As was so much, he thought. As was almost everything.
He was still eating when the men appeared from behind him. He had forgotten to set the perimeter alarms on the S-l50 and was lost in his thoughts when they materialized suddenly on either side of the vehicle, their weapons pointed at him. They had crept up on him like predators, careful to mask their approach and to take their time. It didn’t hurt their efforts that he had been so self-absorbed, he’d failed to pay attention to his surroundings. They were a sorry-looking lot, soiled and ragged and smelling of sweat. They carried a mix of rifles and handguns, older weapons from before the rise of the oncemen.
They smiled as they surrounded him, satisfaction a bright gleam in their mad eyes.
They had caught him unprepared and they knew it.
Stupid, he chastised himself. Stupid and careless.
“Get out,” the one standing next to him ordered, touching him on the shoulder with a long-barreled automatic.
He already had his right hand on his staff as he opened the door with his left and levered himself out of the Lightning, pretending that he needed the staff for support. He limped away from the vehicle, glancing from one man to the other, counting heads. There were four of them—hard-featured and wild-eyed, looters and thieves. They would shoot him without a second thought if he gave them even the slightest excuse. They would shoot their own mothers.
“We’re confiscating your vehicle for official purposes,” said the speaker, keeping the automatic leveled on him.
“Iowa militia?” he asked, backing away.
“Whatever,” one of the others muttered, running his hands over the smooth surface of the AV.
The first man smiled and nodded. “Official business,” he repeated.
“We’ll return your vehicle when we’re finished.”
He seemed to enjoy the charade, the man in charge, the leader, turning now to the others and motioning them to climb in. Logan stood watching as they did so, waiting. His hand tightened on the staff, and the slow build of the magic began to take hold deep inside, working its way through his body and limbs. He could feel its heat, could sense the impending adrenaline rush. He was suddenly eager for it, anticipating the satisfaction it would give him, his one small pleasure in an otherwise disappointing existence.
He took another step back. “What happened to the people here?”
They got sick,” one answered.
‘Real sick,” said another.
“So sick they died,” said the first, grinning.
“The lucky ones, anyway/’ said the second.
The men were settling themselves in place, looking around with obvious admiration at their newfound acquisition. Kids in a candy store, they had gotten their hands on something better than they had ever imagined possible. But the driver was having trouble figuring out what to do with the controls, which were clearly unfamiliar to him.
He looked over, pointing the automatic at Logan. “Show me what to do,” he ordered.
Logan came forward, leaning on the staff. “The lucky ones got sick, you say? What about the unlucky ones?”
“What do you care?” the driver snapped.
“Taken to the slave camps,” another answered.
The driver gave him a look, but the other man just shrugged. Logan stopped several feet away and pointed to the AV’s dash. “Punch that button to the right of those green levers. That turns her on.”
The driver glanced down at the dash, located the button Logan had indicated, and pushed. Nothing happened. He pushed again. Still nothing. Angry now, he tried several more times without success. He looked up finally, glaring at Logan.
“Here, let me show you,” Logan said, coming forward.
He reached into the cab, locked his fingers on the man’s gun hand before he knew what was happening, tightened his grip until the gun dropped away, then yanked the man bodily from the vehicle and flung him a dozen feet into the air.
It cost almost no effort at all. The magic of his staff gave him the strength for this and much more. The other three stared in disbelief, but before they could react he swept the staff in front of them, the magic jetting forth in a blue sheet of fire that picked them up and flung them clear. In seconds, all four lay dazed on the ground. He walked over to them, took their weapons from their nerveless fingers, and smashed them against a light pole that had long since lost any other possible use.
“Shame on you,” he said quietly. He yanked the leader into a sitting position and squatted before him. “Where is this slave camp?”
The man stared at him with a stunned expression, then shook his head.
“Don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. You probably helped those that were hunting them.” He tightened his hand about the other’s throat and squeezed. “Tell me where it is.”
The man gasped frantically, fighting for breath. “West . . .
somewhere.