The gamble that she could still power up the Cobra and fire her laser-cannon.
The two mated vehicles smacked gently into the third Sand Shark car that was already stationary, hard against the doors of the Hideout. Three Renegades in the corner pocket, served up right in front of the Cobra’s weapon.
The Sand King’s turret swung around to target Byron. Byron jabbed ignition. The Machete’s engine, turned. Died again. On the com, the familiar whispery voice. “Gonna kill you, Op.”
Then, another voice on the com. A pain-filled whisper. “I see them.”
The other two Sand Sharks had got out of their cars, were standing unsteadily on the oil-slicked square. One of them was pointing towards the Cobra, shouted something to the Sand King.
Over the com, there was the sound of an engine trying to fire: this time it was the Cobra’s. Byron held his breath. The engine turned, tried to catch. Died.
The two Renegades had guns in their hands, were aiming towards the Cobra. Rearview showed the Sand King’s chain gun was pointing squarely at the Machete now.
Com crackled as the Cobra’s engine howled into life.
“Erika?” called Byron.
The laser cannon sparked. A beam of ruby light strobed out, touched the two Renegades. One of the men screeched, the other flung up an arm as if to ward off the beam. Both fell backwards, bodies sliced horizontally into two separate pieces.
A curse from the com and then the Sand King’s turret was swinging around, towards the Cobra.
The laser gleamed a second time, sliced across the top of the Sand King’s car. The turret stopped moving.
The hatch opened and a bearded face appeared, looked from the Machete to the Cobra, then back again. The Sand King clambered out; golden shark teeth glistened against the dark leather of his jacket. His feet touched the oil-layered concrete and he slithered forward, throwing out both arms to try to steady himself.
The laser beam strobed for a third time, playing over the side of his car. Probing for the petrol tank.
The Sand King fell to the ground. Almost at once, he was up onto his hands and knees. He began to crawl desperately away.
Abruptly there was the dull crump and the fattening flare of an explosion. The Shockwave picked up the Sand King and flung him, burning, clear across Times Square.
Then shards of flaming metal were raining down onto the Machete.
“Byron?” a thin voice called presently.
“Still here, baby,” Byron said softly, staring at the place where three Sand Shark cars had been. Thick clouds of smoke were rising from it, to join the pall that had already filled the sky above Times Square.
The Machete’s engine hummed softly. The dash gave a litany of reassurance. Ahead the road was straight and clear.
Byron glanced over his shoulder. Erika Graf was lying on the floor behind his seat, head pillowed on his jacket. Her eyes were closed.
Broken bones and loss of blood. Byron had done the best he could for her with the Machete’s emergency medpack. Hurt, but still alive. Erika was one tough lady. A survivor. Which was something they had in common.
Her eyelids flickered. Softly, he said, “How’re you doing, baby?”
Very slowly, very carefully, Erika turned her head until she could look directly up at him. The effort of it printed itself out on her face. Her eyes were full of tiredness and the memory of pain masked now by drugs.
“Holding up.”
Ahead something gleamed on the horizon: the wire of the Denver PZ. Ugly, but right now it brought a good feeling. “Have you in that hospital real soon. And Transcon owes you. Enough to pay for Category A medical treatment. You’re going to be driving again in a month or two.”
“Damn right,” she said. The ghost of a smile came onto her face. “Going to need a new interceptor though.”
“Yeah.” Byron remembered the pile of twisted metal he had cut her out of back in Times Square.
After a time, she said, “About Chet.”
Byron kept his eyes on the road. “He went out in style.”
“Yes. Always knew he would someday. We’d been together—quite a while.” She took a deep breath. “But—Chet’s past tense now. And there’s his share.”
“Figure that’s all yours. Next of kin, or close to.”
“No. Ours. Check the small print in the Transcon contract.”
“It’s yours, I said.”
“No,” Erika said again, very firmly. “Byron—you earned it.”
Denver PZ was coming towards them. Buildings with people in them, a city the Great Central Desert hadn’t quite reached yet.
“Okay,” Byron said finally. Style, he thought. The lady had a whole tankful of that. It was another thing they had in common.
Duel Control
by Myles Burnham
Crane knew his legs would be giving out before too long. When they did, he collapsed, not ungratefully, into the dust. It was the first time in three days he’d felt something close to good. It was too early to be really hot, the ground was warm on the side of his face, and his shoulder and arm didn’t hurt too much. He lay for a few minutes before realizing he was too comfortable. If he stayed like this he’d certainly die. With the help of his good arm, he sat himself up and inspected the large, messy wound next to his shoulder at the top of his chest. It was black, weeping blood and water.
He reached for the water-bottle at his belt, even though he knew it was empty. All the same, he went through the useless ritual of unscrewing the cap and putting the bottle to his lips. There wasn’t even a drop left. After three minutes sitting there gaping, hoping that some liquid remnant might decide to emerge into his mouth, he gave up and threw the canteen away. His tongue was swelling uncomfortably.
Maybe this was how you were supposed to feel when you were dying. Wondering if his past life was supposed to be flashing before him, he suddenly remembered his Boy Scout training. If you’re short of water, put a pebble in your mouth. It’s no substitute for water, but sucking it fools your system for a while. He looked around for a pebble on the cracked, dusty ground, but saw only jagged rocks of various sizes. He crawled around and eventually found a small rock with fewer sharp edges than most. It would have to do.
With a mouthful of tongue and rock, he struggled to his feet and staggered forward once more. The sun was rising higher and his shoulder began to ache again. He wondered if moving on was worth the effort. He didn’t know where the hell he was, and if there were any people nearby, it was a better than even bet they wouldn’t be much interested in helping him.
No doubt about it. He couldn’t go much further. He might as well find a pleasant, shaded place where he could get on with dying. A bird screeched overhead. A vulture?
Out where the only road worthy of the name running through Pleasant County met the interstate, Sheriff Jesse McHeath sat atop his car smoking a cheroot. The sun was already getting hot. He threw away his cigar stub and shouted down to Johnny Barrio in the driver’s seat. Johnny got out to pass him up the canteen. Jesse pulled greedily on the cool water, grinding with his back teeth the remnants of the ice cubes he’d put in three hours ago. He pulled open his shirt and poured water onto his chest, making Johnny laugh as he daintily dabbed it into his armpits like a preacher’s wife taking a shower.
Jesse picked up his rangefinder glasses and watched the convoy disappear eastward. It had been a big one. Outriders on cykes, five high-speed AFVs, 15 of those city-slicker Sanctioned Opmobiles carrying software, gene cultures and other valuables, and close on a hundred cargo trucks, frigorificos and tankers.
He’d brought Johnny along to do the driving while he climbed aboard Billy Potter’s rig to say hello and collect the groceries. Billy came from Pleasant County and drove this way in convoy every so often. He was one of their few contacts with the outside world, and they could rely on him to do the shopping, placing orders for equipment in whatever big city he was passing through. This time round, he’d fetched them engine spares for the Sheri
ffs car. He’d also got them three cases of ScumSeeker anti-personnel missiles—the white-phosphorous smart rockets that Jesse had run out of after he and his posse had totalled the Maniax who’d come to town looking for “tribute” three months ago. Since the convoy didn’t stop for anyone, Jesse had had quite a rough time transferring these from Billy’s cab to his moving car.
Most important of all, Billy had got them some of the latest vids. Johnny was inspecting them approvingly. He was looking forward to watching Lash of Lust, A Fistful of Scalps, Death Before Dinner, Bloody Hell and MotorPsycho.
Jesse was flavour of the month in New Carthage. His war on the Maniax had only lasted an afternoon—long enough to ambush them—and had been a complete success. Their only casualty had been Denny Binks, who took a slug in the spine and probably wouldn’t be able to walk ever again. Fortunately, Denny had taken what Doc Wilson called a “positive attitude” and found himself a new role in the community as manufacturer of rotgut hooch known locally as Old Coyote Piss. Jesse and Johnny and the rest of the boys could now look forward to a few evenings watching Billy’s movies and drinking themselves insensible. The Guest of Honour would, of course, be Denny Binks.
“C’mon then, Johnny. Let’s head back to town,” said Jesse putting the rangefinders in their dustproof case.
“Okay Jess. Hey, can I drive?”
“Yeah. Sure,” said Jesse, aware of his responsibility as the only car-owner in a community of red-blooded car-loving Americans. “Hey. Did you see what Billy was carrying in his rig?”
“Yeah. Whole bunch of chickens in cages. Why the hell would anyone want to drive a load of chickens across the desert?”
“They’re special breeders. Billy says they’re a new strain developed by gengineers for shitting.”
“Uh-huh. That’s a weird city attitude ain’t it? They can buy all the chickenshit they need off me if that’s what they want.”
“No. These chickens are less particular about what they eat than your regular chickens, and they eat a lot more, so they shit a lot more. And the shit’s supposed to be really good for making methane. And you can use methane to run a vehicle instead of gas. If the engine’s modified, of course.”
“Oh, hell, Jess,” said Johnny. “Now you got me all excited. Maybe we can make methane out of all my chickenshit, and I could have a car again.”
“Yeah. That’s what I was thinking. Maybe Denny Binks would know how it’s done. Can’t be a lot different from making liquor.”
Johnny started the engine on the Pleasant County Sheriffs mongrel of a car—the body of a 1960 Lincoln Continental, a G-Mek V–8 engine, a pair of GenTech 6mm machine guns and lots of lightweight armour—and headed back to New Carthage.
“Doc? Jesse here. We’ve found this guy at the side of the road. Johnny’s getting him loaded into the car now. Can you come over and meet us with your bag of tricks. Hold up a mo’…”
Jesse grabbed the man’s legs and helped Johnny load him into the back of the car before resuming his radio conversation.
“White male Caucasian, mid thirties, about three or four days’ growth of beard. Looks as if he used to be good and healthy. Yeah. Johnny’s just testing his blood group with the gizmo in the first-aid kit. Looks like he’s been out in the sun too long. Main thing, though, is that he’s got a gunshot wound around his left shoulder. Entry and exit. Yeah, you can see all the way through. I’d say it was a small-calibre weapon. No powder-burns I can see, and it’s entered at the back, so he was probably trying to run away at the time…”
Johnny started the car again and hit the hammer, delighted at the idea of being able to take the speed up to the end of the clock. Jesse was still talking to the Doctor.
“No, I can’t get any sense out of him. He’s unconscious. Only this side of alive by the look of him. Yeah, group AO. Will you need a donor or have you enough synth? Good, yeah. One other thing. I know this ain’t your business, but it’s got me puzzled. He’s wearing one of those coverall worksuits. It’s dark blue and there’s this weird badge on the chest. Like one of them coats of arms you’d see on the King of England’s castle. It’s not any corp logo me or Johnny have ever seen. Mean anything to you? Oh well. Meet us at the jailhouse. Yeah. It’s as good a place as any. Besides, I want him locked up until we know whether he’s friend or foe…”
Doc Wilson had the stranger cleaned and patched up. He’d managed to vat some compatible tissue and it seemed to be taking. They put him to rest, gave him the run of his teeth but since he said little Jesse kept the cell door locked whenever he wasn’t around to keep an eye on him. Like Jesse said, it’s war out there. There are warriors and casualties, winners and losers, refugees, juice-heads, deranged preachers, mad scientists and even occasional tourists crossing the county line. For all they knew, their guest at the jailhouse might be some kind of psycho. Since they’d been through his worksuit and couldn’t find any ID, it was best not to take risks.
Two days later, Jesse was out near the interstate again. To save on gas, he’d decided to do this patrol on horseback and was riding a three-year-old mare called Bastard, an unfortunate name earned on account of the cussed manner in which she’d refused to be broken in.
The road from the interstate to New Carthage was a mere reminder of the smooth, clean blacktop it had once been. But Jesse wasn’t complaining. All the pits and potholes meant it was real easy to hide mines along the road. He and Johnny had spent a week planting Scimitar HEs in likely-looking spots. These could be detonated by remote control handset the next time problems came heading towards New Carthage. The only trouble was that every so often you had to change the batteries, which is what he was doing now. He could have converted them to solar cells, but didn’t like the idea of that little piece of shiny glastic poking through the top of the road. It might give the mines away.
Two klicks from the interstate, he’d finished changing the last battery. In the distance, Jesse could hear the sound of dogs barking. He mounted up and moved forward for a closer look. There were about 20 horsemen dressed in red following what appeared to be a pack of dobermans, and they were coming his way. He pulled his combination rifle and RAG launcher from the saddle-bucket, cocked it, flipped off the safety and chambered a frag in the launcher. If they were trouble, he’d be able to take a few out with a burst centred on such a tightly-bunched group.
They spotted him. At a hand-signal from one of the riders in front, they started spreading out in a semicircle and continued their approach. As they got nearer, he could see they were armed. Two carried missile-tubes, others had rifles slung across their backs. Others had bulky saddle-holsters suggestive of machine pistols.
If he was going to try and find some cover for a firefight, he had to do it now. But none of the horsemen seemed to be unslinging weapons, nobody had anything pointed at him, and one of the two leaders was shouting at him, trying to gain his attention. He decided to stay and let them come on.
As they got nearer, he could see they were all dressed the same, wearing some kind of uniform, though no uniform he’d ever seen before. Each wore a bright red jacket, tight sand-coloured pants, knee-length boots and a funny little black hat with no brim, but with a little peak at the front. The dogs were indeed dobermans, and they looked hungry.
As soon as they were in hailing distance, Jesse wished them welcome to Pleasant County and asked what he could do for them, resting his weapon ostentatiously upright with the stock on his thigh and putting a match to a cheroot with his free hand.
The horsemen stopped, and apart from the smaller of the two men in front, they all raised their funny hats in greeting. The bigger of the two men in front got out a small horn and blew into it, making a strange high-pitched farting noise. The dogs turned quiet, and fell back behind the group. The horn-blower then rode towards Jesse. He noticed how strange their saddles were, very small and high.
The man came up close to Jesse and raised his cap again. “Good day to you, Sheriff. My name is Lieutenant James Farquahar, Ma
ster of the Bedminster Hunt.” He had what Jesse took to be an English accent, only he suspected that it was all a put-on. He was sure he detected more than a hint of redneck twang in there.
“Pleased to meetcha,” he replied, “an’ I’m Sheriff Jesse McHeath. What brings, ummm…”
“The Bedminster Hunt?”
“Yeah, the Bedminster Hunt. What brings it to Pleasant County? Don’t you people normally go hunting for foxes, or moose or something?”
“Oh, coyotes, jackrabbits, vultures. Whatever we can find,” said Farquahar. “I imagine there are precious few foxes around here. The truth of the matter, old bean, is that on this occasion we’re actually hunting a man.”
This told Jesse two things. Three if you counted the fact that these guys, or whoever was cutting their orders, were seriously crazy. First, that his silent guest back in the jailhouse could have something to do with this. Second, that these might not necessarily be nice people.
“Uh-huh. Who?” asked Jesse, removing the cigar from his mouth to spit out a sliver of tobacco that had come loose in his mouth.
“A chap by the name of George Crane. We have reason to believe that he may have come this way. He’s white, in his mid-thirties, about five foot eight, 140 pounds, wearing a blue overall with the heraldic crest of the Dukes of Bedminster on the chest. Haven’t seen him anywhere have you, old man?”
“What if I have?” asked Jesse.
“Well, we’d like him back. That’s the extent of it, old fruit.”
“I am not anyone’s old fruit!” Jesse said, getting wired. He was keeping half an eye on the others. None of them made any hostile moves.
“He has, shall we say, stolen some of the Duke’s property. Himself, to be precise. And His Grace wants him back. It really is that simple. We certainly do not intend him any harm. He’s much too useful.”
“Okay, now you listen to me, Leff-Tenant Fark-Wahr. If I’ve got the guy you’re after, then he’s in my county under my jurisdiction. And that’s the way it stays until I’m satisfied of the facts of the case. Now, if the Duke of Bedminster himself wants to come and see me about it, I’ll be happy to hear his side of the story. For the meantime, I’d appreciate it if you and the rest of the Bedminster Hunt were to get out of here and do something useful like hunting some renegades.”
Route 666 Anthology Page 10