Crouching low, Lou moved ahead, pushing the densely packed rows of corn aside. George followed closely. They found the road again, and after a careful walk along the edge, saw George’s car. The overhead spotlights had been shut off. There was no sign of Cap or Notso.

“Cap!” George cried out anxiously. “Where you at, man? Notso! Cap!”

“George, keep it quiet!” Lou whispered harshly, but his warning came too late.

Gunfire erupted from across the road, forcing them back into the corn. Bullets streaked past them from several directions, but their cover held. Sticking close together, they pressed deeper into the corn. At that instant, the silence was pierced by a low rumbling, coming from the direction in which they were headed. Shoulder to shoulder, they ducked down in a furrow. The noise built steadily until it seemed like a jet engine had fired up and was heading toward them.

“What the hell is that?” George asked.

Lou stood up on his tiptoes and peered over the corn.

Instantly, his blood turned cold.

Chapter 29

CHAPTER 29

Advancing rapidly toward them through the darkness, looking like an attacking spaceship, its bank of headlights blazing, engine roaring, was a massive combine harvester. Attached to the front end of the harvester, whirling at a blurring speed, was a cylindrical threshing reel, at least twenty feet wide. The machine, with tires taller than Lou, was shearing stalks off at ground level.

Wind generated by the rotating blades sprayed dirt toward Lou and rushed ahead with enough force to throw him off balance. In the brightly lit cab, he could see the silhouette of the driver and wondered what George and he must have looked like to the man.

Helpless was the only word that came to mind.

Most frightening to him about the thresher was its speed. For several precious seconds, he was frozen—almost literally, a deer in the headlights of the powerful beast. The gap between him and the machine seemed to be closing rapidly. Finally, with no specific plan in mind, he whirled to his right. Nimbly, the combine responded. Moments later, Lou tripped and fell, pitching facefirst onto the rugged ground.

“George! Run! Get out of here!” he shouted, stumbling to his feet.

He could barely hear himself over the roaring engine, and knew there was no way George could hear him.

The screech of the razorlike blades was deafening, and the skill of the driver had him persistently locked between the headlights. Slivered stalks flew out from the base of the apparatus like daggers. A shot rang out from the right, then another. Bullets sparked off the metal framework of the cab. A third shot seemed to spiderweb the windshield.

Lou saw the muzzle flashes and located George, thrashing ahead through the corn, firing over his shoulder like a sharpshooter in a Wild West show. For the moment, at least, he seemed to be well beyond the far end of the screeching rotors.

Lou was dead center.