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  The militia in the back of the trucks opened fire on the attackers. Four men wearing colors broke cover and ran from the truck toward Phelp's squad in the pine trees.

  "Phelps," Coughlin saidd. "Look." He pointed to another group of men in leather jackets moving from tree to tree, approaching from the opposite direction angling toward the shelter.

  "More of them. Damn," Phelps said. "Hold your fire until I say so. We've got to take care of the ones in front first.”

  The original four came closer.

  "Fire," Phelps yelled.

  The volley caught the men before they reached the pine trees.

  "Hey, want a lift?" a voice called from the trucks.

  "Stolz? Damn right we do."

  "Anyone injured?"

  "Got a couple who can't walk," Phelps called.

  As the truck moved closer, he saw the heavy machine gun on the dump truck had begun to fire again. Bullets that missed the guardhouse stitched through the trees, shredding bark and branches. Shots continued to ring out from within the guardhouse. Phelps’ squad loaded the wounded into the truck. As the truck headed toward the shelter, the squad used the shelter's stonewalls as a screen while boarding the truck. Once loaded, the trucks drove to the north gate where they stopped.

  "Ferris has to set up his things," Stolz said.

  "Can we stop them here?" Phelps asked.

  "No, because the troop carrier’s gonna break through the outer perimeter. If we stay, we'll be trapped outside of the Hill."

  Bryan Ferris, a former NASA electrician, knelt in the center of the road by the north gate, working. He stood and with his foot, spread gravel. To the south, at the shelter and guardhouse, it had become quiet. Guns crackled in the north.

  "Bryan, are you finished?" Stolz asked.

  "Yes, I'm making sure it won't be seen."

  "Hurry." Stolz turned to the squad. "Barricade the gate. We've got to slow them down.”

  The militia piled debris against the gate, wedging it tight before they scrambled into the truck and left.

  #

  At the south entrance to the Oxbow, Terry Whiteside saw the Clan militia trucks leaving, heading north. "Ah, shit." He was also almost out of ammo. His partner, Jimmy Corbach, lay on the floor with a bullet in his throat.

  "It's over," Terry said. "Hey." He waved a white rag. "I give up," he shouted. “I surrender.” The shooting ceased. He threw out his rifle. "I surrender," he called again.

  "Come out," a voice answered.

  Terry stepped out with hands raised.

  "Lower the bridge," the same voice called.

  Terry released the wire cable holding the drawbridge and cranked it down. As the bridge bumped to the ground, the dump truck’s engine roared and it rolled across the bridge.

  A dozen Deacons followed, weapons at the ready.

  Skid strode over to Terry who stood with his hands on his head. "So, you're the dumb-shit who wouldn't give up, eh?"

  "Just doing my job." Terry stood still, hands up.

  "A wise ass, too." Skid raised his handgun to Terry's forehead. "A bad mistake." He licked his lips. "You shot some of my boys. That was a bad mistake too.”

  "But," Terry said. "You attacked--"

  Skid pulled the trigger.

  #

  Behind the plastic sheeting that served as temporary walls for the shelter house, Skid found only remnants of clothing, bedding and a few children's toys. "We're going next door." He pointed to the metal building.

  Skid peered through the open doors. Inside were tables, chairs and beds. One table had a teddy bear propped up next to a half-eaten bowl of cereal. "Fuck, they've cleaned it out." He kicked a chair out of his way.

  "Uh, Skid, what d'you want us to do with this stuff?" Knuckles pointed at the furniture.

  "I don't care," Skid said. "It don't mean shit to me."

  "Uh, sure." Knuckles nodded to several nearby Deacons. "It's cool." They piled up the furniture and set it on fire.

  A Deacon laughed and threw the teddy bear into the flames.

  From the north the rattle of gunfire started.

  "Let's go." Skid climbed into a truck and pointed in the direction the Clan truck had gone. They followed the curving road through the pine trees to a gate piled with logs blocking their exit from the Oxbow.

  "Do these assholes think a fuckin' gate is gonna stop me?" he said to no one in particular. "Hey, Wheelman." He beckoned the truck's driver. "Knock this damn gate down."

  "Sure thing, Skid." Wheelman backed the truck into the gate. It took three runs before the gate tilted over and crashed down to become a bridge over the ditch.

  Skid picked out a half-dozen Deacons. "You, check it out." He gestured at the road on the other side. "Make sure no one's waiting for us." The men trotted over the bridge.

  Alongside the road, the Deacons poked their guns into the thick underbrush. Nothing. After ten minutes, Skid waved to Wheelman. “Okay, move it forward.”

  The truck crunched into gear and rumbled into the narrow confines of the gate entrance. Something clicked loudly.

  A ball of flame erupted skyward with a monstrous roar. The truck lofted into the air, its cab shattered. It rained down pieces in all directions. The heavy machine gun and its crew in the truck’s box split off and crashed to the ground thirty yards away. A mushroom-shaped cloud of smoke rose.

  The truck’s box slammed down near Skid. "Mother-fuckers! They tried to kill me. I could've been in that truck. They’re gonna pay for this.”

  #

  Clayton Nickolas watched the attack develop on the Park road north of the Hill. The Clan had built a ten foot-high dirt embankment as its outer defense perimeter to block the road. A ditch carrying water from a small stream to the Rocky River ran alongside the long dirt mound.

  Clayton glanced at the large crossbow. Ford pickup springs, he thought, must have at least four hundred-pound draw.

  The string--a length of emergency brake cable--was held by a latch made from a claw hammer. A three-foot length of two-inch diameter iron pipe--the bolt--sat in a slotted channel made from white oak. Beneath the crossbow’s stock was a long lever that operated a mechanism similar to the old-style car jacks-–it was the only way to pull the crossbow’s string.

  He’d found the design of the armor-penetrating bolt ingenious. Damn good engineers at the Glenn research center, he thought. The pipe held an explosive charge that would propel a hardened steel rod upon impact. What was it? At four thousand feet per second? Whatever, it sure punched a hole in steel plate. I just hope it works on that troop carrier.

  Clayton raised his hand. A bolt streaked from crossbow to the troop carrier and hit the machine gun. It exploded in a shower of sparks and scattered in all directions. Ammunition exploded like a string of firecrackers.

  The crossbow team stood and cheered.

  Damn fools, thought Clayton. They should’ve aimed at the driver.

  The Bradley slewed its cannon, hunting for a target. It boomed loudly several times in rapid succession. Its cannon shells shredded the crossbow's emplacement. The second crew dragged its crossbow below the crest of the embankment.

  A minute later, three trucks covered with planking backed-up to the ditch and dumped rubble and dirt into it. Two more trucks arrived and filled the ditch. The troop carrier's turret continued to move back and forth, seeking a target.

  Clayton watched from behind a large tree. He knew it was just a matter of time until they broke through the perimeter. "Try again," he said.

  The second crossbow rose and fired at the Bradley with an armor-penetrating bolt. Flame and sparks erupted from the impact, leaving a splash mark in the Bradley’s metal skin. It hadn’t penetrated the armor.

  The Bradley swiveled its cannon toward the crossbow. The crossbow dropped below the embankment. The cannon fired, raising a plume of dirt.

  "Pass the word," Clayton said. "Start the retreat. You," he said to a small group of Clan defenders. "Get the Molotov cocktails ready. Wait for the
troop carrier to get between the walls of the embankment." Clayton joined them as the rest of the Clan force dispersed into the woods.

  #

  After the trucks filled the ditch above its banks, Blade waved his men on from the troop carrier. His men surged forward and scrambled across the ditch. Three Molotov cocktails exploded among them. They halted and began shooting. More Molotov cocktails flew over the embankment. After five minutes, they stopped. The rate of fire from the Diablo's guns slowed.

  Blade pointed at the embankment. "Forward."

  Three trucks lurched across the rubble, each compacting the fill in the ditch.

  Blade followed in the Bradley. Water began to accumulate behind the ditch crossing.

  #

  A line of Clan militia climbed the Hill, silent except for the moans of the wounded and the jingle-clack of their equipment. They were the last of the defenders from the embankment on the park road. They moved into prepared positions on the Hill and noncombatants brought them food, water and ammunition. A breeze from the south brought warm, moist air. The day began to heat up.

  Franny silently handed Taylor the casualty report.

  Taylor shook his head; five men and one woman dead, fourteen wounded and out of action, and four missing. And, Clayton Nickolas was badly wounded.

  Damn, he thought, he’s our best tactician. He clamped down on his feelings. Later. I've got a battle to fight. Right now, we're outnumbered and out-gunned. He began to feel as if he were trapped on the Hill.

  #

  Blade scowled. The troop carrier's cannon had only thirty rounds left. Each one had to count. "Advance."

  At the bridge over the Rocky River, a ball of flame exploded low on the lead truck's cab. Liquid fire flowed out of the truck’s fuel tank and spread across the road. Flames roared into the air, crowned with black smoke.

  "Dios." The word slipped involuntarily from Blade's lips as he backed away from the intense heat. "They have some kind of artillery." He backed up the troop carrier behind a clump of large maple trees. He stared at the hill, looking for a telltale puff of smoke. Nothing. "Put more planks on the trucks."

  An hour later, three trucks with crate-like appearance, again drove onto the bridge. A ball of fire exploded on the side of the lead truck, showering wood fragments in all directions. The truck continued to advance.

  Blade saw a flicker of movement on the hill five hundred yards away. He opened fire with the troop carrier’s cannon.

  The second and third trucks started over the Rocky River bridge. Blade's men used the bridges stone parapet for cover. The troop carrier followed at the end of the column.

  At the mid-point of the bridge, an explosion rocked the lead truck of the convoy. Shredded metal raked the men. Several fell screaming, their blood staining the asphalt paving.

  "Pigs." Blade had seen movement on the point overlooking the river, which jutted out like a prizefighter's chin. He rotated the turret of the troop carrier toward the point and fired, again and again until he’d reduced the trees on the point to straggly, splintered wood. Over half of the cannon's ammunition was gone. "Follow me," he said. "Behind the troop carrier.”

  The column rolled over the bridge to the tall maple trees lining Cedar Point Road. Ahead was the road leading up the Hill.

  Blade’s men ran behind the vehicles until they turned down the gravel trail. The lead truck slowed as it approached the old riverbed at the base of the hill.

  Something whistled through the air and a huge explosion lifted the lead truck a foot off the ground. Smoke and dust enveloped it as it burst into flames. Something else streaked in and an explosion smashed into the side of the troop carrier.

  "Dios." Blade crossed himself. "Back to the trees."

  #

  "Where the fuck are those Deacons when they're needed?" Blade said. "They should lead this attack." He’d forgotten his promise to join them. "Enrique, go get the Deacons." He had only a hundred able fighters left--he needed more.

  "Sí, Jefe." Enrique saluted and hurried out.

  "Careque." Blade called to a Capitan. "Move your men closer. If anyone on that hill raises a head, blow it off. Ya se va?"

  "Sًí, Jefe."

  Blade studied the hill and reviewed the map. The only way up the hill with the troop carrier was on the west side where the grade was not so steep. That meant crossing the old riverbed. It was time to have the trucks fill the riverbed.

  "Where the fuck were ya?" Skid had arrived with twenty-five Deacons. "You said you was goin' to join us at the south entrance. We took our lumps waiting for you." He glanced at the Troop carrier. It looked battered; its machine gun was gone and along one side metal was bent with blackened marks.

  Blade ignored Skid's question. "There's been a change in plans," he said. "You will attack the east end of the hill. Enrique is your capitan. Unnerstan'?" He pointed to Enrique Maquinez.

  "Sure thing, Blade." Skid’s smile was forced. He turned and gave his fellow Deacons a wink. "Right, boys?"

  The Deacons nodded silently.

  "Señor Maquinez," Skid said. "Lead the way."

  "Pico," Blade called to a young capitan. "Get the trucks loaded with stone." He pointed to a gravel bar in the river.

  #

  Upon reaching the east side of the hill, Enrique raised his hand and called, “Halt.”

  Skid nodded to Knuckles who grabbed Enrique from behind. Skid slipped on a pair of brass knuckles. "You an' me, Señor Maquinez," Skid said, "are gonna have a little chit-chat."

  "Let go," Enrique said. "You make a big mistake."

  "Yeah, right." Skid punched Enrique squarely on his nose. Blood splattered. "First, you've gotta learn no one orders me around unless they've got real muscle. An' you don't, see?"

  "Ugh." Enrique gagged, blood streaming from his nose.

  "What happened to the troop carrier, chump?"

  "I don' know what you mean." Enrique struggled. "Let go."

  "Asshole." Skid kneed Enrique in the groin. "Answer my fuckin' question." He punched Enrique on the ear.

  "They, the worms on the hill, used a big bomba on her. It was terrible, they destroy the gun."

  "How much ammo does the Troop carrier have?"

  "I don' know."

  "Wrong answer." Skid hit Enrique again.

  Bone fragments protruded from Enrique's left cheekbone. Blood streamed down his face. "Aaagh, I don' know."

  "Don't be a stupid chump. Just tell me how many shells are left in the fuckin' troop carrier," Skid's voice rose an octave. Spittle frothed at the corner of his mouth. He hit Enrique with a roundhouse blow on the side of his head.

  Bones cracked in Enrique's skull. His mouth sagged open and his right eye opened wide, empty. His muscles contracted and then went limp. His bowels and sphincter released.

  "Fuck." Knuckles pushed him away. "He shit his pants."

  "Yeah, that's the last time that turd will shit you." Skid removed the brass knuckles. "Okay, what do we do about this?" He pointed at the stairs that led to a barely visible structure at the top of the hill made of logs and sandbags.

  "It'd be fuckin' crazy to attack," Knuckles said. "A couple of guns up there would eat us alive."

  "Yeah, that’s what I thought, too." Skid spat on the ground. "Let's just lay off an' watch for a while. If that greaser's got a lotta ammo for the troop carrier, we'll pretend to attack the hill. If he don't, then we'll find a way to waste him.”

  #

  Taylor reviewed the battle reports. "That troop carrier’s has hurt us," he said. "We’ve only got one large crossbow left and only three armor-penetrating bolts."

  "What’s the casualty count?" Weitzman asked.

  "Twenty killed and a many more wounded." Taylor's voice rose. "Most by that damn troop carrier.”

  "How many left?" Fred asked.

  "Less than one hundred in both the squads and the militia.” Taylor paused. "Okay, Clayton what d'you think?"

  "Counter-attack after their next move." Clayton’s words c
ame out faint and wheezing. His chest wound made it difficult for him to speak.

  "Oh, sure. All ninety of us will charge down the hill and chase them away." The instant Taylor spoke he regretted his words. Clayton didn't have time for jokes.

  "Edgepark still has bolts for their crossbows." Clayton coughed. Froth tinged with blood bubbled onto his lips. "Coordinate your attack with them. Have Edgepark attack their rear. The gang will break and run. They don't like what the crossbows do." He closed his eyes and sighed.

  Weitzman gently pushed Taylor away. "He needs rest.”

  What Clayton really needs, Taylor thought, is an intensive-care trauma unit. Many of our wounded will die from wounds that would’ve been routine care in a hospital. Each time he thought about it, his throat constricted and his heart ached.

  #

  As Taylor surveyed the valley, the wind changed direction and picked up, blowing dust and leaves around. The sky had become slate gray, low clouds scudding in from the south. Heavy drops of rain plopped down, raising puffs of dust. Trees swayed and rattled in a gust of wind. A veil of rain swept across the valley obscuring its far side. A blue-white lace of lightning flickered. Thunder pealed.

  "Pat, come in, Pat," Taylor spoke into the walkie-talkie. It was a NASA security encrypted walkie-talkie.

  "Patterson Rice here, I can barely hear you." His voice sounded faint through the static.

  "Yeah, there's a lot of interference," Taylor said. He laid out Clayton's plan, explaining Edgepark's role.

  "I don't know, that sounds mighty risky.”

  "Look," Taylor raised his voice. "We've been the ones on the receiving-end all day. It's time for you to do your share."

  "If this fails," Rice said. "They'll walk all over us.”

  "Yeah, well, we're in the same spot." Taylor let his annoyance show. "Look, there's only about eighty Diablos by the bridge. We actually outnumber them. The only problem is the troop carrier." Taylor wondered if he’d made the right decision to share ammo with the Edgepark community.

  "Well, okay, I guess. Let us know when to move.”

  "I'm turning the walkie-talkie over to Chris," Taylor said. "She'll keep you informed. Okay?"

  "Okay." Rice's voice lacked enthusiasm.