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legs as firmly as he could between two branches so he was wedged in and pulled up with everything he had. Slowly,
     inch by agonizing inch, he got the Harley to lift up from its resting place between the two branches. He knew instantly that
     he’d taken on much more than he’d bargained for. Every fraction of an inch was almost impossible. There was no way in hell
     he’d make it all the way to the ground. When the bike had lifted above the branch edge so it appeared to have clearance, Stone
     let out a yell and turned his body to the side so the entire pulley swiveled above him. The branch it was attached to wasn’t
     about to give, it was three feet thick at the base where the cable was attached. But the cable itself was stretching and making
     sharp sounds like something under incredibly high tension, giving off high harmonic overtones.
    Stone started to lower the bike, feeling his hands turning red and ripped from holding the rope. It started its descent inch
     by inch dangling around in the air as it twisted back and forth. And it was the turning motion that caused the problem, for
     suddenly as it reached its outer swing one of the clips ripped free, unable to take the extra weight. As the bike swung back
     to the other side, another clip went. And that was that. Suddenly they all ripped free and the weight on the rope Stone was
     holding went to zero like a fishing line that a fish had just bid adieu. He watched with horror as the bike dropped straight
     down.

CHAPTER
Four

    I T was too late to see if the Harley was still functional, and Stone was too tired to try. He set up the machine gun from the
     bike on the dirt, built a small fire a few yards from it and sat there on his bedding morosely eating a can of Spam, with
     the dog lying in the metal box alongside him. He sat for hours staring into the flame-licked darkness and swore he kept seeing
     things, shadows of things darting everywhere. And sounds. But at last he fell asleep in spite of himself, both hands fastened
     tightly around the machine gun like he was holding a baby.
    When Stone awoke it was with a start. Something was in front of him—and it had teeth. And when his hands pulled back instinctively
     on the twin triggers the sound of the machine gun letting loose with a twenty-shot volley made his eyes open wide and fast.
     It took him a few seconds to even realize it was he who had fired the burst and he looked around frantically searching for
     the enemy upon him. But all he could see was the backside of a groundhog which he had scared the living shit out of and was
     hightailing its way back under some fallen trees, its fur bristling everywhere.
    Once he realized just what had transpired Stone’s mouth grew into a smile, then a laugh, then a whole gale of laughter that
     burst from him in an avalanche of pain and anxiety suddenly released. So he was reduced to taking out groundhogs with a .50-caliber.
     He pulled his hands away from the smoking gun and stood up. He hadn’t slept well at all and already was getting a throbbing
     headache from the noise. He dropped down on one knee and stirred around the embers of the fire. The thing was still going;
     with a few branches thrown on, the flames quickly sprang back up to life. Stone took out a small pot from one of the boxes
     he had taken off the Harley’s back mounted rack and walked about fifty yards before he came to a small stream that trickled
     slowly by. The water smelled good. He leaned down and took a lick from a palmful. Tasted good too.
    Stone filled the pot and his canteen and headed back. He threw some instant coffee into the scratched-up pot and placed it
     down on top of the now crackling fire. The brew was bitter, for the instant coffee was years old, from the bunker’s supply
     stores. But still it was coffee and had that jolt he needed to click his body and brain into gear. He started a second cup
     and was at last able to look over at the bike, completely disassembled with