First blood went to Seth and the Habs.

There were two ways into Chicago. One was the way everybody else went—across the lake—and the other was the way Seth traveled. Seth's steam-snorting locomotive followed a single line of railroad tracks through the twisted, broken caverns of concrete that protected the approaches to the Open City on the land side. Seth knew every inch of the rail line through the narrow alley and, with two wagon loads of Habs hooked onto the rear of his engine, he took it slow.

There was a long, slow bend ahead of the final straightaway that carried him directly into the wider sidings that still stood around the bombed-out Chicago railway station.

Eight Stormers looked up from their heavy task— they were trying to lever a rail out of the railbed. The slow chuffing of Seth's train filled their ears.

"Fuck," said one of the Stormers. "That's the nigger and his iron thing."

It was obvious, even to a bunch of Stormers, that they would not have time to take up the rail as they had been ordered to do by Leatherman—he knew Seth's ways.

"Take cover," said their leader.

There was a general scramble for weapons and cover.

Seth was leaning off the footplate watching the tracks ahead. The railbed was getting a little soggy on this stretch. His little Charter Explorer pistol rested lightly on his right hand.

Seth didn't think. He reacted. He whipped the weapon out in front of him and fired—a quick, lucky shot that caught a diving Stormer in the leg. The little slug hit the man on the side of the leg at knee level. The sharp splinter of steel smacked into the over and underpass of bone and muscle that held the knee together, hamstringing him, then crippling him. A bloody circle of bone—the screaming Stormer's kneecap—whipped through his pants and skipped down the track like flat stone flipped across a pond.

"Stormers!" yelled Seth.

"Fantastique!" bellowed Jean-Baptiste, the leader of the Habs. He swung himself up onto the narrow roof that overhung the footplate, jammed his little machine gun up against his stomach, and cut down a couple of the Stormers that were scattering on the track.

The big train rolled on. The Stormers grabbed what cover they could in the hacked-up ruins that stood on either side of the tracks and poured fire onto the cab of the locomotive. Spurts of bullets raked the open deck. Seth threw himself forward and nestled in the steel comers of the cab. J-B got off the roof in a hurry.

Seth could see what the Stormers planned to do. As the train passed between them they intended to blast away at any exposed surface, concentrating their firepower so stoutly on the rolling iron giant that no one could show his head without fear of losing it to the withering fire.

Seth nudged the throttle up and the train picked up a little speed.

The bullets snapped and rang on the steel like a hot hailstorm. They coursed across the coal piled up in the tender, splitting the black chunks into a hundred flying slivers. Slugs raked the box cars, splintering the wood. It seemed to Seth as if the air had been thickened with flying, dangerous objects.

A pair of hands appeared on the grab handles at the top of the ladder that was built into the side of the cab.

A Stormer hero, thought Seth. At least here was something he could shoot at.

The Stormer pulled himself into the open side of the cab. Seth's little gun spat a single shot and tore the man's throat open. Tiny chipped pieces of the man's Adam's apple joined the rest of the debris flying through the air.

The train lumbered on, rolling past the entrenched Stormers. They forgot themselves—they mistook the lack of answering fire for submission, for surrender. The Stormers, jubilant in victory, tumbled down onto the tracks, and fired at the retreating iron horse. That was a mistake.

Suddenly, the huge barn door on the back of the rear box car swung open. Massed in the opening, in neat, orderly ranks—the lowest flat on their bellies, the middle file kneeling, and the third standing—arms all at the ready, were some fifty of the Habs.

They fired in unison, a giant wave of shot and heat pouring out of the rear of the train. The six Stormers standing so confidently on the train tracks a moment before instantly turned into a splashy liquid cloud of bloody mush and a confusion of limbs and body parts. Their guns landed with a splat in the gore pools that marked where they once stood.

Seth leaned on the throttle and guided the train safely down the last four miles of track. The Habs, he thought, were going to prove very valuable.

Bonner and the Hungry Men followed Seth's path into the city. When they came to the scene of the Stormers' abrupt demise Bonner drove straight by. He had driven a hundred yards or so when he realized that the five rusty trucks that carried the Hungry Men were no longer right behind him. He stopped and looked back.

The Hungries were carefully picking through the pool of guts and parts, exclaiming as they found their favorite delicacies.

One held up a blood-heavy purple liver triumphantly, like a fisherman displaying a prize bass. The other Hungries whistled and clapped. Oscar looked up the tracks at Bonner:

"Fresh kill," he shouted happily, "nothing like it."

"Right," said Bonner, feeling his stomach shift.

"Go on," bellowed Oscar. "We'll catch up with you."

"Dorca's," said Bonner. Gratefully, he slid his war wagon into gear and bumped down the tracks.

Dorca's was more crowded than Bonner had ever seen it. There were a couple of hundred riders packed into the cavernous room, more stared through the windows, and a huge crowd nulled around the doors. In Bonner's absence. Beck and Dorca had assumed the roles of chief strategicians, although, in keeping with Chicago's wide-open traditions, anyone was free to come along and contribute what they could or cared to these sessions becoming known to all as "The War Council."

The leaders of all the major gangs were there, listening, arguing, wrangling over the best way to defend the city. All of Chicago's citizens, from the dumbest, most violent psycho-gang member, all the way up to the elite like Bonner and Seth, knew that they had to have some kind of coordinated defense if they were going to prevail over the massed forces that threatened them. Hence the first show of unity on the continent since the Bomb.

The crowd parted to admit Bonner.

"Hey, Bonner," said Dorca, from behind the bar. "Get the Hungry Men?"

"Yep," said Bonner, "the Lash are on their way too."

"We already here, you tall fuck," said Floyd.

"Sorry, Ployd, didn't notice you."

"Listen, Bonner," said Dorca, "we done a lotta shit while you been gone."

"Anyone seen them yet?" asked Bonner.

No one had to ask who he meant by "them."

"Nope," said Beck, "but we got a couple of guys up in that church steeple over there on West Addison lookin' out and when they see something they are gonna ring the shit outta them big old bells up there."

"They're around here someplace," said Bonner. "There were some dead Stormers on the tracks on the way in."

"Mine," said Seth, "mine and the Habs'. A small Stormer patrol. They were trying to tear up the tracks."

"What the hell they doing that for?" demanded someone.

"Don't forget that Leatherman used to be a rider," said Bonner quietly. "He, knows a lot about this town."

"Wouldn't be a bad idee if we blowed up the tracks. You know. We gotta close that way in," put in Beck.

There was a general rumbling around the room that indicated that a majority of the riders thought this was a good plan.

"Then I'll be fenced in," said Seth, "once this thing is over."

"Risk you gotta take," said Beck.

"Hey man," shouted someone from the back of the room, "don't worry none. When this thing is over and Leatherman has got his, we'll help you clear 'em again."

"Yeah," echoed a couple of voices.

The words sounded strange yet reassuring to Bon-ner. Before this threat, before all the murdering, anything-for-money citizens of Chicago had been forced to weld this alliance against a threat against them all from their most hated enemies, no one had said that they would help anyone do anything. Help was not a word that was in most of the riders' admittedly limited vocabularies. Now, here they were, offering to help one of their own. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

"One thing for sure," said Beck authoritatively, "we gotta keep 'em on the lake. Can't let them get into the city. Once we start with the streetfighting we'll never get the dicks outta here. Keep 'em on the lake where we can see them."

"See 'em and blast 'em," said someone.

"Right," said Beck.

"Good plan," said Bonner. "There's just one thing . . ."

"What?" demanded Beck.

"Tell 'em, Swayne."

"Bonner, I guess you seen them things?" said

Swayne.

Bonner nodded.

"What? What things?" demanded Beck. "They got the biggest, nastiest, ugliest, toughest goddam killing ve-hicles you ever seen in your entire life," said Swayne. "Damn near shit my pants when I saw 'em. Big—I dunno what you call 'em. Never seen nothing like it before. They are big. I am talking huge. I mean fuckin', like I say, big and enormous and then some. You know what I say big?"

"Yeah, we get it," said Starling Junior, "but what do you mean exactly?" "You tell him, Bonner."

"What he means," said Bonner, "is that the alliance has somehow got hold of some pretty heavy pieces of machinery. It's going to be hard to keep some armor-plated nightmares on the lake bed. They'll be able to roll right over a defensive line." "So how do we fight 'em?" asked someone. "I don't know," said Bonner, shaking his head. "Leather's sure to use them up front," said Seth. "And we're gonna be in a heap of shit when he does," said Swayne with the air of a man who knows what he's talking about.

"I still say don't give an inch. Nothing. Meet them on Lake Shore and fight 'em back. Keep in the open. And if they got some kinda fantastic machines, well, good for them. They'll do damage. 1 ain't saying they won't. But you can't win a war this size with a couple of big ole machines. Fight on the Lake Shore. Know what I'm saying?" .

"Gotcha, Beck," said Bonner.

"Then it's decided," said Dorca. "We defend from the outside in. Like an onion."

"What the hell is he talking about?" whispered a rider to Swayne.

"I know what he means," said Swayne, "but damned if I can explain it."

"Hey," said a rider, "look who's here."

Oscar, leader of the Hungry Men, pushed his way into the room. Every man in the room looked at him. Oscar, clad from head to toe in animal skins, stared back around the room. Finally he said, "Hi."

"Glad you're here, Oscar," said Bonner.

"Glad to be here," said Oscar.

"Say something nice," Bonner whispered to Dorca.

"Hey there, Oscar," said Dorca, "howsa bout a drink?"

"Yeah," said Oscar, his eyes beaming at the big, fat barkeep.

"Give 'em a drink, Amie," said Dorca. "Hell. Give 'em all a drink."

There was a happy cheer from the men in the room. As one they crowded up to the bar.

"Jeez," said Dorca to Bonner, "I wish Oscar wouldn't look at me that way."

"Hell," said Bonner, "he's just imagining you with an apple in your mouth over a slow fire."

"I know," said Dorca, "that's what I hate about it."

"So," bellowed Beck, addressing Bonner. "What do we do now?"

"I suggest you take advantage of Mister Dorca's hospitality," said Bonner.

"That'll run out quick," said Dorca. "Then what?"

"Then get in position on the lake line, like you said."

"And then?"

"And then all you have to do," said Seth, "is wait until Leather and his buddies come along and try to shoot your fat ass off.''

"That's about right," said Bonner, "something like that."

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