by James Axler
"Meaning?"
"If any of us calls the sentry Roger, then he gets the hell out and leaves us. Roger means run."
"Gotcha."
"Adam means let us in, but kill whoever we're with."
"Adam is an ambush, check."
"Charlie means it's clear."
"And if you use his real name?"
Ryan stared at his son hard. "That means they broke us, kill everybody, including us, and do a Roger."
The boy nodded.
"Let's get moving," Krysty said, jacking the Ruger for action. She didn't really care for automatics. You had to load and unload the clips every damn night, or else the springs would weaken and they'd jam, usually when you needed them the most, unlike a revolver, which could stay loaded for decades and still function perfectly in combat. But it would do until she got a replacement revolver.
Removing his panga from its sheath on his belt, Ryan tucked the blade into his boot "Stay alert, people."
Easing open the side hatch, J.B. and his Uzi waited for something to happen. Cicadas faintly chirped in the weeds. When nothing else occurred, he stepped down and moved aside, the stubby barrel of the submachine gun sweeping for targets. The others closely followed, spreading out so as not to offer a potential sniper a group shot. Doc was the last out Jak then closed and bolted the door.
"Get busy," Ryan ordered, crouched low. "Hit and git We'll be back in ten."
"Understood," Mildred said, her .38 Czech target pistol held in an expert tournament-style grip. "Ten and counting."
Moving stealthily through the jumble of trucks, the two Cawdors disappeared behind an oil tanker, its cylindrical body rusted full of holes. The weeds waved at their passing, then went still.
Going to his hands and knees, J.B. inspected the refrigerator truck next to them. "Hey, beginners' luck. Tranny has no holes. Here's hoping." Lying flat, he rolled underneath, and there were some metallic bangs and muffled curses. A few seconds later he rolled out, his face streaked with grease.
"Get any?" Doc asked, cradling the LeMat in his arms. He and Mildred were standing back to back, just far enough from each other that a dropped net wouldn't get them both. Lessons learned hard were long remembered.
"About half a cup," J.B. said, slosbing the canteen with his bleeding hand. "A few more of these and we're back in business."
"Excellent."
Agreeing, J.B. checked under the flatbed. "Dark night, the whole undercarriage is gone on this one."
"No engine here at all," Mildred said, looking into the empty engine compartment of a garbage truck.
"The next one is flat on the ground," Doc noted. "Let's try the bulldog," J.B. decided, and they moved on to a Mack cement mixer with an apple tree growing out of its top hole.
"I'M ON POINT," Ryan stated as the others went out of sight. "Single file, yard spread. Don't shoot unless you have to."
Dean acknowledged, his Mossberg held smartly at quarter arms.
Loose grit and windblown gravel on the concrete apron made every step crunch as father and son walked through the collection of wrecks. Dean was fascinated by the sights. It was the exact opposite of the redoubt. Those vehicles had been in perfect shape, deliberately disassembled by mechanics. These were merely rusting hulks abandoned by their owners.
Dean had never known there were so many different types of transports in the predark world. He was more used to rebuilt military vehicles, designed strictly for utility. These civilian trucks came in a hundred faded colors, some with leather seats, others with silhouettes of women on the mud flaps. And the cars were even more outrageous. Some had fringe, fuzzy cubes hanging from rearview mirrors, or huge birds painted on the hoods. There wasn't a sign of a single weapon mount or armor plating.
Cresting a rotting pile of tires, Ryan held up a hand and closed his fingers into a fist. The boy froze. Faintly, they could hear the slapping sounds of flesh on flesh, low laughter and muffled gasps of pain. Ryan circled his fist and pointed to the left. Running on his toes, Dean went to the wall of the white building, hugging the Mossberg. His father joined him, and they both stole a peek around the corner.
There were five of them, four men clustered around a naked blond woman. The men were dressed in biker togs-leather jackets, ripped denims and boots. Each had his fly unzipped and was fully exposed. The sobbing woman was on her hands and knees, a sweaty biker pushing into her face, another eagerly pumping behind her. The others were laughing and whipped her with their belts, leaving huge red welts. Her breasts jerked at every violation and a steady trickle of blood flowed from her thighs. Nearby, a gleaming white tooth lay on the ground next to a pile of torn clothing.
Having seen enough, Ryan and Dean pulled out of sight.
Estimating the distance as twenty yards. Dean tightened the choke on the Mossberg to the minimum, the soft clicks sounding louder than fireworks in the whispering quiet.
"Let's go,"Ryan whispered.
"And circle round," Dean said, sliding a spare shotgun shell into his mouth for a fast reload. "Okay."
"No. I mean leave. Go back to the others."
The boy removed the shell. "We don't need any help. We can take them."
"Son, we're not going to help her."
Dean stared at his father. Ryan took the boy by the arm and pulled him farther from the corner.
"Our first concern," Ryan stated sternly, "is staying alive. After that, fixing the tank and getting out of here. They'll be busy with her for hours, mebbe more. Once we're mobile, we can decide to risk returning to shoot them through the blasterports. Never risk your life for a stranger."
"But-"
"Never."
The discussion finished, Ryan turned to go. Dean started to follow, but unbidden, a picture of the young girl in the redoubt flooded into his mind, the smoking gun at her feet, the torn dress on her skinny body. Red anger filled Dean's vision as he grimly stepped into the clear, raised his shotgun and fired. The spray of double-aught buck completely removed a biker's head above his leather collar. The other men registered shock as the decapitated corpse thrust his hips one last time, then collapsed on top of the woman.
"Fireblast!" Ryan cursed, triggering his Steyr twice at the bikers as he joined his son. The SSG70 boomed louder than doomsday as the titanic rounds caught a man smack in the chest. Spinning, arms flailing, he collided with the others and the three went down in a tangle. Shooting with every step, father and son moved fast and in seconds the battle was finished.
"Damn fool," Ryan growled, checking the bodies for any sign of life. "We were lucky. Four to two, even with the element of surprise, are terrible odds. Why'd you do it? Why?"
"Had to," Dean said, kneeling beside the woman and helping her to stand.
"Th-th-a-ank you," she mumbled past puffy lips. Dean grabbed a shirt off the pile of clothes and offered it to her. The woman gratefully took the garment and weakly pulled it on. The shirt barely covered her loins, but it would have to do. The rest of her clothes were slashed to pieces.
A movement caught Ryan's attention, and he found a biker still breathing, so he slit the rapist's throat with his pangs. Cleaning the blade on the man's shirt, the one-eyed man noticed a colorful tattoo on the dead man's chest, a knife stabbing the sun. Exactly the same as the coldhearts from the Ohio redoubt.
Chapter Nine
Different styles of car seats lined both of the long metal walls. Resting on some bricks, a small block V-8 engine, gutted of all moving parts, served as a cookstove, with some chicory browning in a low pan. Mixed with burned bread crumbs, it made crude frontier coffee that was better than nothing, but not by much. A wide rack for longblasters stood in the corner, two bolt-action Browning rifles and a semiauto M-l carbine rested there. Ammo boxes were stacked neatly on an iron shelf. A couple of poorly cured animal-skin rugs were on the metal floor, the fur coming off in patches. Brittle yellow centerfolds adorned the ceiling.
"Holy shit!" Monk cried out from his vantage point on a stool near a peephole in the w
all. A lit cig dropped from his lips. "I don't believe it!"
"What?" Long Tom asked. Reclining in a bucket seat, the man was paring his fingernails with a bowie knife. "Are they done already? Can we have her now?"
"I want her bike," Renny rumbled. More than seven feet tall, the giant sat on the back seat of a car, as no regular single seat could accommodate him. A screwdriver was nearly lost in his hands as he delicately worked on a carburetor.
The fat redhead almost sputtered in his hurry. "They more than done. A couple of walkers just aced Bob and his boys!"
All work stopped.
"Balls." Long Tom smirked, rising from his seat. Fumbling with a new cig, Monk moved aside.
"See for yourself."
Ignoring the stool, Long Tom bent to the peephole, then spit a virulent curse. "Damnation, it's true! Walkers got the quim and Bob's eating dirt."
"Must be kin come to the rescue," Monk stated, cracking his knuckles nervously.
At the gun rack, Long Tom grabbed a Browning and worked the bolt. He tossed it to Monk and took the M-1 carbine for himself.
Renny stood, his shaved skull brushing against the high ceiling. "Don't know, don't care" he said. "It's killin' time."
"Yeah, bastards deserve to die for what they did to Bob," Monk said, checking his weapon. Exhaling a stream of white smoke, he then added, "Hell, everybody deserves to die."
"Amen," Renny intoned, shouldering his weapon. "Let's go tell the boss."
WITH THE STEYR up and ready Ryan walked around the white building with Dean and the blonde close behind. The boy had his Mossberg clenched in one hand, and an arm around the waist of the partially clad woman. Her legs trembled from the exertion of walking and she stumbled constantly.
"Wait," the woman whispered, slowing. "The gas, my weapons... must... have them...."
"We're not going back," Ryan replied, listening for the sounds of motorcycles. "You want to, fine. But you go alone."
"Then stop... at my bike."
"Where is it?" he asked brusquely, his good eye squinting against the setting sun.
She pointed. "Near the pumps.. .front of building."
"We pass it on our way," Dean told his father.
But Ryan was already moving in that direction. There was nobody in sight Quiet ruled, except for the cicadas. "Clear," he announced.
Pushing herself free from Dean, the woman fell more than walked to her BMW motorcycle. Quickly, she made sure the motorcycle was in functioning shape, then pulled a MAC 10 from her saddlebag, worked the bolt and slung it over a shoulder. She took tallow from a med kit and put it on her eye and lips, then used her torn shirt to wipe away the blood and semen between her legs. Only then did she retrieve clothes from the other bag and clumsily dress in a khaki shirt and denim pants. Apparently, she had no spare underwear, or boots.
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Gingerly, the woman climbed aboard the motorcycle. Sliding aside.a trick panel in the heavily cushioned seat, she pulled out a key and started the engine. Only a nearly invisible vibration in the motor and wisps of exhaust from the camou-colored tailpipes showed the bike was running. She sat there for a moment, as if absorbing strength from the machine.
A stick cracked amid the foremost line of deteriorating cars, Dean and Ryan pivoted in combat stances, but the cicadas never stopped their chirping.
"You have clothes. blaster and bike," Ryan said. "That's enough. Time to go, miss."
"Lady," she said, a faint lisp caused by a missing tooth marring her words. She rubbed her mouth with a hand, and it came away streaked with blood. "1 am Amanda Coultier, Lady Ward of Novaville, heiress to the Citadel.
"After my brother, naturally," she added almost as an afterthought.
The Cawdors didn't reply.
"And you are?" Amanda prompted impatiently.
"Ryan."
"Why the rush?" Amanda asked innocently, playing for information. How much did they know of what was going on in the valley? "Those men are dead."
"Wrong," Ryan said. "They were part of a gang, and more could be coming."
She glanced sideways. "So, you have heard about the Sons of the Knife?"
The lie came easy because it was partially true.
"Yeah."
"Come then," she said, moving to the tip of the cushioned seat. "It'll be a squeeze, but we can all fit on my bike. After what you did, it's the least I can do, and my bike is much faster than walking. Hop on."
Dean started forward, but Ryan stopped him. "We have our own transport."
"Really. Then may I travel with you for aways?" she asked. "For protection, until I'm closer to my ville."
"How do you know we're going that way?" Dean asked suspiciously. Beautiful or not, he was getting a bad feeling from this woman. She was amazingly clean in a world of scabs and dirt, and yet behaved like a gaudy slut. It was confusing. Dean decided to take his father's lead in the matter.
Amanda laughed, a golden sound of distant bells. "The road has only two directions, and you've already been to the Wheel."
"Wheel?"
"The city."
As they started off, Amanda asked, "By the way, can my bike fit inside your truck?"
Ryan didn't correct the guess. "You can ride alongside."
She smiled demurely, as if a hostess offering a guest a sweetmeat, and fluttered a hand. "And what if after my ordeal I'm too weak to ride?"
"Tough," Dean said, continuing through the weeds. He was liking this woman less and less by the word.
Amanda sat there for a minute. The two outlanders kept walking away as if she were no more than a common quiff. It was outrageous! Men and women died to be with her, killed kin to lie with her, and they turned their backs? Wordlessly, she stepped off the bike and pushed it across the concrete apron and into the rustling morass of dry weeds and rotting tires.
She was hard-pressed to keep with them. They moved as fast as panthers, pausing for nothing and never looking backward to keep track of her progress.
"A yule ruler," Ryan said, "off by herself?"
"I'm on a mission," she replied curtly. "I stopped here for gas, relaxed my guard for just a second and they jumped. Never got off a shot."
"Not wise to ride solo," Dean told her. "Everybody gets tired, and tired is dead."
"Or worse," Amanda agreed, pulling hair over the left side of her face to hide the bruising. "They hadn't started on me yet. Not really. And if they knew who I was..."
"Not friendly neighbors?"
"Sworn enemies. They stalk this road and rob travelers of goods and life. A major priority was to see if I could find a way to deal with them."
"Deal?" Dean asked.
A lone woman tackle a whole gang? Dean said nothing, but it raised his suspicions.
"What was the other part?" Ryan asked, half listening to her, but closely watching the shadows under the vehicles around them. Time was pressing, but he knew it was better to get her story while she still felt gratitude toward them. Soon enough pragmatism would return. This section of Deathlands wasn't hard-hit by either radiation or the acid rains. So it seemed•as if every madman and mutie had run here to claim new territory. He needed to know what was what, so they could get out intact.
She could think of no reason to lie, so told them the truth. They had saved her life. "I left the vile to try and sneak into the Wheel and deal with the problem of the tank commander who rules the city."
"Kill," Dean said.
Amanda switched off the bike. "No. Negotiate a treaty, pay him off, seduce him, marry if needs be. Anything to bring peace between the Wheel and Novaville."
Knowing the info was totally wrong, Ryan said nothing, waiting to see if she would volunteer any additional data.
"Well, it's dead," Dean stated, a touch of pride in his voice "Wasn'tanormoramutie,butamachine, and we killed the thing. That is, my father dropped a building on it." He pantomimed the event for her. "Smashed flatter than dust"
Turning toward them, Ainanda tugged on her collar, exposing a gr
eat wealth of cleavage.
Unmoved by the display, Ryan thought the seduction tactic odd for a woman who had just been brutally assaulted.
Dean swallowed hard.
"Interesting, if true," Amanda said softly. "And, yes, I can see by the expression in your face, sir, that it is true. The Beast of the Wheel is no more?"
"You could say that, yes." Then Ryan added, "Although whether a machine can truly die is beyond me. But it will never work again. That's for bastard sure."
"Excellent," the blonde purred excitedly. "Indeed, more than excellent. Superb. Then you can claim a triple reward from my father, the ward. First for rescuing me, another for killing the Beast and for slaying six of the Sons."
"Fine. Always need supplies," Ryan said.
"And what would you wish?" she asked with a smile. "Name it. Perhaps a yule, with servants and a thousand acres of land?"
"Had a bigger spread than that already"' Ryan said gruffly. "Left it behind."
"Really?" She seemed surprised, and regarded him more closely. "You are from a barony?"
Ryan scowled. "Was."
Amanda demurred. She wasn't quite sure how to handle this situation.
These were unusual people. They helped a strange woman in distress, yet didn't take her themselves, even when she offered. The conclusion was obvious. They had women of their own, which meant there was more than just the two of them. Perhaps an entire yule, or a roving band.
Past the trucks, she could see they were nearing the ramp that led to the roadway. From here it would be simplicity to start her bike and roar away. But she bad no wish to leave their presence. Not yet. If they had truly slain the Beast of the Wheel, they were a force to be reckoned with.
Stopping amid the last row of vehicles, Ryan whistled twice, then proceeded.
Amanda gasped as an enormous tank came into view, its curved hull bristling with weapons. Standing alongside the behemoth was an old man in a frock coat holding a cane, and a stocky black woman with hair resembling snakes, blasters in their hands. On the ground, a pair of legs stuck out from underneath the armored chassis.