And they could not have known what had transpired a few blocks away.
Paul could not stop to see if he had a passenger, or if she was still alive.
She was more dangerous than the gunmen.
Any gratitude she might feel toward her rescuer would be quickly buried beneath her craving to spread the disease.
He wished fervently that he had let the patrolmen kill her.
Now he was faced with the problem of getting rid of her.
He noticed, however, that mirrors were mounted on both sides of the cab.
If he stopped the truck, and if she climbed out, he could see, and move away again before she had a chance to approach him.
But he decided to wait until they were out of the city.
Soon he saw a highway marker, then a sign that said
“Galveston—58 miles.”
He bore ahead, thinking that perhaps the island-city would provide good scrounging, without the regimentation of Doctor Georgelle’s efficient system with its plans for “glorious recovery.”
Twenty miles beyond the city limits, he stopped the truck, let the engine idle, and waited for his passenger to climb out.
He locked the doors and laid a jack-handle across the seat as an added precaution.
Nothing happened.
He rolled down the window and shouted toward the rear.
“All passengers off the bus!
Last stop!
Everybody out!”
Still the girl did not appear.
Then he heard something—a light tap from the trailer, and a murmur… or a moan.
She was there all right.
He called again, but she made no response.
It was nearly dark outside.
At last he seized the jack-handle, opened the door, and stepped out of the cab.
Wary of a trick, he skirted wide around the trailer and approached it from the rear.
One door was closed, while the other swung free. He stopped a few yards away and peered inside.
At first he saw nothing.
“Get out, but keep away or I’ll kill you.”
Then he saw her move.
She was sitting on the floor, leaning back against a heap of clothing, a dozen feet from the entrance.
He stepped forward cautiously and flung open the other door.
She turned her head to look at him peculiarly, but said nothing.
He could see that she had donned some of the clothing, but one trouser-leg was rolled up, and she had tied a rag tightly about her ankle.
“Are you hurt?”
She nodded.
“Bullet…” She rolled her head dizzily and moaned.
Paul went back to the cab to search for a first aid kit.
He found one, together with a flashlight and spare batteries in the glove compartment. He made certain that the cells were not corroded and that the light would burn feebly.
Then he returned to the trailer, chiding himself for a prize fool.
A sensible human would haul the dermie out at the end of a towing chain and leave her sitting by the side of the road.
“If you try to touch me, I’ll brain you!” he warned, as he clambered into the trailer.
She looked up again.
“Would you feel… like enjoying anything… if you were bleeding like this?” she muttered weakly.
The flashlight beam caught the glitter of pain in here eyes, and accentuated the pallor of her small face.
She was a pretty girl—scarcely older than twenty but Paul was in no mood to appreciate pretty women, especially dermies.
“So that’s how you think of it, eh?
Enjoying yourself!”
She said nothing.
She dropped her forehead against her knee and rolled it slowly.