If you weren't looking for Bonner's car, you wouldn't have been able to find it. The trouble was the snowmen were looking for it and they were searching the wild, snowy underbrush very carefully.

Bonner and the Mean Brothers sat motionless in the vehicle, listening to the snowmen as they thrashed and cursed in the bushes. Bonner tried to figure out where they were based from the sounds of their voices; he tried to gauge their distance from him and the direction their search was taking them. They were very close and he figured it was only a matter of time before one of them—all of them—stumbled onto the car and their quarry.

Bonner quickly added up and analyzed the factors that were working for him: the snowmen were on foot, having left their bikes fifty or so yards back at the edge of the road. If Bonner got out of this jam in one piece, he would be able to outrun them easily. He could think of only one other factor that might make life easier for him: he had a fair idea where the snowmen were but they had no idea where he was. It was the old element of surprise, the most valuable weapon a man could have, but its worth lay in knowing when—exactly when—to use it. There was a point in every encounter when the right blow delivered at the right time tossed the balance of the fight right into your hands. Strength, firepower, courage— they were worth very little if you didn't use your brains.

The snowmen were drawing closer. The bushes rattled and shook a few feet away, sending little mattresses of snow fluffing onto the damp ground. Bonner felt his muscles key. It was not yet time to reveal himself: it was time for a quick, silent kill. His hand dropped to his knives. The handles were deadly cold, passionless, like the death he was about to deal to a man whose name he would never know.

The bushes thrashed again. With a crackling of branches and ice a snowman burst into the little thicket occupied by Bonner. He stood there a second looking down, unbelieving, into the car. The big knife sailed through the air, like a flesh-eating fish, and whacked to mid-length into the snow's forehead.

The Mean Brothers had had their own plans for the big soldier, but they had been too slow. A split second after the blade entered the snowman's brow, a Mean swung his shovel and hit the knife handle, driving the blade deep into the man's brain, like a spike.

The Mean shrugged and smiled his idiotic crooked smile.

The snowmen continued to comb the area. They stumbled and cursed and shouted out to one another. Bonner could tell, from the tenor of their voices that they were uneasy, unhappy at being caught in the gloom of the forest. The snowmen were open-country fighters. The enclosed, dripping forest spooked them. All they wanted to do was find Bonner, kill him, and get back on the open road.

"Hey," shouted one suddenly, "where'd Georgie go?"

"He's around here someplace." "Georgie! Hey, Georgie!"

Bonner assumed that it was Georgie who lay sprawled next to the car with a smashed face and a blade in his head. His blood was oozing out onto the bracken.

"Where'd he go?"

"He was over here...." The crashing in the underbrush was moving closer. Bonner readied himself again. The noise increased in volume. There were more coming his way; this time perhaps three. The main snowman force was spread across the whole area. Bonner wondered where Starling was.

The approaching squadsmen caught sight of Georgie's legs, stretched out in the underbrush.

"Hey," said one. It was his epitaph. As one, Bonner and the Mean Brothers reared up. Bonner's blades flew. Both silver darts cut into the chest of one of the snowmen, slicing into his heart, severing the hard working organ into two pieces. It pumped once or twice more, then failed.

The Mean Brothers handled the other two. The ax swung and chunked into the meaty rib cage of the snowman. The Mean Brother felt the tightly packed bones split and splinter through the shaft of the ax. The shovel cracked into the back of the head of the remaining snowman. The man's brown hair was suddenly a caved-in mass of gray matter and brain fluid. The terrible thud of ax and shovel on human bone seemed to Bonner to fill the forest. How could the others not have heard it?

As he went down, the snowman who had been on the receiving end of the hideous wound delivered by the Mean Brother's ax pulled the trigger of his rifle. It was a purely reflexive gesture, bom of a final, tiny, misguided spark of life. A single bullet tore through the underbrush and buried itself in the heavy carpet of snow and pine needles.

Bonner didn't wait to discover the consequences of that single aimless shot. He sparked the big engine into life, its throaty roar echoing through the forest. He slammed the machine into gear and gunned the engine, praying as he did that the car hadn't rested too long on the soft forest floor. He couldn't get stuck now. Fortunately the faithful iron warhorse did not disappoint him, and with the first blast of gas into its eight huge cylinders, it leaped from its leafy lair.

The sudden movement and the screaming roar struck the dumbfounded snowmen as if the car was not steel and rubber but some sort of forest monster, a sleeping creature awakened by their probings. It seemed to be emerging to defend its turf.

Bonner whipped the elegant shotgun from its holster and blasted two snowmen who stood nearby, rooted to the spot by the sudden noise. Their mouths were wide open. The beautiful old Purdy spoke with authority, peppering their surprised faces with shot. Bonner caught a quick flash of red as their faces opened down to the unnatural white of their jawbones. Teeth flew like confetti.

His engine screamed in protest as Bonner took it up to speed on the soft, uneven ground. He changed gear and yanked at the wheel, turning the car in a tight circle. He silently prayed that there were no rocks buried under the snow that would tear out the undercarriage of the valiant vehicle.

He was making for the road. The snowmen were scattered, and since Bonner's sudden, deadly reappearance, they were running hither and thither like ants around a broken nest. But Bonner knew they would regroup soon enough. He wanted to get back onto the road and bomb off into the forest as fast as he could. The car lunged through the underbrush, rocking like a boat in the clutches of a terrible storm. The Mean Brothers hung on to the rollbar and looked around them with interest. The limited emotion they always displayed seemed to suggest that they were enjoying themselves immensely.

The road loomed up ahead. Parked neatly in a row on the snowy avenue were a dozen or so motorcycles. Bonner pointed the prow of his monster car directly at the orderly rank of bikes. He slammed into the first one and the rest fell like dominoes. The car lunged up onto the tangled heap of bikes, crushing frames and engines, puncturing gas tanks, and snapping delicate spokes under its weight. The car lurched to the top of the metal mountain, rocked there for a moment, then Bonner threw his machine into reverse, backed off, and turned onto the road. A piece of a motorcycle snagged on the underside of his car and it was a hundred yards later that it snapped off.

Bonner shot up to speed while bullets snapped through the snow-heavy branches. A snowman stepped out onto the road and stood directly in the path of the onrushing car. Bonner slipped down in his seat, stamped on the accelerator, and smashed into the fool. The force of the blow lifted the snowman off his feet and threw him over the car. He slapped down onto the road behind the fast-disappearing car.

A motorcycle roared up next to Bonner. The Purdy Special jumped into the Outrider's hands. He swung I it over the side and looked down its short barrel directly into Starling's horrified face. Bonner low-ered the gun. Starling shouted something, lost in the scream of the engines. Bonner could imagine what he was saying. . . .

Behind them, the snowmen were getting smaller and smaller.

They drove all day and by the coming of night they were still in the forest. They found a campsite that had a few crumbling brick fireplaces dotted about. They had been placed there many years before and were little monuments to a time when Mr. USA wanted to get away from it all and rough it in the woods. Bonner set the Mean Brothers the task of finding some firewood.

A tattered bathhouse stood in the middle of the clearing. It was a two-room affair, one side marked "men" the other "women." Bonner smiled at the delicacy of the old days.

It was musty inside; the rows of chrome shower heads had long since tarnished themselves into rusty dust. The ceramic sinks and toilets were dry and dusty. A fragment of mirror still hung on the wall. Bonner leaned forward and examined himself. Deep hollows, as purple as bruises, showed under his eyes. His skin was sallow and drawn, a night of hard riding and a day of hard fighting showing plain on his hard face. He ran a callused hand through his hair and onto his forehead, as if to erase the fatigue.

Bonner examined the faded writing on the walls, There were crude sketches of naked men and women, artlessly executed. None of the writing made any sense to him: "Disco sux," "Bobby was here 12-19-97," "Amy and Bill 4ever," "Steelers!," "sex and drugs and rock and roll". ... It seemed to have been a sort of tradition back then, writing on bathroom walls.

Bonner emerged from the room and into the fresh, dark night. "I don't think we want to stay in there tonight," he said.

Starling stood by the fire. "We ain't gonna get the chance to make up our minds."

With that, a man with a rusty old rifle stepped out from behind Starling. Before Bonner could react he felt the authoritative press of a gun muzzle in his back. The man with the gun on Starling wore a ratty-looking suit of fur pieces and what appeared to be deerskin leggings. Neither man was wearing white so they weren't snowmen.

"Who are they?" asked Starling. "Beats me," said Bonner. The gun in his back nudged him to silence. Bonner glanced around him and could sense that there were more figures moving around in the dark just out of the circle thrown by the fire. Had there only been two of them Bonner would have considered trying something, but without any idea of the numbers he was dealing with he decided to wait for a better chance to strike for freedom.

As it happened, he didn't need one. From the dark nearby came a deep and very amused laugh.

"Bon, mes enfants," commanded the voice. "These men are my friends." The guards relaxed and stepped away from their captives. Bonner relaxed and spoke. "Hey, Jean Baptiste, we're still friends, right?" "You know these guys," asked Starling incredulously. Figures were crowding into the light, all as peculiarly dressed as the first two. They looked like cavemen with guns.

A heavily bearded man pushed his way through the crowd. He was covered from head to foot in bearskin. "Ah," he said, "Monsieur Bonner." He seized Bonner's hand and pumped it up and down warmly. "Bonner," he said, his voice heavy with an accent that Starling didn't recognize. "Forgive me. My men did not know you."

"No harm."

Jean Baptiste rapped out some orders to the men that had moved in from the darkness. Starling looked quizzically at Bonner. "What did he say?"

"Jean Baptiste, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine. Starling, this is Jean Baptiste, but mostly down here people call him J.B."

The two men shook hands. "How do," said Starling.

"J.B. is the head of this band of riders; they call themselves Les Habitants—"

"The who?"

"They're from way up north, places that make the Snowstates look good. They don't speak the same language as us: French Canadians, they're from the country that used to take up the top half of the continent."

"I heard about people from up north, but I never seen any."

"What are you doing down here J.B.?"

The northman shrugged his burly shoulders. "It is horrible up there now. There is no food, no gas, no powder. We were raided by Stormers and they took the supplies we collected for the winter." He spat. "Now we look for the Stormers and the food. We are not like the people you have down here in Chicago. We have the families and we care for them." "How many men do you have down here?" "Including me, eighteen. Without me, about ten." J.B. roared with laughter at his own joke. "I am a terrible fighter."

"Terrible?" said Starling. "He means good," translated Bonner. Starling was aware of the inquisitive looks of the Habitants. They were staring at his and Bonner's equipment; he could feel their eyes on his Steyr and his Dan Wesson on his hip. "Bonner, you don't suppose these guys ... 1 mean, I know they're friends of yours and all."

J.B. pulled himself up to full height. "Les Habitants do not take the things which are not theirs to take already. Unless it is the things of the Stormers, then we take."

One of Les Habs spoke quickly and volubly. He was a tiny man with long drooping mustaches and a knife so long it seemed to stretch from his belt to his knees. At the end of his unintelligible speech he held his gun out in front of him.

J.B. laughed. "Louis says that his gun is as good as yours and that with his gun he has killed more Stormers than you have. He says that you will see his skill when we run into Stormers the next time."

"Lemme see that thing," said Starling, taking the gun from the little man. It seemed to weigh fifty pounds. Starling held it close to the fire and examined it carefully. It was the crudest firearm he had ever seen. A heavy length of pipe—the barrel must have been an inch and half wide—had been fitted into a crudely carved stock. The thing appeared to be muzzle-loaded but at the breech a hole had been cut out of the barrel. There was no trigger. "How the hell does he fire the thing?" Louis understood the question instinctively and pulled a heavy hammer from his belt. J.B. explained:

"He takes the hammer and hits that little hole at the end of the barrel and sets off the charge." "And what does it fire?"

"Anything he can find," said J.B. with a shrug. "Make sure he stays away from me if we get into a firelight."

"Many of my men have the same such as these." "Sheesh." said Starling.

"So, Bonner, you and your friend are out late for men who live in the sun all the time. I thought you 'would be back in the Chicago all nice and warm and safe."

"We're looking for supplies too, and for Stormers." J.B.'s grimy face lit up. "So my friend Bonner is also looking for the same thing as Les Habitants. But this is perfect and magnificent for you and for us also." He turned to his men and started telling them of the marvelous capacity that Bonner had for killing Stormers. They looked impressed. "What do you say Star?" asked Bonner. "You want to ride with the Habs for a piece." Starling stage-whispered: "They fight with those things."

"They're good, Starling."

"I'll take your word for it. I guess we could go along for a piece of road. . . ."He sounded uncertain.

"Excellent," yelled J.B. "Now we must have some food. Louis with his gun he shot a great bear. It is at the camp we have. It is close by here, down way the road."

"Bear," said Starling. "Oh," said Bonner, "that reminds me. I must tell you about the Mean Brothers. ..."

"The qui"

Hearing their names, the Mean Brothers wandered in from the darkness where they were watching the parley between Bonner and Les Habitants. The northerners would never know how close they had come to tasting the steel of the Mean Brothers' terrible weapons. 

J.B.'s eye's widened when the giants walked up.

"Ah," he said, "the Mean Brothers." "That's what we call 'em," said Starling.

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