Dux Bellorum (Future History of America Book 3) Read Free Page A

this.   "We heard about all the riots down near New York—boy am I glad I took a position up here, where folks are still civilized," he said.
    She crossed herself.   "And that is the Gospel truth.   You couldn't pay me enough money to live in The City."
    He turned and looked out the kitchen window and could just barely make out the dim shape of the Larsson house.   It looked to be damn near a quarter-mile away.   No wonder she had such sympathy for me, he thought.   That would be a long, cold walk.   A gust of wind carried a wall of snow past the window and everything on the other side of the Holden property vanished into whiteness.
    He heard a door open someone stomped their feet, muttering about snow in October.   "Helen!   Hope you got the coffee going, it's colder than a well-diggers ass in January out there," said a male voice.
    Evans glanced at Mrs. Holden, who blushed and smiled.   "Alvin," she called out, "come into the kitchen dear, we have company."
    Evans stood as he heard more muttering and footsteps approached the kitchen.   A man who appeared to be in his early 70s, slouched from too much time in front of a keyboard, stepped into the kitchen and shook the snow off of his jacket.   His froze when he saw Evans standing next to his wife.
    Now it's time for business.   Evans assessed the situation quickly.   Immediately to his right, stood Mrs. Holden, a wisp of a thing.   To his left, about six feet away stood the equally old Alvin Holden.  
    As he extended his right hand, he casually slipped his left hand into his coat pocket and his fingers slid around the comfortable shape of the iron crampon he'd picked up after his escape.   He had killed his third hooker with a rail tie—drove the spike straight through her forehead with a sledgehammer.   That was the one that got him sent away for life.   Once there, his murder weapon became his name.  
    Alvin didn't shake hands.   His eyes narrowed and flicked from Evans to his wife and back.   "Who the hell are you?"
    "Alvin Holden!"   His wife hissed.   "This is Undersheriff Dixon.   His car broke down while he was doing rounds in our area—"
    "I don't know what you told my wife, but you need to leave my house," said Alvin.   The tone of his voice sounded threatening, but the frailty of his body counteracted it nicely.   His eyes said he knew it, too.
    Spike smiled.
    “I’ll ask you one more time to leave,” growled Mr. Holden.
    “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
    Mrs. Holden looked confused.   “Alvin!   Why are you acting like this?”   She clutched her robe across her chest and Evans let her move closer to her husband.  
    Alvin reached an arm around her.   "I've known Tom for years—he's old Sam Dixon's son."   He jerked his chin at Evans.   "He's not Tom Dixon."  
    “Who are you?” Mrs. Holden whispered, her voice tremulous.
    Evans smiled.   He pulled his hand from his coat and gripped the crampon like a dagger.   The gasp that escaped Mrs. Holden’s lips sent a thrill through his body.   It felt good to be back in the saddle.
    “Call me Spike.”

Chapter 2
    Flight of the Rebels

    M ALCOLM A BDUL R ASHID STOOD next to the bullet-riddled Oldsmobile Cutlass Cruiser and raised his binoculars. Fully half of his rebellion lay before him, stretching south in a solid tide of humanity. A tide of defeat. The long faces and sweaty bodies, all piled into every make and model of vehicle they could find. Many of them dangerously overloaded, they careened wildly around abandoned cars on I-95.
    How many have I lost to simple traffic accidents since we left New York? Hundreds? Thousands?
    He lowered the binoculars and closed his eyes in prayer at the stupidity of the loss. Those were good people, brothers and sisters in arms. They will be missed. And I will lose many more before this exodus is over.
    He turned and glanced south as the unending flow of cars and trucks honked as they passed him. Cheers and shouts and waves greeted