Desolation Crossing. James Axler

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СКАЧАТЬ sat detached from one another, each lost in his or her own thoughts. They hardly noticed that their driver elected to follow the line of the road, but not to actually venture onto the crumpled blacktop. The shoulder was rough, but actually less damaging than the potholed road surface itself.

      They made slow, steady progress for more than ten miles, putting plenty of distance between themselves and Stripmall. The old highway seemed to stretch out before them like an endless ribbon, disappearing into the heat haze that was still heavy, even though the afternoon was wearing on. Some of it should have burned off by now, but out here the sun was so intense that any burn was minimal.

      Which was why the sudden intersection of another blacktop took them by surprise. It seemed to snake from nowhere and cut across the one they drove beside. Ryan pulled the bus up to a halt at the junction and turned to J.B.

      “What do you reckon?” he asked simply.

      The Armorer screwed up his face in concentration as he looked out of the shattered windows in both directions. He stood and, without a word, got off the bus, pulling the minisextant from a bag slung across his shoulder. He looked up at the sun, then took a reading before surveying the short distance available before the horizon blurred.

      “That way’s west,” he drawled, indicating with his hand. “We were coming from the southeast to begin with, and the way I figure, there’s more habitation to the west.”

      Ryan nodded. “West it is, then.”

      J.B. got back on board, and Ryan heaved the old wag toward the west. It was the first time since they had got back on the road that he had been compelled to put the wheel on full lock. As the wag groaned around, the steering became unsteady, and a whining, grinding sound began to come from beneath the vehicle. It veered sharply, and then tilted forward as a snapping, abrasive screech came from beneath, throwing all those within violently forward.

      “Fireblast!” Ryan breathed as he managed to get the air back into his body that had been expelled by the sudden impact against the wheel. “What the fuck…”

      “I would wager to suggest that perhaps we were not as lucky as we had assumed,” Doc commented mildly, pulling himself up and ignoring the pain in his ribs.

      “Yeah, Doc’s right there,” Mildred said with a sardonic tone. “Always knew our luck couldn’t go on.”

      J.B. was already out of the wag and examining the damage. His head appeared in the doorway. “Nothing good to say.” He shrugged. “Guess some of that sap shit must’ve got underneath, and turning the wag sharply hit the weak spot. It’s sheered right underneath.”

      “No chance of being able to fix it?” Ryan asked, more from blind hope than anything else.

      The Armorer allowed himself a ghost of a smile. “Not unless you got a torch and mebbe a replacement axle hidden somewhere in here.”

      It took them a few minutes to gather themselves and assemble outside, in the baking heat, where they could survey the damage for themselves.

      “Shit, we gave our food and water for that,” Krysty said as she looked at the irreparable damage, voicing the thoughts of all of them.

      “We’ve just got to hit the road and hope we reach a ville before we run out,” Ryan said. “No sense in heading back. May as well keep going west.”

      “You say that like we’ve got a choice,” J.B. said, amused.

      They gathered their packs, and were ready to begin when Ryan noticed that Jak had become distracted. The albino teen shook his head.

      “Trouble. Wags coming from west, heading straight here. Heavy shit, should eyeball soon.”

      Ryan didn’t doubt him. Even as he spoke, the sound of a convoy became audible from the distance. In normal circumstances, visual contact would have occurred first; but with this heat haze still rendering a false horizon, normal was a changed thing.

      Ryan breathed heavily. “At least they’re not from Stripmall. They might be friendly, or at least inclined to ask first, fire second.”

      The old bus still had some use. It was a big vehicle, and could at least offer a degree of cover that was sorely lacking in the surrounding environment. The friends adopted positions around the bus that covered them from the oncoming convoy. As it broke through the haze, they could see that it was at least five wags strong, with a heavily armored vehicle at the front. They would have expected it to either fire on them from a distance—a “make-sure” defensive measure—or to approach them close up, knowing that the armored wag offered protection.

      It did neither. Instead, the wag pulled up about a thousand yards away, the rest of the convoy coming to a halt at its rear. It sat there, immobile, for some time.

      “What’s his game?” Mildred asked.

      “An interesting one,” J.B. replied. “Is he trying to draw our fire?”

      “Bastard strange way to do it,” Ryan countered.

      And then, just when they’d started to grow weary of the waiting, something happened. The offside door of the wag opened, and a squat, muscular man emerged. Dressed in a black vest and camou pants, with heavy boots and a khaki bandanna, he was holding a white cloth above his head. Slowly, he began to walk toward them. As he got closer, they could see that he was wearing the bandanna out of vanity for his bald head, although the rest of him was hairy, down to the bushy black beard flecked with gray that flowed onto his chest. His eyes were hidden behind mirrored aviator shades.

      “He triple stupe or something?” Jak spit.

      “Or triple smart,” Ryan countered. “We’re not going to fire on him when he’s unarmed but has all that firepower at his back. That’d be like saying please chill me.”

      “Might be mutie stupes,” Jak said. “Still taking big chance.”

      “Looks like the kind of guy that’s based his life around taking chances,” Mildred returned. “You don’t get a trader with a wag like that unless you’re prepared to walk the line.”

      As she said this, both J.B. and Ryan’s thoughts turned to their old mentor, the man known simply as Trader. The one thing he’d taught them, above all else, was that life was a risk so you always had to weigh the odds with great care.

      “They’ve got us covered,” Ryan said decisively. “Must have.”

      “Probably long-range, mebbe they’ve even got one of those working infrareds or heat-seekers so they can see how many of us there are. We make one move, and we’ve bought the farm before he even needs to duck and cover,” J.B. stated.

      They laid their weapons at ease, as Ryan indicated. By this time, the heavyset man was in hailing distance.

      “Looks like you’ve got trouble, there,” he began.

      Ryan and J.B. exchanged puzzled glances. No ultimatum? The lone man continued.

      “I’m thinking that mebbe you could use some help.”

      Ryan paused before answering, “That’s good of you to offer help, especially to strangers. But it’s not the way things usually are. People in these parts usually come in blasting first, asking СКАЧАТЬ