Chapter 1

Look, it's like I told the cops — someone poked a hole in my back, took my truck, took my Indian princess and left me for dead.

All the rest — what I was carrying, where I picked up Cherry — it really don't matter. But hell, Doc, you saved my life, and I owe you.

So here's the story.

The company told me I'd be hauling a high-value load. Three pressurized tanks inside a bullet-proof steel cylinder. I said, just tell me this, is any of this shit radioactive? I don't carry radioactive and I don't drive through radioactive. And I carry a beep-counter to make sure I don't.

They said, it ain't radioactive. It's FuckFoam, the stuff they use to make Di-Clones. It ain't even classed as a hazardous substance. Sure, you got a goddam smelly mess if it gets out, but it's safe.

That was the good news. The bad news was that I'd have to drive pretty close to Nashville. There's other ways to get from Indy to Memphis, of course, but the only way to avoid Vandals is to stick to the Eye Roads — I-65, I-40. And that means coming pretty goddam close to that radioactive pile of shit that used to be downtown Nashville.

Well, they're paying me 80,000 Federal, which is more than I made all of last year, so I say, what the hell.

The first hundred miles or so was uneventful. I had another company driver who needed a ride to Louisville. All he did was talk. Some guys like company in the cab, but I like to listen to classical music, not some asshole telling me his life story and how he's angling for an office job.

I dropped him off just south of Louisville and picked up three cans of hydrogen, enough to get me to Memphis, if I didn't run into trouble.

I'd been told the run from Louisville to Bowling Green was easy. You might run into punks with shotguns, but no Vandals. No one with heavy stuff.

It was getting dark and I was about ten miles south of E'town when I saw the big Topaz sign all lit up off the side of the road: GAS, GUNS, GIRLS.

I didn't need no gas, and I had three guns, which was two more than I was ever likely to get a chance to use. But I was horny, so I pulled in.

There was two big rigs and a Federal police van at the pumps, and a bunch of trailers at the edge of the pad. That was a bad sign. It likely meant their drivers had abandoned them. Too scared to keep heading south.

I went inside. A cop was teasing the waitress, and the two truckers were eating burgers and not talking. They looked glum.

The manager was behind the register, reading a magazine.

"Business looks slow," said I.

He looked up. "It is slow. I'm going broke here."

"Well, I'm here to help you out," I said, flipping him my Topaz card. "What you got in the way of girls?"

He inserted the card and glanced at the monitor. "No way, buddy, you cost us 2,000 F's on your last rental."

Now, I know I got a little rough with the last girl I rented, up around Gary, but I was pretty damn sure that fixing her up didn't cost more than the 500 F damage deposit. Still, I didn't want to get into an argument and miss a chance for some female companionship. I figured it could be a long way to the next truck stop that offered girls.

"Okay," says I, "here's 1,500 F's. That and the deposit should cover what you say I owe. Now, what you got tonight?"

"A blonde with big tits, named Honey Dew. And an Indian princess named Cherokee. They're in the back room."

When I went in, they were sitting on bar stools, smoking and listening to bluesy jazz.

The blonde was my type. Big tits, pouty mouth, and an expression that said, "I'm too dumb to do anything but fuck." What's more, she had a shiner. Her left eye was almost swollen shut.

"Looks like you ran into someone rough," I said.

"Yeah," she said.

"A trucker?"

"No," she said. "Bristol, the manager."

Christ, I thought to myself. I just paid $1,500 for beating up one of these Di-Clone bitches, and here's the manager doing the same to the merchandise at this dump, and he probably won't pay a dime.

"You like rough stuff?" I asked. I always ask first.

"Love it," she said. She leaned toward me in a sexy way, and I could see down her blouse. She really did have great tits.

She also had a rash. I could barely see it, but it was definitely there. I don't fool around with bitches that have rashes.

"Yeah, well that's nice," I said. "But I prefer to beat the shit out of girls who don't like it."

I turned to the Indian princess. She was small and dark, with long black hair and big brown eyes. She wore a short leather skirt and an unbuttoned denim vest. Her tits were small but shaped nice. A silver pendant on a rawhide bolo hung between them.

"How about you, sweetheart? You like rough sex?"

She just looked at me and said nothing.

I grabbed the bolo and jerked her off the stool.

"I'm talking to you, bitch," I said.

"Don't hurt me," she said in a small voice. "Please don't hurt me."

It was a real turn on. She was going to be fun.

We was barely in the cab before she gave me the first blow job. I leaned against the door, and she went up and down on me. She knew just how to do it.

"You think this is gonna get you a bye on the rough stuff," I said, breathing real heavy. "Don't bet on it, you little slut."

I shot off in her mouth, and she swallowed it greedily. I shifted, pulled her down on the seat and got on top of her. I wanted to hurt her real bad, and she knew it. Her eyes were closed. She seemed to be waiting for the first blow to land.

Then I thought, do I really want to blow another 2,000 F's? And if she ends up all beat to hell, what good will she be for the trip ahead? We was going to be traveling through dangerous territory, and it wouldn't hurt to have another set of eyes in the cab.

So I settled for a single punch to her gut. I didn't use much force, but it was enough to knock the wind out of her, and she moaned, which is a sound I've always liked.

I pulled her up, shoved her against the passenger-side door and slid behind the wheel.

"Yeah, we're gonna have some good times," I said. "That shiner your pal Honey Dew had was nothing compared to what you're gonna look like by the time we get to Memphis. That's assuming you make it that far."

I wanted to scare her. Actually, I was pretty scared myself. I wasn't at all sure either of us was going to make it to Memphis.

We slept at a rundown rest stop, me in the bunk at the back of the cab, her in the front seat. Least ways, that's the way it started out. When I woke up, just after dawn, she was curled up next to me. She hadn't gotten under the blanket, but I guess she needed my body warmth.

I looked at her sleeping beside me. She was actually fairly pretty, not all tarted up the way most Di-Clones are. She looked almost real.

She opened her eyes and made a little gasping sound, like she was surprised to find where she was.

"Rise and shine, Cherry," I said. I had decided to call her Cherry, cuz she was Cherokee.

I opened the door. It was cold outside. The sun was peeking over the horizon, but to the west there was lots of dark clouds. I figured it was gonna pour.

I hauled out the propane burner and fried some sausages atop the only picnic table still standing. I showed Cherry how to use the coffeemaker in the compartment behind the bunk. I had a little refrigerator there, too, full of cheese and salami and beer.

She sat on a bench, with the blanket wrapped around her. She was shivering. I sat beside her and put my arm around her. I don't know why. It just seemed the right thing to do.

After breakfast, we stashed all out gear and I told her to get back in the truck. I walked back to the highway. The sun was up, now, but there was no traffic. The road was in bad shape. Nobody had worked on it for at least five years. We weren't going to be able to do more than 40 miles an hour. A shadow crossed the highway. I looked up. It was a Prankster, sizing me up. Looked just like a buzzard, wheeling around real lazy.

I hightailed it back to the truck. I didn't want it mistaking me for a Vandal and zapping me with a laser. Pranksters are real good at keeping Vandals off the Eye Roads, and for that I am grateful. But you better stay in your truck when they're overhead.

The rain started as we drove through the cave country. I'm told there used to be all kinds of motels around there in the old days. Tourists came from all over America to see Mammoth Cave and to buy shit in tacky little shops.

We passed several exits with no sign of life. Finally, I saw a Federal police van parked under an overpass. I stopped for a chat.

"You the first truck I seen today," said a cop who was about my age. His partner looked twenty years younger.

"Yeah, it seems pretty deserted along here. Any trouble ahead?"

"Naw, it's all clear, at least to Bowling Green. But we got reports of some shooting north of Nashville. Where you headed?"

"Nashville, then on to Memphis."

"Well, maybe our boys will have everything cleared up by the time you get there. Whatcha hauling?"

"Propane," I said. I hoped they didn't ask to see my papers.

"Well, you better hope that fucker is bulletproof," said the young cop. "Otherwise, you could be in the middle of the biggest explosion Nashville's seen since..."

"Yeah," I said, interrupting him. "But I don't intend to get my ass blown up. If they're going to stop this rig, they're going to need RPGs."

The young cop laughed. It was a nasty laugh. "Funny you say that. Vandals broke into an R.O.M. arsenal last week and stole a big bunch of shit, including grenade launchers."

If he wasn't a cop, I would have punched him out, the son-of-a-bitch.

Instead, I smiled and tried to stay cool. "No shit. You said an R.O.M. arsenal. What exactly is R.O.M.?"

"Jesus," he said. "Republic of Memphis. Haven't you heard? A whole stretch along the Mississippi River is now a separate fucking country?"

I hadn't heard. I knew there had been all kinds of talk about secession, about how the Federals couldn't hold things together anymore. But a Republic of Memphis?

And suddenly it hit me. If I was delivering to a depot in another country, how could I be sure I'd get paid? And what would they use to pay me?

"They got their own currency?" I asked.

"Sure do," said the cop. "Effective today."

Then he looked past me and said, "Who's the cunt?"

I glanced back. Cherry was climbing down from the cab. I hadn't noticed before what a nice ass she had.

"Di-Clone from a truck stop near E'town," I said.

"She don't look like any Di-Clone I've ever seen," the young cop said. He stepped between me and her. Cherry tried to sidestep him, but he moved to block her. Then he grabbed her arm.

"Where you going, slut?" he said.

"Leave her alone," I said.

The older cop said, "Yeah, Fred, knock it off."

Fred twisted Cherry's arm behind her and pulled her against him. "How about a kiss, honey," he said.

Then he bellowed and doubled up. Cherry had kneed him in the balls.

He was on his hands and knees, gasping for breath. I looked at the other cop. The whole goddam trip just might end right here, I thought.

But the older guy just laughed. "You had it coming, Fred. Come on. Get up and get back in the van."

He helped his partner to his feet. Young Fred was wobbly, but he turned back to look at us, and it was about the meanest look I've ever seen.

"I'll get you one day, bitch," he said.

We drove on for a while in silence. Then I put my hand on her knee and said, "Nice job."

"Thanks," she said. She grabbed my hand and slid it to her crotch.

"I just hope you never plan to try that knee-to-the-balls routine on me," I added.

She looked genuinely shocked. "Why would I do that? You paid for me. That piss ant didn't."

Now I knew where we stood. I paid for her, so I got to do pretty much anything I wanted. As for her begging for mercy the night before, it was all an act. I had told the blonde I didn't like women who liked pain. So Cherry had drawn the logical conclusion.

As I massaged her clitoris, I wondered if she'd always be a step ahead of me.

The weather improved, but the road kept getting worse. I was worried about busting an axle, so I slowed to 25. That's when I saw him come running down an embankment to my right — a raggedy looking guy with a torn shirt, a skinny chest and an empty sleeve where his right arm should've been. At the crest of the ridge, I saw what he was running from: three angry looking guys with knives and clubs.

I downshifted, hit the brakes and had the door open before we was fully stopped. I don't know why, but I had decided that the one-armed guy was okay and it was the three who was chasing him that was the problem. That's the way I saw it, so I pulled my Glock out from its pocket in the visor and fired a couple of warning shots. Scared the hell out of all of them, the one-armed guy included.

I yelled at him to get his ass in the truck. Cherry opened the door on her side and he started to climb in, fell back and tried again. He grabbed Cherry's hand and finally made it. Just in time, because one of the three guys chasing him raised a long-barreled handgun — a .22 target pistol was my guess — and started peppering the windshield.

Once the door was closed, I wasn't worried. Even a high-powered rifle wasn't going to get through this cab. We was armored, big-time.

I put her in gear and we was back on the road.

The one-armed guy finally caught his breath and said, "Jesus, thank you, guys. Those bastards was gonna kill me."

"What'd you do to them?" I asked.

"Nothing," he said, sounding hurt. "Well, maybe one thing. We was playing Ming, and I ended up with all their money. They said I was cheating, which is a pretty fool thing to say about a man with one arm."

I asked him what Ming was. He said it was some kind of Chinese board game that's popular in those parts. He said he learned it from his pappy.

While he was talking, I glanced over from time to time. Cherry was sitting between us, and he kept watching her. Even when he was talking to me, his eyes was on her.

"I'm Stumbo," he said. "They call me Give-'im-a-hand Stumbo for obvious reasons. But my real name is Husk. What's yours?"

"Daniel," I said. "And this here is Cherry. Cherokee, actually. She's an Indian princess." I decided not to add that she was a Di-Clone. He'd probably figure it out anyway, and I didn't want to hurt her feelings.

"I ain't never seen an Indian princess," he said. "I thought all the Indians was on reservations out West, where you can't get to anymore."

"No," said Cherry. "There's Indians in Federal Land, too."

"How about that," Stumbo said. He didn't sound convinced.

We all got quiet, so I slipped a disk into the player. It was Aida. I generally like Rossini and Mozart better than Verdi, but I'm a sucker for Aida.

"What's this?" Stumbo asked.

"An opera," I said. "About an Egyptian slave girl."

"Slave girl? You mean, like, a fuck toy?" asked Stumbo.

I said, "Yeah, I guess so. Shut up and listen." So they shut up and we all listened. Listening to operas relaxes me. I usually don't know what they're singing about, but it sounds right. I'd listened to Aida thirty or forty times before, so I sort of zoned out, driving automatically and imagining what it was like in Memphis — the original Memphis, in ancient Egypt, with beautiful slave girls and jealous princesses and all that shit.

"Any of you hungry?" Stumbo asked, after a while.

"Yeah, I guess so," I said. Cherry looked confused but nodded. I think she had dozed off.

I pulled onto the shoulder and cut back on the throttle. I didn't want to waste fuel, but I also didn't want to have to crank back up if there were Vandals around.

The clouds had cleared, and it was warming up. I heard honking far away. It was geese, heading south. I scanned the sky for Pranksters, but there wasn't none.