“Back in the motor home.”
“The motor home’s here?” Mere mention of their mobile refuge was enough to stifle Wendy’s crying.
Something landed in the water close by. Spear or club, Frank didn’t waste time on a look. It was solid but fell short, just bumping his right foot.
Alicia did look back. “Oh, God, Frank, they’re coming!”
“It’s all right,” he lied. “We got the jump on them. We’ll make it. Once we do we’ll be safe. There’s nothing here that can catch the motor home.”
“Have to reach it first,” Burnfingers said, adding a moment later, “I didn’t think they walked all the way into town.”
Now Frank spared a backward glance. Hunchbacked, broken shapes were paddling in furious pursuit on makeshift rafts of their own. Others pushed or pulled these crude crafts through the water while those on board waved their weapons at the escapees. The rafts were fashioned of wood and plastic, not sodden foam rubber. There was no way the fleeing family could hope to outpace even the slowest of their pursuers.
Standing in the bow of the nearest and largest raft was something seven feet tall. Barbaric symbols had been tattooed on its bloated, shiny belly and shaven dome. One massive fist clenched a length of one-inch steel pipe, the end of which had been drilled and fitted with nails.
“Prake,” Alicia informed them. “Their chief, or leader, or whatever.”
“The people in town told us.”
“Daddy, I’m tired,” Steven whined.
Frank started to curse the boy, stopped himself to smile grimly. “I’m tired, too, kiddo, but we’ve got to all keep kicking. We’ve got to.”
“Never make it.” Burnfingers had been wading alongside, keeping pace easily. Too easily. “Better make a run for it. It’s shallower here.”
The water was barely up to Frank’s knees, but it still slowed them, the children in particular. He wasn’t athlete enough to carry Steven more than a few yards. If he’d set a better example at the dinner table, maybe his son wouldn’t have turned out to be such a pudgy glutton himself.
“Get them to the motor home!” Burnfingers yelled. He stood there, outlined against the advancing lanterns and torches, as the family abandoned the raft. Frank saw him turn, raise both arms, and fire again. The Casull boomed through the darkness. A pursuing raft overturned, throwing its occupants thrashing into the lake.
“What about Burnfingers?” Alicia gasped as she tried to lift her knees to her belly. “Isn’t he coming?”
“He knows what he’s doing.” I hope, Frank told himself. “Just run!”
The pistol thundered a third time behind them. Then Burnfingers removed something from the big plastic sack in the middle of the sinking raft: a pop bottle with a rag sticking out of its mouth. A lighter flicked in the darkness, catching the rag alight. Burnfingers tossed it.
The Molotov cocktail, filled with unleaded from Hell, struck one of the rafts and exploded into flame. Screams filled the air as its crew abandoned it. Frank tried to watch and run at the same time. A second Molotov fell short, expending itself harmlessly in the water. Burnfingers turned to run.
They could hear the grotesque Prake bellowing commands to his gargoylish clan. The remaining rafts were much closer now, almost on top of Burnfingers. If they were caught there would be no one to save them this time, Frank knew. His lungs threatened to burst and the water clung like liquid glue to his ankles.
Burnfingers caught up with them, his long legs clearing three times the water Alicia could manage at her best. They could have fashioned additional Molotovs, Frank knew, but both he and Burnfingers had been reluctant to sacrifice any more of the motor home’s fuel supply.
“They’re going to catch us!” Wendy screamed.
“No, they are not, music-girl.” Burnfingers let them advance another ten yards before he raised the big pistol a fourth time, took careful aim, and fired. Not at any of their pursuers, but at the abandoned raft. At the big plastic sack that still bobbed in the center.
Frank knew what he was shooting at. “Get down!”
Alicia almost had time to ask “Why?” when the lake heaved beneath them.
As the tremendous explosion echoed away, Frank rose to his knees and turned. Burnfingers was climbing to his feet, the shock wave having knocked him onto his back. A few lingering screams came from the vicinity of the pursuing rafts. Not of outrage and anger this time, but of pain.
The plastic sack had been stuffed with flammable material: paper, napkins, Wendy’s rock magazines, anything burnable. Around this had been packed kitchen knives and forks, screws and nails from the motor home’s toolbox, and anything else small and sharp. In the center of this mass of kindling and killing, they’d tied the removable propane canister which fueled the motor home’s stove. The heavy-jacketed slug from the Casull had set off a homemade bomb of considerable size, square in the midst of their pursuers. Bits of the shredded canister added another level of lethality to the trap.
Bleeding, torn bodies floated on the dark water, drifting out into the lake. Those not dead or unconscious stood or sat in shock in the midst of total devastation.
“Wow!” Steven muttered as his father half dragged him through the water.
Burnfingers rejoined them moments later. “Didn’t get all of them. Did not get the one we needed to get.”
A quick glance showed perhaps a dozen of the mutants still struggling through the water. In the lead was the gargantuan Prake, roaring and bleeding like a wounded bear.
“They’ll catch us, I am afraid. You go on.” Burnfingers was panting hard, obviously tired. Frank had come to think of him as some kind of superman. Now he saw he was wrong. The Indian was strong, but he was not indestructible. “I will hold them off. I have a few shots left.”
Alicia looked back at him, slowing. “Don’t you have enough?”
He grinned at her as he dug in a pocket, bringing out a few more shells. “These bullets are very expensive, earth mother.”
She eyed him oddly. “Why do you keep calling me that?”
“I label as I feel. I think it fits.”
Frank slowed. His thighs were encumbered with lead weights. “I hear something.”
“Splashing. I hear it, too.” Alicia stared into the darkness. “Are there big fish in this lake?”
“There aren’t any fish in this lake,” Burnfingers told her. “Too saline.”
It wasn’t a fish, but rather something considerably larger. Lights on high beam, the motor home plunged through the night toward them, a metal dinosaur spitting water from beneath six big wheels.
