Everything seemed normal, though, as far as he could see. He was driving alongside Buffalo Creek now. On the other side of the creek, at the foot of the hills, railroad tracks ran parallel to the road. He caught a glimpse of two house trailers nestled away in the woods. They were old, weather-beaten, ramshackle—but otherwise unharmed.
Coming around a bend, Dan threw on the brakes. The highway ended abruptly in a shiny wall, perhaps six feet tall. A small car had skidded sideways into the wall, caving part of it—dirt, Dan realized—over the hood. Dan could see a woman's face staring at him through the driver's side window. The woman was wide-eyed.
"That's Jenny Lynch," he muttered. He stared at the wall across the road. "What in the hell is going on?"
Dan got out of the Cherokee. Behind him, he could hear the miners' trucks coming to a halt and doors opening. When he reached the car, he tapped on the window. Slowly, Jenny rolled it down.
"Are you okay?" The youngish, plump-faced woman nodded hesitantly.
"I—I think so, Dan." She reached a shaky hand toward her face. "Did I kill anybody? I don't know what happened." The words started coming out in a rush. "There was a flash—some kind of explosion—I don't know . . . Then this wall, where did it come from? I hit the brakes, car started skidding—I . . . I don't know what happened. I don't know what happened."
Dan patted her on the shoulder. "Relax, Jenny. You didn't hurt anybody. I think you're just a little shaken up." He remembered Nichols. "We've got a doctor with us. Hold on just—"
He started to turn, but Nichols was already there. The doctor gently shouldered Dan aside and gave Jenny a quick examination.
"I don't think there's anything serious," he said. "Let's get her out of the car." He opened the door. A moment later, he and Dan were helping Jenny. Other than being shaky and pale, the woman didn't seemed harmed.
"Come here a second, will you Dan?" said Mike. The union president was squatting by the strange wall, digging into it with a pocket knife. The police chief walked over.
"This thing is just dirt," Mike stated. "Nothing but plain old dirt." He spilled another scoop out of the wall. As soon as the cohesion was broken, the shiny substance turned into nothing but a pile of soil. "The only reason it looks shiny is because—" Mike groped for words. "It's as if the dirt's been cut by a perfect razor." He poked at the wall again. "See? As soon as you break through the surface, it's nothing but dirt. What the hell could have done that? And where did it come from?"
Mike glanced right and left. The "wall" continued on both sides of the road. It was as if two completely different landscapes had suddenly been jammed together. He could see the side of a typical West Virginia hill to the south—except the side was now like a perpendicular cliff. Just as shiny as the wall across the road, except where pockets of soil were falling loose.
Dan shrugged. He started to say something when he heard a sudden shriek. Startled, he rose and stared at the wall. An instant later, a body hurtled over the top and crashed into him.
The impact sent Dan sprawling on the pavement. The body—a young girl, he realized dimly, a raggedly dressed teenager—landed on top of him, still shrieking. The girl bounced off him and scrambled down the bank, heading for the creek. Still screaming.
Half-dazed, Dan started to rise. Mike was at his side, extending a hand. Dan took it and got back on his feet.
Everything was happening too fast. He had just started to turn, looking for the girl, when he saw two new figures appear on top of the wall.
Men. Armed.
Mike's back was toward them, half-blocking Dan's view. Dan pushed him off and reached for his pistol. One of the men—then the other—began raising his rifle. Rifle? What was that strange-looking weapon?
Dan's pistol was clear of the holster. Coming up. "Halt!" he shouted. "Drop your weapons!"
The first rifle went off. The gun made a strange, booming sound. Dan heard the bullet ricochet off the pavement. He caught a glimpse of Mike throwing himself down. Dan had his pistol up—levered the slide—two-handed grip—
The round from the second rifle slammed into his left shoulder, knocking him sideways.
His mind felt suspended. Dan had never actually fired his weapon in a live situation. But he was an instructor in police combat tactics, and had spent uncounted hours on the firing range and in simulated drills. His training took over. Using his right hand, he brought the pistol back on target.
Detached, his mind recognized that the man was wearing some kind of armor. And a helmet. Dan was an expert shot. The range wasn't more than thirty feet. He fired. Fired again. The .40-caliber rounds practically severed the man's neck. He flopped backward, out of sight.