To Iceland, With Love

by I. C. Springman

how armor-plated is this thing?” Jane asked uneasily, patting her breast pocket and the Jolly Roger keychain. “‘Cause charm or no charm, I’m not feeling all that lucky today, John.” Lasers danced on the shiny black hood of the XV.

  “Yeah. Me either.”

  He gunned the car into reverse. The Crushers fired at cross trajectories, doing impressive damage to an innocent herd of howitzers and an unsuspecting Abrams tank. John raced backward as more grenades exploded close enough to make the XV shudder. Braking sharply, John heeled the XV into a cross lane.

  “We can outrun them, right?” Jane asked. She was sitting backward, but placed where she could both see John’s face and keep track of the mercks, who were once more seeping toward them, though at a respectful distance.

  “Maybe. Probably. If I can figure out how to put this thing in manual. Right now it’s on autopilot and it’s fighting back. Like ET it just wants to go home.”

  “So let it. Balls to the walls. Unless you prefer being wasted away here in Mortar-itaville.”

  John considered. “Oh right. They’ve only got a few tons on us. Apiece. I’ll just tip my hat and - by the way. Where are they?”

  As he spoke, two things happened. The on-board sensors went apeshit, indicating an imminent proximity threat; and, with a thunderous crash, one of the Crushers dove at them over a mountainous pile of heavy-duty tires. John stood on the gas and the XV surged forward like a herd of elephants. A herd of obese, arthritic, geriatric elephants. Nonetheless, any forward momentum was opportune because the second Crusher chose that precise moment to plow in from behind, simultaneously aiding John’s balky departure and filling the void left by the XV. Just in time to cushion Crusher No. 1’s crash landing.

  The fleeing XV cornered abruptly enough to clip a couple of amphibious assault vehicles. The dashboard began to chime and a professionally pleasant voice filled the XV.

  “This is Onstar. You appear to have suffered a collision of some kind. None of your party was wearing seatbelts. Do you require assistance?”

  “Lady,” John said, mashing the accelerator with all his might and reaching a whopping 20 mph, “you have no idea.”

  “I can see you are experiencing ignition-blocking. I can help you with that.”

  John and Jane exchanged glances of disbelief. The car shot forward, more or less pursued by both Crushers. I say ‘more or less’ because the navigation system of one of the Crushers had been damaged by the previous round of horseplay and now they were behaving like giant bumper cars, bashing into one another and jockeying for position rather than cooperating to complete the kill.

  “Which way?” John asked, taking evasive action as one Crusher took a ponderous flying leap off the other one.

  “Follow the yellow brick road?” Jane pointed to the yellow line stretching the length of the garage and leading in the direction from which they had originally come.

  “You know, this is my third escape in two days and, don’t take this personally, but I’ve noticed you ladies are a bit sketchy in the detail department?”

  “You’re doing a pre-mortem post-mortem?” Jane said, incredulous.

  “Just a little constructive feedback.”

  “What happened to the guy who wanted me to be more spontaneous?”

  “He’s out looking for the lady who used to have her shit together.”

  The car died again. In merck territory this time. From every side, Darkwater troops began to use the run-flat tires for target practice.

  “John dear,” Jane said with saccharine sweetness, reaching for the M249, “why don’t you take this and see if you can find something useful to do with it.”

  “Jane darling,” John said, matching her tone, “why do I always get the girl gun?”

  Possibly because they were out of grenade rounds, possibly because their AI modules prompted them to blend in with their human allies and environment, the Crushers switched to machine gun mode and began to fire indiscriminately. A merck or two went down. The dashboard began to chime again.

  “Hello, this is Onstar again. I see you’re still experiencing ignition blocking. Perhaps your driver would consider buckling his seatbelt?”

  Red-faced but near desperate, John did as recommended. Silently, powerfully, the car throbbed fully to life. Computer screens glowed blue and green. Internal and external mirrors adjusted themselves. A mad guitar riff ignited a drum machine and music flooded the XV:

  ‘Cause its 0 to 60 in 3.5

  Baby you got the keys

  Now shut up and drive, drive, drive

  John burned rubber in the direction of the exit ramp. Where the yellow line split and he was getting ready to take the XV hard to the right back up the ramp toward Level 1, a large and shadowy canine shape bounded in front of the car.

  “Jesus!” John swore, and heeled hard to the left instead. “Did I hit it?” Before Jane could answer, the vehicle lifted off one wheel as one of the Crushers loosed a last grenade and atomized a nearby pillar.

  “More good news,” Jane warned from the back, as an MRAP with a gun mount careened out of hiding on the exit ramp and made a beeline for their tail. “APC on your six. Oh, and Dorkmobiles at 9 o’clock.” The Crushers were rolling their way at top speed and in tandem.

  “And a wall at 3. Alrighty then,” John said, gripping the steering wheel, “let’s try high noon.”

  Straddling the left branch of the yellow line, they were rapidly approaching the gaping black mouth of what appeared to be a tunnel. A ten-foot tall chain-link gate blocked entry and in the middle of that gate was a sign: “DANGER RESTRICTED AREA HIGH VOLTAGE”

  “Damn it’s that dog again.” John swerved as something on four feet leaped in front of the fence.

  “Don’t look now, but that ‘dog’ is shooting at us,” Jane pointed out. The creature challenging them was no flesh and blood K9 SWAT team member, no combat-trained German Shepherd or Labrador, but a military dogbot, essentially a steel frame riveted to uncanny mechanical legs, with a gun for a body, and no head. It crouched before the gate and laid down enough fire to stop anything on two feet. The bullets raised a few sparks, but otherwise the XV was unfazed. This time John did not slow down. He just switched on his high beams and, if anything, accelerated.

  “OK, Rin Tin Tin. This is an intelligence test.“

  38 Dead End Street

  At the last possible moment the dogbot sprang aside, the gate snapped off its hinges in a fountain of blue sparks, and the XV went barreling through the trapezoid opening into pitch darkness. As the tunnel swallowed them, Jane clambered into the front passenger seat and pressed the Home symbol on the computer display.

  “Uh, I was planning on using that,” John said as the night vision screen flipped back to the main menu. The headlights illuminated a long curving corridor of rough-hewn stone wide enough for two 18-wheelers to drive abreast. Carefully. To the left and right, closed metal doors or open passageways appeared at intervals. So far they were travelling solo. Apparently the Crushers could not distinguish friend from foe, which was buying them a little time.

  “What we could really use is reinforcements.” Jane tapped the phone option and entered Whitney’s number on the touch screen keypad. When the phone began to ring, she tapped the screen again and put it back in night vision mode. “Don’t know about you,” she admitted grimly, “but I’m down to one clip.”

  “Same, plus the girl gun.”

  “And - a paintball grenade,” Jane said, tossing it in the air. “Apparently Junior likes to play soldier in his off hours. He’s got a whole duffle bag of tricks back there. C’mon Whitney.” The phone kept ringing.

  “Won’t work underground anyway, sweetcakes.” John saw headlights in the rearview for the first time. One set, then two. Suddenly the XV flashed through a circular chamber lined with old M35 supply trucks. Yellow hazard signs streamed by: DANGER! EXPLOSIVES. There was a slight dip, a pronounced rise, and the XV
was tooling down a wider section of tunnel where the ceiling was propped up at intervals by massive stone supports. “No signal.”

  “Jane,” Whitney’s voice crackled through. “Jane, whatever you do, DON’T come out.”

  Jane turned to John and rolled her eyes. “Can’t come out, can’t stay in. Are you saying we should just sit back and embrace the suck?”

  “It’s an NRA convention out here. But there are alternative exits if you can get down to the next level and access the tunnel system. Do you read?”

  “Roger that, Henny Penny. Tunnel system accessed.”

  “Who knew there was a tunnel system?” John asked. Jane motioned for silence.

  “Listen. I’m going to give you some numbers. 3E6377, 3W5456, 3E1313…”

  The phone died.

  “Oh great. GPS coordinates?” Jane punched the Navigation button, which read out their last location in decimal format: 38.851403, -77.050689. John slowed down and aimed the headlights at a doorway. Stenciled numbers glowed in neon colors: 3W6020.

  “Street address.” He rolled to the next passage, where the numbers read: 3E5999. “Descending. We missed the first one. That leaves –“

  “5456 and 1313. So much for running on night vision, we’ll need the lights – “

  “Sweet Jesus!” John interrupted her. The XV slammed sideways as an up-armored Humvee shot out of the passage like a guided missile, smashing head on into the XV and trying to pin it to the opposite wall. For a