“Worst. Guide. Ever,” Harmony muttered. “Buckle your harness.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. I opened the door and climbed out.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” she said.
“It’ll be better with less weight in there,” I said.
“You’re full of squit Quincy Randall.”
She must have decided that faster was better. The Trekker shot forwards. The tyres rumbled over the loose planks and then she was on the other side.
Skeet and I let out the breaths we’d been holding. We turned and looked up at Floyd.
“Your turn,” I said.
“Why don’t you drive the truck across?” Floyd asked.
“Are you suggesting that a human life is less valuable than yours?” I asked.
“I’m not suggesting it,” he said. “I’m stating it for a fact.”
“I’ll ask Harmony to drive it,” I said. “She has the experience now.”
“I’ll do it,” Floyd said quickly. He climbed down out of the cab. He wanted to examine the bridge more closely. I didn’t go with him. I thought Harmony’s approach was better – what you don’t know can’t hurt you.
“Some of the wood is cracked and some is rotten,” Floyd said when he returned.
“That bridge isn’t much wider than the truck,” I said. “You should take it slow.”
“I’ll go across and watch from the other side,” Skeet said, “make sure you’re keeping it centred.”
“You’re going to walk across that bridge?” I asked.
“Yep,” Skeet said. “That way if it collapses I’ll be on the other side.”
Squit! I wish I’d thought of that. Skeet crossed the rickety bridge apparently without a care.
The cab door slammed shut and Floyd started up the truck.
On the other side, Skeet hunkered down and squinted at the front of the cab, checking that it was properly lined up. He gave Floyd a thumbs-up.
The truck’s wheels turned slowly and it crept forward. There was a clattering sound as the front wheels rolled onto the bridge. Several of the wet black planks shifted and one of them disappeared over the edge, plopped into the mud and was gone forever. The truck drove on. The bridge creaked but there didn’t seem to be any major structural shift.
Skeet waved at Floyd, urging him onwards. The tractor’s back wheels rolled onto the bridge and the creaking grew louder. There was a loud snapping sound and part of a board shot upwards, but a wheel crushed it back down again. The tyres rumbled over the loose planks.
The bridge really was only a couple of inches wider on each side than the truck. Floyd was a robot so he knew how to drive in a perfect straight line, but even so watching it made me nervous.
The rear wheels of the trailer rolled off the dirt and onto the planks. The whole weight of the truck and its cargo was now on the bridge. The wooden structure was creaking and groaning like an old pirate ship in a storm. Shiver me timbers indeed. There were more snapping sounds but I couldn’t see what had broken. One of the trailer’s wheels spun on the wet wood and the trailer slipped ever so slightly towards the edge of the bridge.
“How’s it look?” Skeet shouted.
“Tyre’s right on the edge!” I yelled back.
“Just keep it coming,” Skeet told Floyd.
The outside edges of the trailer tyres were sticking out past the edge of the bridge now. Another minor slip could send it over and the trailer would drag the tractor down with it. The back of the trailer passed the halfway mark.
“You’ll need to pick up a bit of speed to get up the bank on this side,” I heard Skeet say.
“Roger that,” Floyd said. He pressed down on the pedal more gently than any human could have done and the rumbling of wheels on wood slowly increased in frequency.
The front wheels of the tractor met the opposite bank, scrabbled for purchase and then pulled the truck upwards. The dirt was wet on the bank and the tyres struggled for grip but the truck kept moving forwards.
As the rear wheels of the trailer rolled off the bridge, the relief was almost overwhelming. Tension left my muscles and I felt light-headed. I half expected the bridge to collapse but I was glad that it didn’t. I still had to walk across it. Would my travelling companions mock me if I crawled across on hands and knees? Almost certainly. I would walk across at a jaunty pace. And not look over the edge. Yeah, right.
“Why did you stop in the middle?” Skeet asked.
“What? Did I?”
“I thought you’d lost your nerve.”
“Me? No! I was just... you know, admiring the view.”
“And what did you see?” he asked.
“Mud mostly.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
“Is there something crawling on my face?” Skeet asked. His voice was weak and croaky.
“Do you want me to say ‘yes’?” Floyd asked.
“No! I want you to tell me I’m hallucinating.”
“You’re hallucinating,” Floyd said.
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” Skeet asked.
“How do you know I’m really here at all?”
“Good point. You’re the robot.”
“So they tell me,” Floyd said.
“Why am I wet?”
“Fever and excessive sweating are symptoms of your alcohol withdrawal,” Floyd said. “As are tactile, auditory, and visual hallucinations.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“You may feel things, hear things, and see things that are not there.”
“Elephants, frogs, spiders, things like that?” Skeet asked.
“All of those are possible.”
“But not robots?”
“I am not a hallucination,” Floyd said. “But I would say that if I were, so it doesn’t actually help you. Here, drink this.”
“Is it booze?” Skeet’s tone was hopeful.
“Water with a sachet of rehydration salts in it,” Floyd said.
“How do I drink from this? It looks like an armadillo.”
“That is definitely a hallucination,” Floyd said. “Here, put its snout into your mouth.”
“That’s not its snout.”
“Then I suggest you just close your eyes when you suck on it.”
We drove on along the muddy swamp road. Late morning saw the fog thicken so much that we had to slow to walking pace and it was like travelling through a pale green void. It thinned out during the afternoon and looking at the scenery you could almost believe that we hadn’t made any progress at all – it was the same black dirt and the same gnarled trees and spiky bushes. This was our new normal.
“Am I going to die?” Skeet asked. He sounded like a child seeking reassurance from his mommy.
“You still have a slight fever,” Floyd said, “and your blood pressure is a little higher than I’d like, but you’ll live.”
“I’ll drink to that!” Skeet said.
“You most certainly will not,” Floyd said.
“It was worth a try. You won’t tell the others about the armadillo, will you?” Skeet asked.
“What a man does with his imaginary armadillo is entirely his own business,” Floyd said. “Your secret is safe with me.”
“They weren’t listening in, were they?”
“Quincy and Harmony are spending the evening together in the Trekker. Listening to your delirious ramblings probably isn’t high on their list of things to do.”
“Does he know that we were listening?” Harmony asked. She was stretched across the back seats and I was lying across the front ones. Or trying to.
“Floyd knows everything,” I said. “Including how not to tell the truth without actually lying.”
“You taught him that, didn’t you?” she said.
“I’ve taught him a few things,” I said.
“Not directly answering the question you’re asked is another form of deceit,” she said. “Politicians do it.”
“Do you want me to
rub your aching back?” I asked.
“No,” she said.
“Good, then will you rub mine? I feel like an old man.”
“There’s a reason why you feel like that,” she said.
“Don’t say it.”
Skeet suffered no more hallucinations – or none that he told us about. His skin was pale like wax and he looked like a reanimated dead man, but mentally he seemed more alert. He had survived the early stages of alcohol withdrawal and his body would continue to regenerate itself. But he wasn’t cured. He was going to need long-term support when he got out of the Badlands. Until then, he had us.
“One of the problems about being sober is that you have to face up to all the squit you’ve done to people in the past,” Skeet said.
“You can’t change the past,” Floyd said. “Who you were and what you did are less important than who you are and what you do in the present.”
“There’s a lot of people would disagree with that,” Skeet said.
“Why do you care what they think?” Floyd asked. “I’ve observed people for many years – most of them are so focused on their own lives that they don’t give a squit about yours.”
Floyd let Skeet take another turn behind the wheel of the truck. It was a move calculated to increase Skeet’s confidence in his abilities now that he was more or less sober. Giving him a task that required all of his attention seemed to have a positive effect.
“We’re being followed,” Floyd said. “Multiple targets.”
We’d been followed ever since we left Honest Herb’s with the whiskey. I had hoped that none of them would follow us into the Badlands. Maybe they hadn’t. I didn’t want to think what that might mean. Skeet said it out loud.
“Mutants.”
“We don’t know that,” Harmony said.
“Who else would be in a place like this?” Skeet said, “Except for idiots like us?”
“How many vehicles?” I asked.
“I’m seeing three,” Floyd said. “But the atmosphere here is limiting the range of the sensors.”
“There could be more of them,” Skeet said.
“Didn’t you ever encounter them when you were on the swamp road?” Harmony asked.
“You’d sometimes see figures shambling along but I never stopped.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
The fact that Floyd was seeing motor vehicles meant we were dealing with something other than your usual living dead zombies. I looked at the screen. There were two blips behind us and the third was on a path parallel to ours. The signals weren’t strong enough to show what type of vehicles they might be. A little part of me hoped that it might be the Dragon Riders, but I didn’t think they’d be crazy enough to come into the Badlands. Even tough guys have their limits.
“Are they closing in?” I asked.
“Negative,” Floyd said. “They are maintaining a steady distance.”
“Waiting until we reach a good place for them to ambush us,” Skeet said. I liked him better when he was a happy drunk.
“This whole place is a great place for ambushing travellers,” Harmony said, looking at the misty landscape outside. “We should try and find somewhere that we can defend ourselves.”
“Circle the wagons?” I said. “That’s tricky when you’ve only got two.”
“We have Floyd,” Harmony said. “They don’t know about him.”
Now that Skeet was driving the truck, Floyd could wear the cannon permanently and ride shotgun. It would give us an advantage. As long as Floyd could see something to shoot at. And assuming that the mutants could die.
“There’s a lake up ahead,” Skeet said. “It’s deep and black. If we have that behind us we only have to defend against what comes in from the front and sides.”
Harmony looked at me to see what I thought. I shrugged. It was almost a plan.
“We’ll head for the lake,” I said. “Floyd, keep an eye out, make sure nothing gets ahead of us.
“When they said ‘lakeside view’ this isn’t what I imagined,” Harmony said.
The water was glossy and black like ink. Tendrils of mist drifted across it. Nasty-looking bubbles occasionally broke the surface and there was a smell like spoiled meat. The trees around the lake were twisted and bare – they looked like they’d died in agony. You could imagine that the lake surrounded the Isle of the Dead. There was probably a hooded ferryman somewhere along the shore holding out a skeletal hand for payment. Luckily, our quest didn’t require us to visit the island.
“The brochure says not to drink the water,” I said.
“I never drink water,” Skeet quoted, “fish scrack in it.”
In this water, they’d probably just die.
“What news of the locals?” I asked.
“They’ve stopped,” Floyd said. “They’re about a hundred feet away from our position. One to the left, one to the right, and one dead ahead.”
“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” Harmony said. “We’re trapped.”
“We have to deal with them sometime,” I said. “Better to do it when we’re ready for them.”
“Are we ready for them?” she asked.
“As ready as we’re ever likely to be,” I said.
“I hope they don’t have a boat,” Skeet said.
That set us all glancing nervously over our shoulders.
“Nothing is moving on the water,” Floyd said.
“How deep is it?” Skeet asked. “Deep enough for a submarine?”
“They haven’t got a submarine,” I said.
“That’s good,” Skeet said. “All we have to watch out for is the water snakes.” He bent over and started to tuck the bottoms of his khakis into his socks.
“You’re a real ray of sunshine, aren’t you?” Harmony said. She turned to me. “Remind me again why we brought him.”
“If someone has to die, we don’t want it to be one of the heroes,” I said.
“Am I one of the heroes?” she asked.
“Your actions will determine that,” I told her.
“Did you just say I was extensible?” Skeet asked.
“Not in those exact words,” Harmony said.
“If the mutants eat one of us, they’ll choose you – because your flesh looks softest,” Skeet said.
“Yeah, but yours is self-marinated,” she said.
“Cut it out,” I said. “Nobody’s going to get eaten.”
“But if they come towards you with a sharpened pole – run,” Floyd said.
“Not helping,” I said.
“Do we just wait for them to make their move?” Harmony asked.
“Get the robot to take out one of their vehicles,” Skeet suggested. “Even up the odds a bit.”
“I don’t want to provoke an attack,” I said.
“The ‘hero’ can’t shoot first,” Harmony explained – with just a hint of disdain.
“Says who?” Skeet said.
“They might have bigger weapons than us,” I said.
“Typical male fear,” Harmony said.
She never worried about the size of her Johnson. She didn’t need to – it was impressive. But I wasn’t sure how much ammunition she had for it. And our recent encounter with Crawford’s men meant we were low on explosives. We could survive a quick skirmish but not a prolonged battle.
“They’ll wait until nightfall,” Skeet predicted.
“How long...?”
“Ninety-seven minutes,” Floyd said before I’d finished my question. “But it’ll be dark before that – because of the fog.”
“We’re going to die!” Skeet wailed.
“They might let us go if we offered up one person as a sacrifice,” Harmony said. She was looking at Skeet when she said it.
“I’m your guide,” he protested. “You need me.” Skeet looked at me for support. “Tell her, hero. We’re not sacrificing anyone. Quincy?”
“I’m thinking about it,” I said.
“Should we make a fire?” Harmony asked.<
br />
“There’s nothing around here that’s dry enough to burn,” I said.
Harmony looked at Skeet again. “He’s soaked up enough liquor that he’ll go up like a Roman candle.”
“Don’t set him on fire,” I said. “Except as a last resort.”
“If the mutants attack, would that count?” she asked.
“Why do you hate me?” Skeet asked weakly.
“Any change in their positions?” I asked Floyd.
“Negative. I think the drunk one is right – they’re waiting for darkness. Ninety-one minutes.”
Floyd probably had enough juice in his batteries for three long-range cannon blasts. We had a handful of hand grenades left in the trunk of the Trekker and then whatever explosive rounds we had for our revolvers. After that, it would be hand-to-hand combat with wet sticks.
“Plug the cannon into the Trekker’s battery,” I said. Floyd nodded. That would get us a few more shots – and one of them might be the one that saved us.
“Something is moving out there,” Skeet said, peering into the mist.
“Floyd?” I said.
“Their vehicles haven’t moved,” he answered.
“Can you...” I was distracted by a little red light that was bobbing around on my chest. I realised what it was and my insides froze. Laser-sight from a military rifle. I looked across – Skeet and Harmony had little red dots too. And Floyd had two of them.
Dark shapes of the armed mutants appeared like shadows in the fog. The red lines of their lasers connected them to us.
“Er, Floyd,” I said quietly. “I think the enemy may have advanced on our position.”
“Told you,” Skeet said.
“I don’t...” Floyd said.
Another voice interrupted him. “The robot doesn’t see us. Shields. We’re just static on his sensors.”
The speaker was standing right beside me. He was about my height, which is to say not particularly tall, and was dressed in layers of rags that might once have been military uniforms. His head was wrapped in a dark green shemagh and his eyes were hidden behind dark circular lenses. There was a revolver in the holster on his hip but his gloved hands were empty. An emissary, perhaps?
“Personal disruption shields,” Floyd said, “only effective at close range.”
Road Rage Page 22