. His skin was a handsome brownish copper, lighter in places where scars traced across it like cobwebs. His eyes shone like emerald chips, a rather attractive combination with the hue of his skin. His boots shone in the light from the truck’s headlamps, and sweat glistened as it trickled down the attractive curve of his bald head.

This must be Saul.

“Where is it?” he asked.

“Right here, boss,” the woman said, fumbling in a rucksack.

“You better be right,” Saul said. “Otherwise we’re sitting ducks out here for nothing.” The languid yet pointed way that Saul formed his syllables sparked some sense of recognition in Letho, but he couldn’t place it.

“I know, boss, we just figured you’d want to see it,” the man said. After a moment the woman produced a pistol—my pistol—from her rucksack and handed it to Saul. Letho heard Saul hiss through his teeth, and his mouth pulled back into a beaming smile that made Letho like the guy despite the fact that he appeared to be laying claim to Letho’s Black Bear.

“No way in hell I’m holding this damn gun right now. This thing disappeared over ten years ago. Where’s the guy who had it on him?”

In unnerving unison they all turned to look at the door of the truck through which Letho peered. Saul took a few steps forward

“Letho Ferron.”

A jolt of shocked adrenaline. “How do you know my name?” At least his voice was working again.

“This handgun, most likely the last of its kind, was given to a Fulcrum citizen who disappeared over ten years ago. Are you this person?”

“That would be me,” Letho said.

The man in the worn combat dress and mirror-shined jackboots extended his hand, and Letho shook it. The grip was firm, commanding. The duration was a perfect three seconds, and then his boot heels were clocking their way back toward his comrades.

“Good God! What have you been feeding your Tarsi? They look like you could lick a whole battalion of Mendraga overseers! We thought we’d never get them loaded up.” Saul clanged a palmed hand against the side of his truck, which appeared to Letho to be some sort of personnel carrier, or possibly even cargo transport.

“My Tarsi? Where are they?” Letho asked.

“I’m sorry, I do not mean to imply that they are under your ownership—just a poorly chosen figure of speech, I reckon,” Saul said. The way Saul said figure, it rhymed with trigger.

This guy sounds just like Zedock.

“We loaded them up in the back of my truck right here. They’re fine. Just resting. Looks like you guys had a whole herd of muties roll out the welcome mat for you, and I know from experience that that ain’t no way to start off on your home planet, so we’re going to give you folks a do-over. We’re going to take you back to our compound and get you cleaned up and debriefed. Boss man’s going to have lots of questions for you, if you really are Letho Ferron, and if these are the fabled Tarsi who helped him save the Centennial Fulcrum from Alastor and his merry band of bloodsucking dirtbags.”

Letho’s smile faded as his mind flooded with images that he no longer wished to carry, but which he knew would burden him for the rest of his life.

“It didn’t go down exactly like that, but I suppose these stories have a way of getting turned around and twisted over time,” Letho said in a low voice. “Listen, you know my name, and you seem to know a lot about me, which is in and of itself a little disconcerting. Maybe you can tell me your name?”

“Of course. My name is Saul Wartimer.”

Saul’s last name hit Letho like a well-swung two-by-four to the head. His jaw dropped, and he grasped for the right words to say. He decided to keep it simple:

“Wartimer? Zedock! Is he alive?”

“Yep. He’s waiting for us back at the compound, where there’ll be more time to sort everything out. But right now I recommend we hit the road. Those flash-bombs are real good at scrambling the puddin’ heads’ brains, but they usually get their wiring sorted out and come back with headaches and pissed-off attitudes within about thirty minutes or so. Tell you what, Letho, why don’t you hop on board my vehicle and take a ride with me? We got some things to talk about on the way over.”

“That sounds good. But I tell you, Saul, I’d feel a little better if you handed my Black Bear back over to me. I kinda feel naked without it. I’m sure you understand, as you seem to have its sister in your holster.”

Saul smiled, but the expression of warmth ended just there at his lips. His eyes were cold and still, fixed on Letho with steely intensity. Then the scrutiny seemed to fade and was replaced by joviality.

“If it’s all the same to you, I think I’m going to hold on to this bad boy for just a little bit longer. But I’d be glad to give you your sword back. Now that’s a piece of hardware. Where’d you get it?”

“Like you said, Saul, there will be time for telling those stories—in safer, and hopefully warmer, quarters. If you don’t mind, I’m a bit hungry and I feel like I could sleep for at least thirty-two days straight. And I’m sure that my people feel the same. What do you say we hit the road?”

“That sounds like a good idea. Folks, follow me, and we’ll take ’em to the best darn refuge the Hastrom City wastes have to offer.”

Saul motioned for Letho to follow. The man that had initially found Letho tossed Saladin back to its owner, and Letho caught it with his good hand. He slung the sheath over his back in its customary position.

Letho watched Saul holster his Black Bear in an empty pouch on his belt. Saul noticed that Letho was watching him and offered Letho another smile. For just a moment, Letho saw something darker lurking in that smile, and a momentary sense of dread spread over him.

****

As Saul’s truck roared through the night, Letho tried to make sense of what he was seeing. He watched in amazement as Saul deftly turned the steering wheel to and fro, weaving the massive truck through clusters of long-abandoned, rusted-out autos and around massive craters and potholes that marred the surface of dark, neglected highways. Overhead, listing metal frames held highway signs blasted through with buckshot and worn down by gritty, sand-impregnated winds, and here and there Letho saw light poles that had long grown dim. They stood over him almost as if in introspection, peering at this newcomer with empty eyes. He would have welcomed their light on this journey into the unknown.

Yet all was not dark. In the distance, just where the horizon met the sky, a sea of light loomed like the half-lidded eye of a dragon. The air above it was fiery orange, peppered with wisps of black cloud. It was beautiful, even as it imposed its presence upon a landscape of dusty hills. Letho knew that what man had wrought here had sucked every last drop of essence from the land, but one couldn’t deny its marvel. He wanted to go there, wanted to call it home.

Then his thoughts turned to Abraxas, to Alastor, and his mood soured. He pounded his fist against the dashboard and winced at the dent he left.

“Uh, sorry man. Let me see if I can smooth that out for you,” Letho said, attempting to press out the divot in the metal surface of the dash with his bare fingers.

“Don’t worry about it. A ball peen hammer will take that right out,” Saul offered. But before he could even finish the sentence, Letho’s had managed to pop out the dent using a maneuver similar to popping a pimple.

“Well, that’s…something. I guess the legends are true, huh? Pop told me a lot about you, you know. Told me how you faced down Alastor himself. Then died, and returned to tell the tale.” Saul shook his head and smiled in disbelief.

“Well, yeah, I guess it sounds really amazing when you put it that way. Some might consider it to be a very poor decision from a tactical standpoint. I mean, if I had remembered to grab an assault rifle on my way out the door, things might have been a lot different. We might be on our way to Hastrom City to have a beer.” Letho paused, afraid he had offended. “Though I’m sure your place is pretty nice.”

Saul nodded, and made a gesture that seemed to say no worries.

“And as far as that whole coming-back-from-the-dead thing… that’s not exactly proven. I mean, when they took me out of the town center I wasn’t breathing, but it’s not like anyone hooked me up to a heart monitor or anything.”

“How long were you out?” Saul asked.

“Not sure. A couple of days.”

“Sounds pretty badass to me.”

Letho shrugged. “Yeah, I guess it was, in a way.”

An uncomfortable silence settled over the two. Letho fidgeted with his collar. Saul cleared his throat. After a beat or two, Saul nodded toward the glimmering corpse of Hastrom City, far off in the distance.

“So, what do you think about ol’ Hastrom City?”

“It’s the biggest thing I’ve ever seen,” said Letho, wide-eyed.

“Well get a good look, because this is about as close as we’re gonna get. We were the first to get to you because we were closer. But you better believe Abraxas’s men are gonna be all over that crash site sooner than you can say shine-ola.”

“So where are we going, exactly?”

“You’ll see. We’re almost there.”

Without warning, Saul killed the headlights, as did the truck behind them, plunging them into all but absolute darkness. Were it not for the distant light of the city, the crushing black all around them would have been unbearable. Panic seized Letho and he gripped the dashboard, leaving five fresh divots there.

“Hey, man, relax,” Saul said, pointing to the console. A rather primitive readout displayed the words “auto-navigation enabled” in a pixelated green font. The two sat in silence for a few miles while the truck braked, accelerated, and turned of its own accord. After a time Saul clapped Letho on the shoulder. Letho’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and he could see that a smile was spread across Saul’s face. It seemed genuine enough, but Letho didn’t really care for the mischievous glimmer in Saul’s eye.

“Here comes the best part,” Saul said. “Hold on to your ass, boy!”

The truck lurched, and Letho was thrown back into his seat. The engine whined as the truck chugged up an incline. They were cresting a hill that spread out around them in a large round swath. The truck began to accelerate. That’s when Letho noticed the yawning maw of nothing atop the hill—and directly in front of the truck.

“Saul, what the hell?”

Saul seemed to be much too amused by the look of abject terror across Letho’s face. The truck launched into the air and began to fall into the enormous circular maw atop the big round hill. It plummeted for several feet, and Letho’s mind began to reel. This Saul guy was nuts. The whole thing about Zedock was just a ruse to get him into the truck so that he could drop him in a big hole…

The truck landed on some sort of platform, and Letho felt it give, siphoning off its downward inertial force. The other truck landed just behind them, and the platform plummeted a few feet more, causing Letho’s stomach to lurch. He stifled the urge to vomit.