Salvation Road

by James Axler

  THE PROJECT WAS completed after two and a half days. Crow had instructed the sec man Petey to oversee Krysty and Mildred, in order to keep some distance between the women and the workmen. In addition, he had set them to work on the tidying and clearing of the work sites, which mostly entailed the areas free of the other workers. It had been done without comment, but all the companions could see that the Native American was as good as his word. As each group finished its tasks, so Mildred and Krysty would move in and clear up the mess. By late afternoon, the workmen were bathing and relaxing while the women put the final touches to the clearing up process.

  "To think they used to protest against this when I was a kid," Mildred said with heavy irony.

  "Mebbe we should start again," Krysty returned with a grimace.

  But finally they had finished and joined their companions. Crow came over to the group, which had stayed separate from the workforce.

  "This is good," he said simply. "We're way ahead of schedule, and the bonuses will be good. I've sent to Salvation and Baron Silas will be sending wags for us tomorrow. He's interested in meeting you."

  Ryan and J.B. exchanged glances. "So you've been in contact with Salvation?" Ryan asked.

  Crow allowed himself a smile around the eyes, even if the rest of his face stayed impassive. "One of the things Baron Silas has traded with his collaborators is a series of predark two-way radios. They're erratic, like all his machinery right now, but they keep him in touch with all his work parties. And you didn't really think I'd tell you that I had one, did you?"

  Ryan shook his head. "Guess you're too smart. So we get to see Salvation tomorrow."

  Crow assented. "But first you've got a possible problem. The boys'll want an end-of-work party. We have some brew, and I know for a fact that some of them have jolt, even though they're not supposed to. But they've worked hard, so it's their concern. And yours. There are scores to settle, and I can't guarantee your safety."

  "Then give us back our blasters," J.B. said simply.

  Crow shook his head. "I can't do that. But I'll be around, and I'll make sure that the sec keep on their guard. Just watch your backs is all." Before any of the companions could answer, the giant turned and walked away.

  THE WORKMEN WAITED until the sun had fallen before they started the party. The companions left the shelter and set a fire some distance away, figuring that the best course of action would be to give the workmen a wide berth until they had drunk and jolted themselves insensible.

  After a couple of hours, the light from the lamps within the workers' shelter was suddenly spread across the desert dust as the sheeting was cast aside. "Hey, muthafuekers," yelled a voice that was unmistakably Hal's, "you gonna come and join us or just be plain unfriendly?"

  "A paradoxical statement from those gentlemen, I think," Doc murmured.

  Hal continued, "You gonna let those lovely ladies come and give us a little pussy to celebrate. Molloy here, he's hung like a mutie horse and he'll make them scream…"

  "I wish I had a blaster," Dean muttered.

  "Leave it," his father said softly.

  But the companions weren't allowed to leave it.

  The light spread farther as the sheeting was parted, broken by the shadows of the workmen as they spilled out onto the desert.

  "Trouble," J.B. whispered as the workmen came toward them. The companions rose to greet the potential fight, and weren't to be disappointed. Although the workmen seemed relaxed as they approached, they were clutching bottles. Ryan tensed and knew that as he did, so did all of his people.

  The deceptively friendly approach was broken when the parties were only yards apart, as the workmen suddenly sprung into action. There were more of them than there were of the companions, and that was crucial. While the five men took to an opponent one on one, the two women found themselves fighting three workmen. Rysh and Molloy closed in on Mildred and Krysty, and Emerson slipped behind them, forcing them to circle and keep part of their attention behind.

  So it was that Rysh was able to catch Mildred a glancing blow on the temple and stun her. Krysty whipped her head around at the sound of Mildred's groan, and in that crucial fraction of a second found herself fall victim to the same tactic.

  Rysh and Molloy slung a woman each over their shoulders and headed into the dark, with Emerson covering their backs.

  Ryan saw their direction as he dealt with Hay, a short-arm blow finally disabling the armed worker.

  Hal whistled, and Ryan's fighters found themselves wrong-footed by the sudden retreat of those they were fighting.

  "Millie?" J.B. shouted, whirling around.

  "They took them around the back of the extension," Dean cried, his eyes picking out the other workmen disappearing around the corner of the new building.

  Without a word, the companions took off after their opponents. Doc lagged somewhat behind, and by the time he had gained the extension, he found the others had searched all the rooms.

  "They're not here," Ryan said shortly. "They must have doubled back to the shelter."

  "No," Jak snapped. "Trail lead away."

  In the dark night, it would seem almost impossible that anyone could pick up a trail, but Jak's finely honed hunting sense had led him to the scent.

  They followed him as he set off toward the collection of wags and trailers that contained the construction tools. As they approached, they could hear the sounds of fighting.

  Rounding the largest wag, they saw Mildred and Krysty, both still fuzzy but revived by the adrenaline rush of danger, standing back to back. The two women were holding the workers at bay, but it was a losing battle,

  Until the cavalry arrived. The battle was short, swift and bloody. Ryan and J.B. were experienced hand-to-hand fighters, and Jak was a white blur of fists and feet. Dean and Doc, although for their own reasons less experienced, had learned from their companions, and the drugged and drunk workmen offered little resistance when taken by surprise.

  In a few seconds, the workers were floored, unconscious and battered into submission by the anger and skill of the companions.

  "Good."

  Ryan whirled to find Crow standing, watching, with the three sec men behind him.

  "You watched all this?" the one-eyed warrior asked. When Crow assented, Ryan yelled, "Why did you let us take them alone?"

  "If you'd had trouble, then I would have stepped in," the Native American said quietly. "But the fact is, I wanted to see how you'd manage."

  "Why?"

  "Because Baron Silas asked me to assess you."

  "So he could use us if we won? Fireblast, I should chill you where you stand," Ryan spit.

  "You won't," Crow answered. "Because you're not armed and we are. And because you're curious. Sure, it'll benefit Baron Silas. But just mebbe you'll get something out of it, too."

  Ryan paused, breathing hard and letting his temper settle. Finally, he said, "Yeah, but don't push us too far." With which he turned on his heel and joined his companions in attending to Krysty and Mildred, who were still dazed from the initial assault.

  "I wonder how far too far is," the Native American mused quietly to himself.

  Chapter Seven

  Ryan and his companions had little idea what to expect when the morning came. They had made themselves a camp some distance from the main body of the workforce, and had mounted a watch through the remains of the night in case the workers decided to try to extract revenge. But whether it was a matter of the beaten workers unwilling to continue the fight, or whether it was the efforts of the sec men to keep them apart and Crow keeping his word, there was no further sign of trouble.

  When the sun was a dull orange glow low in the sky but already throwing down oppressive heat, the companions were fully ready to face the rigors of the day ahead.

  "This should be interesting," Mildred murmured, casting a glance at the activity among the workers as they rose and prepared to leave.

  "One way of saying it," J.B. replied. "Think we can trust them
, Ryan?"

  "We have to—for now," the one-eyed man returned. He was about to speak further when he saw the giant Native American crossing the sand toward them. "Well, let's see what he has to say."

  "I would say good morning, but that may seem inappropriate," Crow said wryly as he reached them. "The wag to take us back to Salvation will be arriving in about an hour," he continued, checking his wrist chron. "It'll also have drivers for the supply wags."

  "You do not trust your workers?" Doc asked with a raised eyebrow.

  "Would you?" Crow returned. "Baron Silas certainly doesn't. Most of these lowlifes would steal from themselves if they had half the chance. So we make sure we only use workers who can't drive."

  "Anyone can drive," the Armorer interjected cynically.

  "You wouldn't say that if you'd seen one of these sons of bitches try and steal a wag on the first night we were here," Crow answered. "That would change your views. But I didn't come to you to discuss this. Come and eat, take water before we leave. It's a long, hot journey back."

  Krysty glanced over to the camp. "It'll be longer if we have to see them before the wag gets here," she said quietly, her hair curling gently at the ends around her neck.

  "There'll be no need for concern," Crow said. "These boys know what'll happen if'3.

  .n they get stupe about this. They don't want to get chilled before they get their jack. Mebbe they'll get chilled after, when they get into a firefight over some gaudy slut, but that ain't my problem, or yours."

  Krysty and Mildred looked at Ryan. He returned their gaze evenly, and noted from the corner of his eye that Dean, Jak, Doc and J.B. were also watching him intently. As leader of the group, Ryan knew that they were all uneasy about mixing with the armed workers when they themselves had been stripped of their blasters. He also knew that it would be difficult for Krysty and Mildred to travel easily back to Salvation in the same wag as the men who had wanted to rape them.

  But Ryan knew that survival was about playing odds. They needed to get their blasters back, and Crow had told them that Baron Silas Hunter wanted to meet them, possibly with a proposition that would give them both their blasters and some jack. They would also get taken to a ville and out of the inhospitable desert. However hostile Salvation might be, there would be more places to hide, and more places to steal food and water if necessary.

  At the end of the rad-blasted day, a few slim chances were better than none at all.

  "Okay," Ryan said eventually, "we'll follow you over."

  The Native American nodded and turned his back, heading back to the sheltered camp without a backward glance.

  The companions extinguished the last embers of their night's fire and gathered their clothing together.

  "Not sure 'bout this," Jak said bluntly. "Chilling time."

  "Yeah, but not for us," Ryan answered. "I've got a feeling that Crow's under orders from this Baron Silas to treat us like the most precious treasure."

  "But why would we be that important? Not that I wish to denigrate our worth in any manner," Doc continued, "but nonetheless, I fail to see why we have suddenly become so precious."

  "So do I," Ryan replied. "But if we're worth something, then we stand a better chance there than we do staying out here."

  He turned to the women. "It's going to be bastard hard, but we just smile sweetly and chill the fuckers later if necessary, okay?"

  Krysty smiled. "If you say so, lover."

  "Then let's go, get it over with," Dean added.

  So they moved off towards the camp.

  CROW WATCHED THEM come across the sand from his position, and turned to his sec men. Petey, Bronson and Coburn had their Uzis in hand, and were positioned across the entrance to the shelter.

  "Remember what I said. Baron Silas wants them alive, so if you have to chill every last muthafucker of these scum, then you do it."

  "But they're our people," Coburn protested.

  Crow fixed the white-haired sec man with a steely glare that seemed to eat through him. "If they don't get back in one piece, then you won't be man enough to call anyone your people."

  Coburn winced, recalling the rumors in the sec force about the torturous fates of those who had crossed the baron of Salvation in his single-minded pursuit.

  "Exactly," Crow said simply.

  THE TIME BETWEEN the arrival of the companions in the tent shelter and the arrival of the wag to take them back to Salvation was tense, and seemed to drag on forever. The workers muttered among themselves, avoiding the subject of the strangers and contenting themselves merely with a few sideways glances at the companions, always aware of the cold eyes of Crow and the Uzis of the sec men who stood facing them. For their part, the companions sat in silence, all straining their ears for the first sign of the wag.

  It was Jak who heard it first, his acute sense of hearing much more finely tuned than possibly anyone else's except Crow. "Wag coming," he murmured.

  Ryan nodded. "Okay, people, let's keep it triple red while we load up."

  It took another five minutes by Ryan's wrist chron before the ramble of the wag on the old blacktop became audible. It started as a distant buzz, then became a fuller, deeper roar as the empty desert became suffused with sound.

  The roar of the engine as it pulled into the old wag stop space in front of the cinder-block building made speech impossible, but the attention of everyone in the tent camp was drawn by the click of three Uzis, the higher-frequency sound cutting across the rumble.

  The engine cut out, and the silent camp heard two wag doors open and three men get out to exchange small talk.

  One of the voices came closer, and the owner of the lazy drawl pushed his head through the gap in the sheltering material.

  "Hey, Crow, y'all ready to rumble?" He cast a curious eye over the companions. "And these are the people the baron wants to see so bad, eh?"

  "The answer to both is yes. Now let's go," the Native American answered, rising to his feet and sweeping past the lanky driver.

  The workers followed, and as Ryan and his companions rose to join them, they were halted by Bronson, who stopped them with a raised palm, being careful not use his Uzi in a threatening manner.

  "No, Crow said as how you were to wait until everything was loaded and the others were already secured."

  They sat once more, a feeling of frustration sweeping over all of them at the manner in which they were kept virtual prisoners. It would be easy to overpower the sec man and use his Uzi to even the odds in a surprise attack, but to what end? So they continued to sit while outside the camp was deconstructed, and what little had not already been cleared was loaded onto the wags that had contained the construction equipment.

  They still sat while the tent-style shelter was taken down around them, the sheeting rolled and stored in one of the wags, the remaining stores of water and food loaded up to be returned to the ville.

  Finally they were left sitting in the open glare of the sun, with everything secured for the journey back to Salvation. Bronson watched carefully while the work party, having finished its final tasks, climbed into the back of the wag that had brought the drivers there and was designed to carry them home.

  While the wags containing the construction equipment were rust edged and dust smeared, showing signs of heavy work and a low level of maintenance, the transport wag was another matter. It was like some of the wags that Ryan and J.B. had seen as sec wags during their days on the convoys of Trader. A low, six-wheeled wag with reinforced armored sides and blaster ports on each side, it would be a tight squeeze to take the work party and the companions together, but as a vehicle purely for an eight-man group of workers it would be perfect.

  The actual bodywork of the vehicle showed little signs of wear and was kept in good condition. Although it was covered in dust from the journey out, this was a surface layer and not the ingrained dirt of the other two wags. The tires also showed a degree of tread that the other two vehicles didn't share.

  "Baron Silas Hunter li
kes to look after his workers," Ryan muttered to J.B.

  The Armorer nodded. "Long time since I've seen a wag that good. These men mean a lot to him."

  "Or to be more accurate," Doc interjected, "the work they are doing means much to him. Let us hope he sees us in the same light."

  With everyone else in place, Bronson finally turned to the companions. "Okay, let's get ourselves loaded up." And as the companions rose, the sec man moved a little closer and lowered his voice.

  "Listen, Crow may think those guys have had enough, but I'm not so sure. I don't give a fuck what the argument is between you. I just got my job to do so's I can keep alive. But it's gonna be mighty close in there, and get mighty uncomfortable. They may try and chance something. I'm gonna be the only sec man, apart from Crow hisself. See, Petey and Coburn'll ride shotgun on the other wags."

  "You expect trouble?" J.B. queried.

  Bronson shook his head. "There ain't jackshit out here that can live apart from those buzzards and mebbe some lucky scabbies that wander too far and don't chill themselves. But there's a lot riding on this for Salvation—not just the baron—so he don't like to take no chances."

  Ryan nodded. "Guess I can see the sense in that. Thanks for the warning."

  Bronson's face twisted into something that resembled a grimace. "Hell, I ain't helping no one but myself. That's the way Salvation is."

  "It is the way everywhere is," Doc countered, "but we thank you anyway."

  Bronson looked away. "Let's cut the shit and get loaded up now," he said simply.

  The companions walked to the wag, which had a rear entry. The heavily armored doors were open, and as Ryan and his people came around to mount the back step, they were faced with eight hostile faces, staring at them.

  "This is going to be fun," Ryan heard his son mutter from behind.

  FUN WAS THE LAST WORD Ryan would ever have used to describe the trip back to Salvation. The interior of the wag was laid-out bench seating along the sides, stalling at the back door and running up to where the front seats for driver and sec shotgun rider were placed. The lanky driver named Tex, who couldn't stop talking in the lazy drawl that soon became irritating, was seated along with Crow. Bronson rode in back with the work party and with the companions.