“You can’t go down there,” Bell lied. He shot a glance at Lacy and she understood she should go along with the deception. “There’s hundreds of them just down the road about three miles back.” Bell said. “We just got by them, but ran out of ammo.” It was all a lie; he said it before he’d even thought it through.

“Shit,” Johnny said. “We just got through a pack of twenty or so behind us. How did you manage that?”

“You have to turn around,” Bell said again.

“Well, we can’t drive through a hundred of the gnarly motherfuckers,” Johnny said. “This GPS says that’s the only way to Highway 50. The emergency radio is on and says that Sacramento is safe. The US army has it cordoned off.”

“The car’s radio is working?” Lacy asked.

“This one’s is. It’s got satellite radio.” Bell saw Johnny Ryder smile.

“You should have seen the cool mansion we found,” his girlfriend said. “It had so much cool shit, we couldn’t take much.”

“Will you please shut the fuck up!” Johnny said to the girl. “You better get in. Your truck is fucked up, man.”

“There’s another way to Highway 50,” Lacy said. “There’s a jeep trail, a U.S. Fire Service road, near our house. If you have gas you could make it. It cuts over to Highway 50.”

“We got a full tank, and four-fucking-wheel drive,” Ryder said. “Get in. Let’s get the fuck out of here while we still can!”

CHAPTER 20

Dillon was loading the ammunition canisters for the Thompsons. He had a jumbo Wal-Mart box of .45 caliber shells open on his lap. They were passing vacation cabins, all dark. The one-lane road was covered in snow, with the patrol car’s headlights cutting a narrow tunnel of light into the pitch-black night in front of them.

“Do not forsake me, oh my darling ... now that I need you by my side. Oh, I’m not afraid of death, but what will I do if you leave me.” Dillon sang the lyrics of an old Western song as he loaded the drum magazines. “They used to play Frankie Lane a lot on Death Row. The Row was right above my tier in San Quentin. Sometimes they’d play Rawhide when someone was leaving the tier for a parole hearing. Those old gangsters, they’re a different breed all together,” Dillon said, turning to Quentin. “A lot of them were cop killers. Or FBI. Federal Bureau of Incompetents.” He saw Quentin smile. “You know how many FBI agents it takes to turn on a light bulb?” Dillon asked.

“No, how many?” Quentin asked, playing along.

“Doesn’t matter. They won’t find it unless it’s already turned on.” He laughed at his own joke. “You don’t plan on arresting these guys, do you? That’s all bullshit. Why don’t you be honest, lawman?”

Quentin didn’t answer.

“What are you going to do with them, lawman? Can’t exactly load them all in the car, can we?”

“You couldn’t blame him, could you?” Rebecca said from the back seat.

“What do you want to carry, honey? We got an M-16 in the back for the pretty lady,” Dillon said.

“That suits me fine,” Rebecca said.

“What about the pencil neck? Kid, what do you want to carry? Besides your pacifier? Maybe you just want to rush in and hit the Delete Button when you see them?” Dillon said.

“He can stay in the car,” Quentin said. He switched on the patrol car’s spotlight and turned it, from a handle inside the cab, so that the spotlight painted the fronts of the summer cabins they passed.

“I can’t fight,” Gary said.

“You can’t fight. Or you won’t fight?” Dillon said, not bothering to turn around. “Then what fucking good are you?” He turned and looked at the kid. “Really, what fucking good are you?” It was a real question, as if his type of person were a total mystery. “I’d like to know. Really.”

“Just can’t. I don’t know anything about guns,” Summers said.

“What’s there to know?” Dillon said. “See this? It’s called a trigger, you point the thingy here, it’s called a barrel, at the guy you want to shoot and pull the thingy and it goes bang.”

Summers turned away and looked out the window.

“Do not forsake me oh my darling ... on this our wedding day ... The pussy goes too, or I don’t get out of the car,” Dillon said.

Rebecca laughed.

“You can’t do that. He’s just a kid,” Quentin said. “And what good would he be to us in a fight?”

“I don’t care, I think it’s time the kid pulled his weight,” Dillon said. He reached down at his feet and pulled one of the dozens of pistols they’d brought with them from the gun store. “Let’s see, a HK 9-millimeter. Looks used. Never shot one. Heard they’re pretty good, though. Here. You want freedom from these damn Howlers, kid? You’ll have to fight for it. Kill for it.” Dillon tossed the pistol into the kid’s lap. “Wait along ... wait ... wait along, wait along ... I must face a man who hates me or lie a craven coward in my grave. Look at that big hand move along nearin’ High Noon,” Dillon sang. “I’m tired of people like him. They always want to bitch and moan about the Man this, and the Man that. But when it comes down to it, they’re afraid of fighting for anything better in life. No one gives you anything, kid. That’s what I’ve learned. “And I must face a man who hates me. Or lie a coward in my grave.” Dillon turned back around, whistling the song.

Rebecca picked up the automatic from Summers’ lap and began to show him how to fire the weapon, pure venom in her voice. “And I hope to God they shoot you, and you die,” she said when she’d handed it back to him, finally.

Quentin shut off the headlights and the spotlight as they rounded a bend in the narrow gravel road. “It’s up here, about a mile,” he said.

The patrol car slowed, then stopped. They’d crossed an old wooden bridge in the dark. A house stood at the top of a driveway to their left. Its windows were bathed in a yellowish Coleman-lantern light.

“That’s it,” Quentin said.

“Now what?” Dillon said.

“We go up there and place them all under arrest,” Quentin said. He was lying to himself, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit he wanted to kill them all. He saw Dillon smile in the moonlight.

“I’ll go first,” Rebecca said. “When you hear me start shooting, you come on along.”

Dillon turned to look at the girl, impressed by her lack of fear. He picked up a Glock 21 from the floor.

   “Give me that.” Rebecca took the automatic from Dillon’s hand. She checked to make sure it was loaded and had a bullet in the chamber. She did it so quickly and expertly that Quentin couldn’t help but smile. “They’ll open the door for a chick. I’ll tell them I’m scared.”

“What if they think you’re one of the things?” Quentin said.

“My tough luck,” Rebecca said. She reached for the door handle, the Glock in her other hand.

“Wait—Rebecca. I promise, we’ll both be right behind you. We go up the driveway together. You knock on the door,” Quentin said. “Once you get inside, we’ll come in.”

“Take the kid with you,” Dillon said. “Here.” Dillon reached down and picked up a simple five-shot .38 revolver. He checked to make sure it was loaded and handed it to Summers. “Even you should be able to use this. Just point and click, motherfucker.”

  Rebecca knocked on the cabin’s front door. She had tucked the Glock into the small of her back so that her parka covered it.

“Help! Help!” She knocked again. The door flew open and a tall young man with long blond hair was standing in front of her.

“Well, fuck me!” he said.

“We need help,” Rebecca said. “They’re out there. The things. Our car broke down.”