Last Ranger by Craig Sargent Page A

out on a rise where he could see all around him nice and clear, and chewed down the lousy chow bite by unappetizing
     bite. The sight of all those rotting folks had done wonders for his stomach. But he knew if he didn’t eat he’d start getting
     weak, even sick. This was not the way to travel around the new America. The weak perished as fast as they came along. They
     were the fodder of accelerating barbarism.
    When he’d finished, Stone went over to the dog. It still wasn’t moving though the heart did not seem to have slowed since
     he’d last checked. He knew the animal hadn’t eaten for days now. He made a gruel from some of the biscuits and some condensed
     milk, and then mixed it all together with water from his thermos to form a wet paste. Stone wedged the dog’s mouth open and
     started slowly slopping small spoonfuls of the stuff in, then turned the animal’s head from side to side trying to work some
     down. He spent nearly twenty minutes spooning the slop and could hardly even tell if any was getting down the canine’s gullet,
     as much of it seemed to have fallen on Stone’s pants and down to the ground. But with the very last spoonful the dog suddenly
     coughed and spat up a spray of the food, then lapsed right back into complete stillness.
    Still it was movement of some kind. It showed the creature was still on this side of the black veil. Great, Stone thought
     darkly as he sat back against the bike, took out both of his pistols, and laid them on his lap for instant access. So the
     dog was alive. One fucking cough in three days and I think it’s the medical miracle of the century. He somehow fell asleep
     but he slept fitfully, waking up and reaching for the guns as he thought he heard something. But each time it was just a dream,
     and he sank from one nightmare to another like a drowning man being bounced from wave to storming wave.

CHAPTER
Seven

    T HE next morning Stone woke to a biting rain, which had already soaked his hair and outer clothes. Thank God he’d covered Excaliber’s
     box before he retired, or the deeply dreaming mutt would be floating in dog soup right now. He mounted up onto the bike, knowing
     it was too wet to even try to make a fire for coffee—and with all things considered—he was in just about the foulest mood
     he could remember, grayer even than the rain-streaked air around him, through which he could see but fifty or sixty feet.
     He stared straight ahead, grinding his teeth together with angry unconscious mouthings about the state of affairs. He then
     fell into a trance with all his attention on the road and its numerous holes and chasms already filling with water, some looking
     big enough for the bike to completely disappear into without a trace.
    After about fifty miles Stone was slightly heartened to see a rusting sign that said Hartley was the next town. That meant
     Amarillo wasn’t more than another thirty. He’d be there by nightfall. Not that he was greatly looking forward to it, since
     he had little or no idea of just how he was going to go about rescuing April. The Dwarf was the cleverest bastard he’d come
     up against and Stone knew he’d have to be extremely careful—and lucky—to come out of this one. He wished beyond measure that
     he’d killed the little bastard the last time they met—when he’d had the chance. If only he’d looked out the window and had
     seen that the murdering eggman had landed in water after his twelve-story fall. He could have torn ass downstairs and ended
     the threat to mankind with a few slugs. If, if, if. If a rat had a tux it would be a Senator. That’s what his dad had always
     said. The Major hadn’t gotten along with the political breed especially well.
    With the rain continuing, the four-laner he was riding on became virtually unusable, and Stone had to take the next exit ramp,
     which was broken into jagged sections, though he was able to tear over it with a few quick jumps of the bike. Then he was