by James Axler
“Okay, so I’m not going to blame any of you for this, although I’d like to rip LaGuerre’s throat out right now. Listen, and listen good—if we’re going to be of any use, we need to know anything that you do. And soon. Just tell me and Doc, and we can fill the others in as and when.”
Both Ramona and Raven were silent for a moment. Then Raven spoke up hesitantly. “I dunno. Armand wouldn’t like it if he knew we’d told you that he stole someone else’s load, and hadn’t dealt directly with Jenningsville.”
“He doesn’t have to know. We’ll talk to our people without drawing attention to it. Hell, we wouldn’t want to do that, anyway, especially as we won’t be able to talk privately until we’re in the middle of the pesthole.”
“I still dunno,” Raven mumbled. “Ramona…”
“I know what you’re saying, hon,” the driver replied without looking around, “but you gotta figure Ryan’s right on this. Listen, sweetie,” she said in a slightly different tone, signaling that she was now addressing Ryan, “all we know about Jenningsville is what we’ve been told ourselves. The place is a pesthole, all right, but one that has jack and shit to trade. They ain’t got food or clothes, or anything that can actually keep people alive. And around these parts there ain’t much they can do about that. But they have got something that’s as good if they can get some crazy trader to cross this desert shit they live in.
“They got weapons—blasters, plas ex, grens, you name it, honey. Armand heard all about it from one of his sup pliers, who used to sell to the convoy we blasted. We took ’em, but that’s how we lost so many of ours. It was a close-run thing, babes, and I’m sure as shit glad I’m still here, now.
“Anyways, they got this shit, and they seem to have been living off it since skydark. So they pay, and they pay well ’cause they have to. And that’s what he wants. The pay-off. And Armand’ll do anything for a big pay-off.”
Doc and Ryan exchanged a look that spoke volumes. A big pay-off was one thing, but this was more than just that. Both men—along with their traveling companions—knew that a consistent supply of one kind of trade, particularly of this type, could only mean one thing. The people of Jenningsville had long ago found a redoubt or base of some kind in the vicinity, and they had been using this to buy in the goods they so badly needed to survive.
Of necessity, they had kept tight-lipped about the source of their supply, but Ryan knew from his experience with Trader that a stockpile like this, while it could not last indefinitely, could make you rich beyond your dreams. This community needed it to survive and so had been careful. LaGuerre was one greedy man, and so would use it for indulgence.
And make no mistake. Both men knew that LaGuerre had but one aim in mind. Even if his crew had not tumbled to it; even if those who had gone before had not, or had tried and failed; it made no difference.
LaGuerre was after more than a pay-off and a bonus. He was after a dream that could make him one of the richest men in these rad-ravaged lands.
And he was taking Ryan, Doc and the others along for the ride.
WHILE J.B. SUSPECTED LaGuerre for different reasons to those known to Ryan and Doc, their companions were oblivious to that. In their own wag spaces, with no need to use the comm system and no way in which they could have communicated openly if there had been such a chance, Jak, Mildred and Krysty were almost hermetically sealed from the suspicions of their compatriots.
Jak rode with Jed and Raf. Even though Cody moving on to drive the armored wag should have created more space, it felt in many ways as though there was less air within the confines of the second wag. Raf was driving, his shift in the seat meaning that the dreadlocked warrior’s attention was focused wholly on the road and the wag directly in front of him. Raf was one hell of a fighter, but had never felt confident behind a wheel. Of course, he could never let this sign of weakness show through, so he sat tight-lipped, his whole being concentrated on the road in front of him, not daring to speak.
Which was a pity, as he respected Jak as a fighter after witnessing what had happened in the shanty ville. He would have been prepared to be open and friendly. This was a relative term, of course, as neither the dreadlocked warrior nor Jak Lauren could be said to be loquacious. But at least the atmosphere in the rear of the wag would have risen a couple of degrees from the ambivalent frost that settled over it.
Jed was on the bunk, Jak seated opposite. The large, shaved-headed and scarred warrior had surprisingly small eyes for such a huge man. They seemed to be further obscured in folds of fat as they bore into Jak with something that could only be called hostility. It couldn’t be suspicion, as the fat man had seen Jak fight side by side with his fellow convoy members. But why the hostility?
Jak ignored it as much as he could. Long hours spent in wait while hunting prey both human and animal had taught him a thing or two about being able to filter anything around him that may be a distraction. But he was too close to the man on the bunk, seated as he was just a few feet away. Jak didn’t care why the man seemed to dislike him. He only knew that it was stirring an equal resentment within him that could soon spill over into violence. The sooner they reached this pesthole ville, the better.
Jak could not know that Jed hated muties with a vengeance, as one of them had taken his balls in a knife fight some years before. This was why he never spoke. His voice was high and squeaky, ill-befitting such a large, scarred man. It was also the reason for his beginning to run to fat, as no matter how much he tried to work off the weight, the hormone imbalance always gained the upper hand.
Jed knew that both Cody and Raf had told him that Jak was not a mutie. He trusted them…usually. But this time the feelings that boiled within him were threatening to overrule his respect for their opinions. He, too, was on the edge of violence.
Jenningsville couldn’t come quick enough.
MILDRED FELT PRETTY MUCH the same. The attitude of LaGuerre sickened her in a wearying way that made her tired. The endless dustbowl plains that spread out in all directions from the ribbon of blacktop were monotonous and tiring, making her eyes droop, her vision spin. And she was worried about J.B. It was nagging at her all the while. His judgment was usually so sound, something she could place an absolute trust in. Yet this time she felt that it was flawed, that there was something that he was missing. It wasn’t anything that she could articulate. Was it just that she was jealous of the way in which he and the young woman had suddenly gone from wary allies to the seemingly best of friends?
No, surely not. Such petty jealousies were the stuff of her youth. That kind of emotion should have been knocked out of her, both by circumstance and common sense, a long time ago.
She wished she could talk to him about it. That she could talk to Krysty, Doc, maybe even Ryan or Jak. The last was not the most articulate of men, but if ever there was someone who understood instinct…
Instead, she was stuck in the cab of the refrigerated wag with Reese. The big woman was not so hostile, or even plain unfriendly, as she had been at the beginning of the journey. But conversation was not her strength. Whatever thoughts went through her head as the landscape unrolled with an even monotony stayed firmly within her skull. In truth, Mildred couldn’t remember her uttering a word since the convoy had once more taken to the road.
So she was left with her own thoughts, chasing their tails and going nowhere but circles, as unchanging as the plains beyond the blacktop. The sheer repetition was slowly strangling her, as was the silence.
K RYSTY WAS FEELING much the same as Mildred, but for a reason almost certainly the opposite. The Titian-haired woman would have welcomed the chance to be lost in her own thoughts, instead of having them drowned out by the nonstop barrage of sound that was Ray—the voice, the words, and the old music that wheezed from the speakers of the tape machine he used to play those remnants of the past that he had salvaged over the years.
There was one song that played, the sound snaking in and out of his monologue so that it seemed that his words and t
he sound of the music blended seamlessly into one, and its lyrics seemed to sum up what Krysty wished for.
Hush…hush…and she certainly heard him call her name as she felt herself zone out and drift away from what he was saying.
“I was listening,” she said in a distracted tone.
“Hell, Krysty, I know you’re not listening to me half the time, and don’t think that I care too much about that. I keep on like this, even when there isn’t anyone in the cab with me, but I’m betting I’ve said that to you before now since we’ve been on this road together. I do it half the time just to keep myself from falling asleep when we’re out on roads like this. Hell, it’d be easy enough to do that and run this rig right off the road, and I don’t think that Armand would be too happy about that if I did. But I’ve got something important to tell you, and I think you should listen.”
“I will,” Krysty said, struggling to focus her attention, realizing how the music was hypnotizing her. An insistent rhythm now, with a wailing vocalist yelling about going home before a stream of sound, a ripple of electric notes that sounded like a waterfall of molten electricity, tumbled over the rhythm at a manic pace.
“I will if you turn that down,” she said loudly. “I can’t hear myself think above it.”
Ray chuckled as he hit the volume. “Guess I forget that I’m getting old, and my ears are even older and deafer. Is that okay?” He waited for her nod before continuing. “By my reckoning, we’re not far from Jenningsville now, and I’ll be honest with you, I’m not sure what to expect by way of a welcome.”
Krysty was puzzled, and her expression had to have told him that.
“See, it’s not as simple as you might think,” he said slowly. “We’re delivering this load, but they’re actually expecting someone else to deliver it. We’ve never been there before, and a strange convoy paying off a load that they were expecting from someone else…Well, all I’m saying is that if I was them, I wouldn’t be holding my arms wide in welcome unless I had a blaster at the end of each fist, you know what I’m saying?”
Krysty felt as if someone had punched her back into consciousness. Her hair tingled at the scalp; she could feel it move disturbingly.
“You hijacked this load?” she asked slowly. “You took it from another convoy, and you expect the ville to just pay up?”
“Hell, I don’t,” Ray said in surprise. “Why d’you think I’m telling you this, now? Armand does this from time to time, and each time I think it’s gonna land us in the shit. But where am I gonna go at my age and with my crazy ways? So I just keep quiet—kinda—and hope for the best. But I’m betting that this time he ain’t told your people about it. ’Cause if he had, then One-eye would have briefed the lot of you. And he hasn’t, right? So he doesn’t know. None of you do. And if you’re supposed to be running sec for us, that’s the kind of thing you should know. Am I right?”
Krysty felt more alert, more awake than she had all day. Her mouth was dry. There was no way that Ryan knew of this, or else he would have said. Chances were, none except her knew—unless, maybe, others were as loose-lipped and as concerned as Ray. But even then, how could they talk across the comm system without LaGuerre knowing that his secret was out?
They were going into a situation where they were facing a firefight with one hand tied behind their backs, and their blasters empty. It would have given her some scant consolation if she had known these thoughts had been echoed exactly. But not enough. If it blew up on them, they would have to hit the ground running and trust to the reactions of one another. Not an ideal situation on territory they’d had no chance to recce.
“Did I do the right thing in telling you?” Ray asked, a look of concern on his face. “I just thought you should know. Armand wouldn’t like it, but it ain’t his ass on the line. Well, not directly. And you’ve been good, putting up with me on this run. I wouldn’t want you to face buying the farm without some kind of warning.”
Krysty forced a smile, even though she didn’t feel it. The old man had a secure berth here, and had put himself at a risk he usually avoided because of a sense of fairness that was a rarity. She couldn’t let him see how concerned she really was.
“It’s okay,” she answered him. “Being warned was the right thing. Mebbe you won’t be the only one to think we should know.”
Ray pondered that for a moment. “You may be right. Ramona and Raven have as much trouble keeping their mouths shut, no matter what they say about me. So One-eye and Doc might know. Mildred won’t, ’cause Reese says nothing. The other two? I doubt it. But don’t go by my word,” he added hurriedly.
“I won’t. At least one of us is ready, though. That’s something,” she said, noting the look of relief that spread across Ray’s face. She wished she could feel the same.
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Seventeen
Jenningsville came upon them just as day broke. The sun was a lazy red ball, rising on the distant horizon and making the dark brown dust of the plains look like puddles of congealed blood. An omen, perhaps…
J.B., in the armored wag at the head of the convoy was surprised by the way in which the ville broke on them, but not because it looked any different to his expectations. Indeed, the low-level shanties and cinder-block buildings that were spread in a desultory fashion across an expanse of the plains just to one side of the ruined blacktop reminded him of nothing so much as the ville of Guthrie, where Trader had found him.
No, the thing that caused the Armorer to pause and take stock was that, despite the fact that he had been looking for signs across the wastes, there was no indication of the redoubt from where the ville gained its wealth and trading power. If it was some distance, and if LaGuerre’s plan was to plunder it while the trade was in the process of completion, then it was not going to be as simple as the trader would wish.
But that was a problem for later. At the moment, J.B. was torn between addressing the issue in front of him, and equally addressing the thoughts that had been bubbling under the surface of his consciousness for some time, and were now breaking for air.
There was a fearful symmetry in his ending up near the spot where Trader had found him, with a woman who claimed to be linked to his past in a way that he could not yet fathom. If he had been a doomie, he was sure he would have had one hell of a darkness descend on him. As it was, he was apprehensive about how these strands of the past would tie together. Would they form a rope to hang him?
The two issues were in balance in his head, until that balance was tipped by the rattle of blasterfire against the armor of the wag.
“Incoming,” Cody said impassively, as if the matter needed emphasis.
J.B. went to the port. At the moment it was just a hail of small-caliber handblaster and rifle fire. It was ricocheting from the armor plating of the wag as harmlessly as if it had been stones flung by children. But he was under no illusion. This was just an initial volley to mark the convoy, to see what kind of armor it had, and to determine if the aggressors needed to use a larger caliber of weapon.
It wouldn’t take them long to figure that out. Meantime, the convoy had to find some way of alerting the Jenningsville sec that they were friendly. Obviously, they knew the convoy they were expecting, but this wasn’t it…
“Return fire?” Cody asked. It was notable that he was asking the questions, and not LaGuerre, who was watching the Armorer with no expression discernible behind his aviator shades.
“No,” J.B. replied firmly. “We don’t want to start a fire fight with them before they’ve handed over their tally. We’re not who they’re expecting, but was there a signal that the other convoy had?”
LaGuerre laughed. “You worked that one out, eh? Didn’t take you too long, sport, did it? Sure, we haven’t got the same wags they had, although the refrigerated wags are theirs. So they’ve recognized this one is wrong. But the convoy we took this shit from had a standard.”
“A what?” J.B. said, already irked by the trader’s admission.
“You got it?” J.B. snapped.
“I don’t believe in trophies—no jack in ’em,” LaGuerre said dismissively.
“I kept it,” Eula murmured, rummaging at the back of one of the metal cabinets in which she stored armament. “I don’t believe in trophies, either, but I don’t believe in not covering your own back,” she added with disdain, glaring at LaGuerre.
“Time to get it flying,” J.B. said. “It’s what they’ll be expecting, what they know.” He drew his mini-Uzi, switching to single shot, and leveled it at LaGuerre. If the trader was surprised, he managed to conceal it. J.B. continued. “And I’ll tell you for what…If anyone’s gonna put their ass in a sling for this, it ain’t gonna be me, Eula or Cody. This is your problem. You sort it.”
Without a word, LaGuerre rose from his seat and held out his hand to Eula. The woman placed the flag in his palm. He took off the shades, and J.B. could see that amusement twinkled in his eyes.
“Guess you’re right enough,” LaGuerre said. “Don’t let any of you fuckers say I didn’t do my bit.”
The volleys of fire on the outside of the wag had ceased, but to all of them it was merely a respite before heavier fire was brought into play. If LaGuerre was quick, he might escape real danger.
There was only one way he could make the standard seen while the wag was in motion. Opening the ob port, the seal sucking and squealing as air broke the vacuum that had been so long in place, and grasping the standard firmly, the trader squeezed himself into the gap, wriggling his torso into the port with one arm held in front of him.
He grasped one end firmly, and let the wind whipped up by their momentum unfurl the standard into the breeze. It was a black flag, with a bloodred circled A in the center, distorted as the material was whipped by the currents of air around it.