“Me too,” Harmony said. “We only stopped in to meet someone.”
“Kumar,” Daisy-Mae said. “He left you a message before he went. Said he’d had a better offer.”
“Crawford,” I said. “I bet he bought him off.”
“Smart move,” Floyd said. “We can’t get through the Badlands without a guide.”
“He’s gone?” Harmony said.
“Yeah. Shame really, he was my best customer,” Daisy-Mae said.
“Hey, what about me?” Skeet protested.
“Kumar was my best paying customer,” the big man said.
Skeet smiled and nodded at this, pleased to have had the distinction made.
Chapter Thirty-One
“Do you get many customers?” Floyd asked. “Other guides, perhaps?”
Daisy-Mae scowled at Floyd and turned to pour the coffee. When he spoke, he gave his answer to me. “Not many folk come this way now, so there’s not much call for local guides. Kumar was about the last of them.” He placed a mug of thick oily coffee in front of me. Maybe the coffee came out of the generator too. There was something floating on top of it but I didn’t dare put my finger in to fish it out.
“Thanks,” I said. I blew on the surface of my coffee – I’d pretend it was too hot to drink for as long as I could and then dump it out when he wasn’t looking.
“You’re probably wondering about my name,” Daisy-Mae said.
“Well, I...”
“Diefenbacher is an old Earth name. My grandfather just liked the sound of it. He used to be a Dongwart if you can believe that? Are you sure I can’t get you some pie to go with that coffee?”
“I’m sure,” I said.
“Did that burned android out there belong to Kumar?” Harmony asked when she received her coffee.
“Nah, the Skullbusters brought it with them. Said they was creating an ‘installation’, whatever the heck that means. Looks like a pile of charred ‘droid flesh to me.”
“Aren’t you afraid it will scare away customers?” Harmony asked.
“Didn’t scare you none,” he said.
You couldn’t argue with that. I guess being the only place for hundreds of miles in any direction meant you didn’t have to worry too much about drawing folks in.
“Do you get much trouble from the Skullbusters or other bands of Ravagers?” I asked.
Daisy-Mae shook his head slowly, his stubble dragging across the neck of his undershirt and fraying it some more. “Hardly ever see them,” he said. “Unless they’ve got something new to add to the gallery out there.”
“There was one of them in here yesterday,” Skeet said.
“When he says ‘yesterday’...?” I said.
“It was Monday,” Daisy-Mae said. “Two days ago. A young feller dressed in rags with his face all covered. Didn’t say much. Carved a message on the bar with his knife and then left.”
“Message?” I said.
Daisy swept an arm across the bar clearing away the filthy glasses, plates, and forks. Harmony and I looked down at the scarred countertop. The letters were spiky and uneven, like runes from a fantasy movie or something, but they were easy enough to read: El Bastardo is hunting again.
“El Bastardo?” Harmony asked.
“A local legend,” Daisy-Mae said.
“He’s no legend, he’s real!” Skeet insisted.
“Who is he?” I asked.
“A monster!” Skeet said.
I looked at Daisy-Mae. The barkeeper shrugged.
“The Gators left him behind and now he roams the Badlands feeding on the unsuspecting,” Daisy-Mae said. He sounded like he was quoting something he didn’t believe.
“That’s right,” Skeet said. “I saw him once.”
“Floyd, what do you know about...”
“Sssh!” Floyd said, waving my question aside. “I’m breaking into the local security database.”
“Pardon me, your royal hackerness,” I muttered. I wondered what would happen if I ‘accidentally’ spilled the coffee on him. “I hope it’s not a giant scorpion. I hate scorpions.”
“It’s not a scorpion,” Skeet said. “It would eat giant scorpions for breakfast.”
“Oh, here’s something interesting,” Floyd said. “Your friend Skeet used to be employed as – wait for it – a truck driver.”
“Truck driver?” I said, louder than I’d intended.
“That’s right,” Skeet said. “Used to be one of the best.”
“You retired?” I asked.
“In a manner of speaking,” Skeet said.
“They took away his licence,” Floyd said.
Skeet scowled at Floyd. “One too many dismeneanor... missedaneeser... midseam...”
“Drinks,” Floyd said.
“What he said.” Skeet pointed at Floyd. Almost. “He’d have drinked too if he’d seen what I seen.”
I held up a hand to prevent Floyd’s inevitable response.
“I bet you’ve seen some things,” I said. “On your travels...”
“You’d better believe it,” Skeet said. “I went through them Badlands so often that I couldn’t drive sober no more.”
He went quiet then and I thought he’d nodded off. I was startled when he started up again.
“You know what the worst thing was I ever saw?” Skeet asked.
“No...?”
“Me either. I drink to forget.”
“It seems to be working,” Floyd said. He turned and looked at me. “Please tell me you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking.”
“We need a guide,” I said. “Someone who knows his way through the Badlands.”
“He couldn’t find his way to the bathroom.”
“Hey, tin man,” Skeet called, “I’m drunk not deaf.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “Floyd didn’t mean any disrespect.”
“Don’t worry about it, kid. Robot’s right. I swazzed my pants about an hour ago. Or was it yesterday?”
“Every day for a week from the smell,” Floyd said.
“Prob’ly right there,” Skeet said. “What day is it?”
“August,” Floyd said.
“Already? Did I miss Yuletide?”
“He’s an idiot,” Floyd said.
“Skeet is the best chance we’ve got,” I said.
“He’s a devout alcoholic and we’re hauling a truckload of whiskey,” Floyd said. “Tell me why putting those two things together is a good idea.”
“Did he just say whiskey?” Skeeter asked, sitting up straighter on his stool. Then he fell off it.
“You folks going to take him out of here?” Daisy-Mae asked, waving a dirty dishtowel towards the fallen Skeet.
“I know he’s your only customer, but...” I said.
“How much?” Daisy-Mae said.
“What, you’re his agent now?” I asked.
“How much do I have to give you to take him?”
Skeet stirred and Floyd helped him to his feet. When Skeet stood up he was taller than I expected. It was impossible to guess his age but his hair and the stubble on his face had a lot of white in it and the wrinkles were deep. He’d probably been handsome once, in a rugged sort of way, but time and tequila had not been kind. He swayed a little but fixed his watery blue eyes on me.
“You folks have no idea what you’re getting yourself into, do you?” he said.
“That’s why we wanted to hire an experienced guide,” I said.
“You’re not prepared for it. It’s too dangerous.” He dropped back onto his stool and reached for his glass. He missed it by about an inch.
“We have to do this,” I said. “You could help us prepare.”
Skeet shook his head stubbornly.
“If you don’t, we’re going anyway,” I said.
“What sort of truck have you got?” he asked.
I had no idea what model it was or how old it was. “A big one,” I sad.
Skeet snorted at my obvious ignorance. “Show it to me. If i
t’s roadworthy, I’ll go with you. If it’s not, I’m going to blow it up so you can’t go and kill yourselves.”
I looked at Floyd. He shrugged.
“Show him the truck,” I said.
“You’ll need supplies,” Skeet said. “Food – anything that’s in waterproof packs is fine. And water. Take as much of the bottled stuff as you can find. Don’t let him try and sell you the recycled swazz.”
“Okay,” I said. “What else?”
“Don’t bother bringing sodas – they’ll get so shaken up they’ll likely explode. And they give me gas.”
“No sodas, check,” I said.
“Access to the outside world via satellite link will be patchy at best. If there’s an electrical storm you’ll get nothing,” he said. “Make sure you’ve got local copies of any data you’ll need.”
“Floyd?” I looked at him and he nodded.
“Make sure you’ve got a couple of med-kits. Check they’re complete and that nothing in them is past its use-by date. There are no paramedics on call in the Badlands.”
“I’ll check them,” Harmony said. She was watching Skeet, trying to reconcile this organisational efficiency with the wreck of a man we could see slumped on the stool.
“I want to have a look at your toolkit,” Skeet said, “and see what spares you have on hand. You need to be able to fix your vehicles in the dark while standing in three feet of water. A minor breakdown can be life-threatening – and there’s no roadside assistance to come and help you.”
If we had a toolkit it had come with the truck. I looked at Floyd and he nodded, which was a relief. I had a tool roll in the Trekker, but that included some things that weren’t for fixing cars.
“Let’s go and look at this rust bucket truck of yours,” Skeet said. He tried to get up off his stool and slid to the ground. Floyd helped him up.
“Come on,” Floyd said.
“Where are we going?” Skeet asked.
“To look at the truck.”
“You’ve got a truck?! I haven’t been in a truck for years! Lead the way.” He looked down. “Which legs are yours and which are mine?”
“Mine are the metal ones,” Floyd said.
“Okay, you move those and I’ll move the other ones.”
Somehow Floyd managed to get him out of the door.
“Is he always like that?” I asked the barman.
“No, sometimes he’s completely incoherent,” Daisy-Mae said. “If you’re taking him with you you’ll need some tequila. He gets through at least a bottle a day.”
“We’re not taking any liquor,” I said.
“Do you know what that will do to him?”
“Yeah,” I said. “We’ll deal with it. Give me a couple of crates of alcohol-free beer.”
“It’s carbonated.”
“We’ll risk it.”
There was no explosion outside so I guessed that meant the truck had passed muster. Skeet was sitting on the ground leaning against a truck wheel when I went out. Daisy-Mae was happy to take our money and he helped us load the supplies into the truck and the Trekker’s trunk. As we were preparing to leave, he handed me an old box of explosive rounds for my revolver.
“Just in case,” he said. “And good luck with Skeet.”
“Listen in to Bobby-Ray,” I said, “then you’ll hear if we make it to the other side.”
“I will,” Daisy-Mae said. “And you will, I’m sure.”
His eyes showed me the doubt he was trying to hide from us. My eyes probably showed the same thing.
“Bye, Daisy-Mae.” Skeet gave him a drunken wave.
The old trucker was in no state to drive our truck so he’d have to be Floyd’s co-driver.
“Why does he have to ride with me?” Floyd asked.
“Because you’re a robot – you haven’t got a nose,” Harmony said. She wasn’t one hundred per cent behind my idea to hire Skeet either.
“I have olfactory sensors,” Floyd argued.
“But you don’t have human sensibilities,” I said.
“Can’t we at least hose him down?” Floyd asked.
“You want to strip him and bathe him, be my guest,” I said. “But I’m not sticking around to watch.”
“I’m burning his clothes,” Floyd called after me as I turned away. “And giving him some of yours.”
“Anything but the Bertie tee-shirt,” I said.
Harmony and I walked back to the Trekker.
“You can’t leave without us,” Floyd said. “He’s your guide.”
We didn’t look back. Behind us, there were the sounds of a struggle, clothes tearing, and then a hoarse scream as Skeet was shoved into the shower cubicle. Floyd probably thought cold water would sober him up.
“Did you just bring Skeet along to annoy Floyd?” Harmony asked.
“No,” I said. “That’s just an added bonus.”
“You have a mean streak. I like that in a man.”
We ran a hose from Daisy-Mae’s drinking water supply and topped up the truck’s tanks. The water wasn’t quite clear and it had a strong smell of chlorine. We’d use it for washing and only drink the bottled stuff.
Harmony and I had planned to surreptitiously frisk Skeet as we helped him up into the cab. Floyd stripping him naked and tossing away his clothes saved us the trouble. We needed to keep Skeet away from booze and hope he sobered up into something like coherence.
“Do you think he can even remember the route through the swamp?” Harmony asked when we were back in the Trekker.
I shrugged. “We stand a better chance with him than without him.” I felt reasonably confident in saying this. Floyd wouldn’t follow Skeet’s directions blindly, he’d double-check everything.
“Did you shower?” Harmony asked.
“Yes!” I said, annoyed that she might think otherwise.
She sniffed. “Must be this car then. It’s going to be right at home in the swamp.”
I gently patted the Trekker’s door panel, hoping she wasn’t too offended.
Chapter Thirty-Two
We passed from the border zone into the Badlands. There were no signs and no fanfare. The mist got thicker and greener and the trees looked more twisted. There were spiky black thorn bushes that looked like the ones that grew around Sleeping Beauty’s castle. There were no birds and even the rats seemed to have decided that they could do better than this.
As before, we kept the communication channel open so we could talk like we were all in the same vehicle. If Skeet had something to say, Harmony and I didn’t want to miss it. His knowledge of the Badlands might be the only thing that kept us alive. He was still having periods of lucidity mixed with stretches of rambling. I was hoping that the good parts would start to edge out the bad ones.
“It’s getting a little bumpy,” Harmony said.
No kidding. I was being bounced around like a rubber ball in a butter churn.
Skeeter’s voice came over the comms link. “Take it slow,” he advised. “You don’t want to knock a tyre off the rim or bust an axle.”
The last thing we needed out here was a damaged vehicle. There were ruts in the road that cut deep, through the hardcore to the black mud beneath. They must have been formed over decades by trucks passing this way and further eroded by water during the rainy season. Hidden in the ruts were fat boulders that hadn’t worn away and our tyres squashed out of shape as they rolled over them.
It would have been easier if the ruts were of equal depth on both sides, but of course they weren’t. They varied in depth randomly so that we were tipped left and then right then left and rocked backwards and forwards at the same time. I looked back at the truck and could see the cab shaking around like one of those bobble-head toys. It dipped forward into a deep hollow and as the front came up again the bumper was pushing loose dirt like a bulldozer.
“This is why I told you not to drink soda,” Skeet said, his voice affected by the vibrations.
The ruts got deeper and the dirt banks beside us
made it feel like we were half-buried.
For some reason, the truck reminded me of an elephant walking down the road. Its head, the cab, rocked sideways, first one way and then the other, and behind it the trailer performed the same moves a second or two later. They were moving in a sort of counterpoint.
“I hope those whiskey bottles are well-packed,” Harmony said.
I hadn’t checked the small print of our verbal contract with Flint. Did we have to pay for any breakages? There was no point in worrying about that now.
“Hold on to something,” Harmony warned.
Her side of the Trekker rose and mine fell. I’m not sure what angle we were travelling at but the door handles on my side scraped the dirt. When the road levelled out again, Harmony slowed to a stop.
“Can the truck get through that without tipping over?” she asked.
“Only one way to find out,” Skeet said cheerfully.
I worried that he might have a death wish. If he had no concern for his own safety, he could put us all in mortal danger too. This was not a happy thought. I hoped Floyd was monitoring things to prevent any truly risky choices.
“Keep it slow and keep it steady,” Skeet told Floyd. “Keep your foot on the accelerator and don’t let this thing stop. Forward momentum is your friend.”
The truck rumbled towards us at walking pace. The articulation of the front axle was pretty good and it kept the cab almost level when the axle was tilted at thirty degrees. But it wasn’t enough. The wheels under Skeet’s side lifted off the ground. The truck kept rolling forwards on just the driver’s side tyres. It was scary to watch and I was sure it could tip over on its side at any moment. It was a huge relief when the cab’s wheels bounced down onto the ground again.
But that was only half of it. The trailer had to get past it too. When the wheels at the back of the trailer dropped into the rut, the whole trailer twisted along its length, trying to pull the cab over with it. Floyd kept it coming forwards, even as the wheels on one side of the trailer were spinning in the air.
Slowly, slowly, the truck crawled forwards. And the trailer gradually titled back and lowered its wheels back onto the road. Floyd brought it to a stop close to where we were standing.
“The road gets better after this, right?” I asked.
Road Rage Page 19