The Gospel of the Knife

The Gospel of the Knife
If you copy this story, please include this notice and this introductory material.
The Gospel of the Knife is a novel published by Tor Books. Technically, it is a sequel to Dogland, but it's meant to work as an independent novel.
The following text is not the copyedited version (I don't have a file of that), so don't blame Tor for minor mistakes.
This is available under a Creative Commons "Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported" license. For more information, see http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/.
You can learn much too much about me, and also my wife, Emma Bull, at www.qwertyranch.com.
--Will Shetterly
--
The Gospel of the Knife
Will Shetterly
Dedications by this book's patrons
To Bridget K. Houlihan, whose romantic hope that every book she cracks open will be the best that the author has to offer has inspired me to make famous her love of literature, love of reading and passion for the arts. May you read this with the speed of a thousand thundering turtles!
-Tammy Green
To the men and women of Bravo Company, Tripler Army Medical Center, from whom I have learned much while they were supposed to be learning from me.
-Thomas A. Amoroso
To Sarah Kathleen McLaren, who was born while this was being written.
-Chris McLaren

And by its author
For Juan, Jelks, Kini, Jed, Ginnie, Kay, Marie, Liz, especially Barbara. And a special thanks to Stephen Borer and all the readers of my web log.
Book One
The Wasteland
Chapter One
A Coke bottle spins through the air. Thick green glass, curved like an Earth Momma statue, flicking the afternoon sunlight, as beautiful and strange as a space station or a hummingbird.
You're pedaling home. You were thinking of drawing a cartoon about a girl who looks like Cindy Hurly. Would she be impressed? Would she think you're pathetic?
Now a Coke bottle flies through the blue Florida sky.
Toward your head.
You stomp the brake. The rear hub squeals, but you keep moving forward. In the back basket, your books bang like a drunken drummer.
Is a Coke bottle the last thing you'll see?
Beyond the bottle, a gray Chevy pickup is cruising by. In the cab are three boys, old enough for high school, maybe older. One boy's arm sticks out of the cab. He has Brylcreemed hair, pale blue eyes, a pouting lip. Is he pointing at this bizarro thing, a Coke bottle hurtling through the air?
No. He threw it.
Your brake catches. You pitch off the seat and onto the crossbar. Putting your balls on an anvil and hitting them with a hammer would do more damage. It might not hurt more.
The bottle passes an inch from your nose. You barely notice. You drop your desert boots onto the sun-baked ground. You want to fall on your side and lie there gasping.
The bottle shatters in the ditch. That's when you figure it out. The bottle had a target. You.
The pickup roars away. You stand by the side of the road, straddling your bike, curled over the handlebars, gulping air, staring at the truck as it climbs the hill. Its tailgate is thick with bumper stickers: "Support Our Boys in Vietnam." "America, Love It Or Leave It." The Confederate battle flag over the words "An Unregenerate Confederate."
The Coke-thrower leans out the passenger window and shouts, "You one damn lucky hippie!"
You ram your middle finger at the sky and yell, "Kiss my rebel ass, redneck motherfuckers!" It would sound better if your voice didn't crack, but he's too far away to hear.
Thanks to your finger, he doesn't need to.
His grin drops from his face. He yanks his head back in the cab. You lower your arm and smile. You're a lone dog watching wolves run off. Maybe you only survived, but you feel like you won.
Then the pickup makes a U-turn.
You glance up and down the road. Semis, sedans, and station wagons roll in and out of Gainesville. None of them will worry about a long-haired kid on a bike until the rednecks have done whatever they want.
The pickup cuts across the highway and charges down the shoulder of the road. Gravel and dust stream from it like a cloak. In the cab, the Coke-thrower and two friends with pale crew cuts are laughing. If "Hit the Hippie" is a game, they want first prize.
You yank your handlebars and take the ditch. Your tires bounce on rocks and ruts and grass. Every jolt sends fire up your spine. A book leaps from the back basket. Your front wheel twists on a hubcap. You slide sideways, nearly dumping your bike, kicking the ground to stay up.
And you're across the ditch. An animal track twists into the woods. You race for it. Weeds slow you. Your back feels as wide as a billboard. Maybe the three kids have shotguns or slingshots. You've heard about rednecks catching freaks to shave their heads with rusty razors, rob them, beat them, rape them,