Thunder Road

by James Axler

  Seemingly, Jak’s red albino eyes were better suited to a nocturnal life than those of his companions, and as he studied the flat expanse, so that flatness revealed itself to be a lie. The land was a series of planes and contours that dipped and curved into and against each other. The rolling waves of the contours were subtle, almost invisible to the naked eye at times. But as Jak stilled his breathing and allowed his body to fall into rhythm with the land around, so the secret movements of the earth were revealed to him. He could see how the chem storms, the winds, the movements deep within the ground, had all caused the surface to distort and warp. And with this, there were areas where the shifts in the natural curves of the earth had been disrupted by objects that had blocked the flow of energy and force, objects that Jak could make out more clearly the harder he looked.

  Breathing now slowed to such a degree that, to the casual observer, he would have astonishingly seemed to have ceased taking in oxygen, Jak could see the whole path of the minefield laid out in front of him. The crisscross of paths between them were as clear to him as if they had been painted in. All he had to do was to follow the path, and he would avoid being blown up by stepping on a mine.

  Of course, that didn’t mean that the coldhearts would trigger one near him and catch him with the shrapnel. The size of the craters, let alone the memory of what it had been like inside the wag, was enough to make him aware that even a glancing encounter with one of the mines would be enough to buy the farm.

  But he had a safe haven. The triangle of cratered soil—it was a large enough space that, if forced to, it could provide an area where no exploding mine could get him. He had enough confidence in his instincts to take him that far, at least.

  He began to run, picking his way along the route that only he was able to see in the gray light. Sure-footed, swift, he didn’t stop to think. Instead he listened to everything that his body told him. He could feel his breathing, could feel the blood pumping around his circulatory system, could hear the hissing of his central nervous system in his ears. He could smell the distant fire, the sweat of his friends, the dry decay of lizards and small mammals that had perished in the scorching heat of the day and were slowly rotting, the damp of the sand and soil thrown up by the mines detonated earlier. He was aware of the very air around him as it vibrated in the night breezes, as it moved around the disturbance he created.

  He knew that he wouldn’t get far, knew that he would get only a few hundred yards at best before some kind of response was initiated.

  HOWARD WAS ALMOST incandescent with impotent rage as he stared at the monitor. It was a natural conclusion to the kind of confusion that had now overtaken him. He banged his fist on the console as he spoke. His voice was just below a yell, strangled in the way that only a voice barely under control could be. Krysty would have considered him absurd if not for the firepower she knew that he controlled—and which could be directed at her friends.

  As Howard spoke to Sid and Hammill, Krysty’s attention was taken by the monitor screens. Jak was running, dodging in what was a definite pattern, though for the life of her she couldn’t work out what the pattern was, and how he had worked it out.

  “Hammill, disable the mines,” Howard yelped, voice barely contained. “He mustn’t trigger one.”

  “Little chance of that,” came Hammill’s response. “It appears that he is able to see the layout of the network, and is picking his way between the explosives.”

  “How the—No, scratch that, it doesn’t matter. He mustn’t get through, not yet. We’re not ready. This isn’t how I planned it. How can we drive him back?”

  “SMGs are operational near to the ranch,” Hammill replied, “but do you wish to let him get that far? It would take him a half hour at current speed.”

  “No, I don’t want him to die, or even be injured if it can be helped. He’s Storm Girl’s friend, and we don’t hurt our own.”

  It didn’t stop you trying to blow them up earlier, Krysty thought, a shiver traveling down her spine at the use of the Storm Girl name. She was about to speak when Hammill cut in again.

  “There is a gas dispersal system that is operational. I could load it with tear gas and send remote units within the next three minutes, ETA five. This would drive him back, but not necessarily harm him.”

  Howard nodded vigorously. “Initiate.”

  He turned to Krysty. There was a look on his face that was equal parts spoiled-child rage and an imploring need for approval. “Why is he doing this?”

  She shook her head slowly. “I don’t know. Jak was always an unknown quantity. He’s not predictable.”

  She was lying, of course, and hoped that his ingenuousness would allow her to get away with it. She had always been a crap liar, which had been a real problem at times. This could be one of them. Truth was that she knew what Jak was doing: drawing a response, breaking the impasse, giving Ryan and J.B. some idea about the forces they were up against so that the Armorer could estimate ordnance and Ryan could think tactics.

  “If only people would act like they should,” Howard said, almost to himself, “then it would be so simple. All I need is the chance to explain it to them, but they won’t wait until I’m ready. Why do they—”

  Hammill’s voice broke across. “Tear gas loaded, ready to launch.”

  Howard flicked a switch and one of the monitors blurred briefly and flickered before changing from an exterior view to one of inside the bunker, a small room, with what looked like airfoils fitted with rocket engines lined up, three abreast. There were six rows. Only the front two—farthest from the camera—were in use. She knew this as they carried a payload that the others lacked, and they were surrounded by multiarmed cylindrical robots that moved on wheels and tracks. It was a smooth, impressive operation, as the robots readied the airfoils for launch, then moved away.

  It was only as they did this that it hit Krysty—these were the workers of whom Sid had spoken. These were the remains of the original staff, their brains deployed in machinery, their humanity long since vanished into the mists of time and the fog of mechanical and electronic pain.

  She felt sick. She was not one of the family. That could have been her. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have your identity ripped from your body and placed in a tin can, to be slowly drained until there was nothing left of your essence. Did they know what they had once been? How had it felt to have your soul disappear? Was there a point where you ceased to exist, where you were nothing, chilled to all intents and purposes? Or was there just a small piece of awareness still in there somewhere, screaming impotently for release?

  Another reason to make sure that this hellish place was destroyed, and the trapped souls given release.

  Her attention snapped back to the airfoils and away from any abstract ideas as the first row moved forward and were launched at Howard’s command.

  She could follow from monitor to monitor as the airfoils left their hangar and traveled up a shaft that led to the surface. The entrance to the shaft was well hidden, and it was only when they broke the surface, scattering sand and topsoil, that she was able to pinpoint the exits on the relevant monitor.

  “Launch success one hundred percent. Target arrival 120 seconds and counting,” Hammill intoned.

  Howard turned to Krysty. “Jak won’t be hurt, Storm Girl. That isn’t my intention. Don’t look so worried. The tear gas will merely be enough to force him back to where the others are—” He broke off, turning back to the monitors.

  “Sid, what are they doing?”

  “They appear to be doing nothing, sir. It looks like they are, well, waiting.”

  Howard turned back to Krysty with a puzzled frown. “What are they doing?”

  She shrugged, even though she had a good idea. Eyes wide as she could make them, she replied: “I just don’t know, Thunder Rider.”

  JAK FELT THE VIBRATIONS of the airfoils as they were launched, even before the sound of their engines reached him, or their silver fuselages were caught
by the moon. He kept moving, but spared a glance back. Ryan and J.B. flanked the armored wag, watching. Mildred and Doc were in front, by the fire. To a casual observer they may have just been tending the fire, but Jak could see from their body language that they were watching and were poised.

  He turned back to face front as he ran. The silver bodies were closing in fast now, their engines sounding loud in the otherwise silent night, a roar underpinned by a high whine that split the frequencies, made them painful on his ears.

  That didn’t matter. It was the payload that he could see suspended beneath the fuselage of each of the three machines that concerned him. It had to be a bomb of some kind, and he was running right into their path. He looked around him, reading the contours of the land. Okay, he was ready.

  Each of the machines dropped its load simultaneously. The forward momentum and trajectory of both the loads and himself seemed destined to meet. Not if he could help it. Jak threw himself to his left, executing a somersault that took him over a line of mines so that he landed in a channel between them, his ankles protesting as they sank into the topsoil, wanting to stay still while his weight shifted. He gritted his teeth, cursing under his breath, and steadied himself, compensating so that the conflicting forces didn’t rip his tendons to shreds.

  The first flight loads flew past him before hitting the ground. They detonated, but not with the explosive force he expected. Neither did they detonate any mines, as he had also been prepared for. Instantly, he realized that the mines had been disabled. He could use this to his advantage.

  But what was in those bombs? Even as the question crossed his mind he realized that it was gas of some kind, as a vaporous white mist trailed across the land. It picked up what little light there was, and looked like spun silk in strands, entangling the very air around him. It seemed to enfold him even as he tried to move out of the way. He tried to hold his breath, even though he knew this was useless. Most of the gas could be absorbed through skin, anyway, but it was a reflex action.

  He stumbled. Was it the paralysis, like before? No, the gas was a different color, and more than that, it made his eyes sting and water. He rubbed at them involuntarily, knowing even as he did that it would only make things worse. He took a breath, and his lungs were filled with a stinging, cloying grip. He coughed, but this made him have to take in even more air, and the grip tightened. He fell to his knees, tumbling forward.

  He’d lost sense of direction. He could keep going forward, but he didn’t know what forward was anymore.

  There was some cleaner air near to the sand, and he sucked it in as much as he dared, risking opening his eyes wide to try to see where he was, and even which way he was facing.

  He could see the wag in the distance, so he’d turned around, somehow. The noise of the airfoils above filled the air, making it impossible to tell if Ryan or the others were shouting at him, making it pointless for him to call to them.

  Jak began to run back toward the others. His legs were unsteady at first, his breath coming short. But after a few steps he regained his footing and started to move with assurance. Even the gas still in the air around him was less of a concern than before. His lungs and eyes were so full of the gas, every rasping breath like a razor, every blink like needles, that it couldn’t get worse. He could adjust easily once he knew this.

  The sound of the airfoils was also on the wane, vanishing behind him into the distance. He didn’t look back to see them depart; he didn’t need to. The fact that the blanket of silence cast by the night descended around him, broken only by the alien sound of his own harsh breathing and his footfalls on the sand, was enough.

  As he drew near to the area around the wag, he ran into a cloud that was still dissipating. Tendrils caught on the back of his throat, making him catch his breath, choke and nearly vomit. He could see through the stinging mist that Doc and Mildred were on all fours, both coughing heavily. J.B. was beginning to stagger to his feet, spectacles safely stowed on one of his many vest pockets for protection, useless when his eyes were already streaming. Ryan was on his knees, heaving for breath.

  Without breaking stride, Jak helped the one-eyed man to his feet, then tapped J.B. on the shoulder, indicating with signs alone that they should grab Mildred and Doc, and get back behind the sandbank in which the wag had embedded itself.

  Ryan and J.B., still unsteady on their feet but able to move with comparative ease, moved jerkily to where Doc and Mildred were prone. J.B. took Mildred and helped her up. She was stronger than Doc, less affected, and was able to respond to the stimulus. She scrambled up and allowed herself to be blindly led by the Armorer, who was himself no less blinded.

  Doc was another matter. The old man had taken a lungful, and was choking and coughing with a force that seemed as though it would rattle the bones from beneath his skin. Taking him, one beneath each arm, Jak and Ryan lifted him bodily to his feet. His eyes rolled back in his head, tears streaking his cheeks, streaks formed in the dust from the sandy soil in which he had buried his face, seeking relief. His feet pawed uselessly at the ground for a moment before he found some kind of purchase and started to half run, half stumble as Jak and Ryan pulled him away from the worst of the lingering cloud. They clawed their way up the sandbank thrown up around the wag, following the trail made by J.B. and Mildred. They could only see in vague shape and form, pale light and deep shadow in the gray light.

  They crested the bank, stepped into space and fell down the other side, tumbling over each other. They lay there for some time, in the silence of the night, trying to rid themselves of the pain, trying to get back the strength to stand without feeling as though they would immediately tumble back to the ground. To each of them except Doc—who was still too incapacitated by the gas to do anything except think about the next breath—it occurred that they had learned little from the exercise, and if anything were worse off than before.

  The maneuver had done nothing to draw out any personnel from the redoubt. The only purpose it had served was to show them that the redoubt had aerial capabilities as well as land. And that it had more than one type of gas.

  But Jak knew something else that he hadn’t been able, as of yet, to speak of. He knew that the mines had been deactivated before the nonlethal gas had been sent. The men in the redoubt wanted them alive. So how far could they push it, knowing this? He tried to speak, so that he could tell Ryan that crucial fact. But it was of little use. His larynx felt as though a herd of stickies had been tearing at it. Sore, his voice came out as nothing more than a harsh whisper that could shape no words at the moment.

  But someone could speak. And it wasn’t a voice that he recognized.

  “That was a real smart move, guys. Yeah, when in doubt make sure that the bastards can whomp the shit out of ya. Amazing to me that you’ve managed to survive this long.”

  Jak lifted his head, could see that Ryan was doing the same. J.B. and Mildred were already on their knees, hands halfway to blasters but stilled as though frozen. When he followed the direction of their gaze, he could see why. A tall, slim black man, his eyes obscured by goggles with opaque lenses swimming with color, stood about fifty yards away. His Afro was contained by a polished steel headband that, even in the pale light of the moon, seemed to glow. Most importantly, he was holding a white blaster, made of some kind of plastic the like of which Jak had not seen before. It was pointed down at the ground, but the way in which he held himself suggested that it would take less than a blink of an eye for it to be raised and fired.

  “Where the fireblasted hell did you come from?” Ryan spluttered and coughed between gulps of air, the gas gradually clearing from his lungs.

  “Here and there,” the man replied. “Doesn’t do to let mundanes know too much about what you’re doing, where you’ve come from.”

  “So you’ve come in response to our call?” Mildred asked, her voice harsh and choked.

  “Give the sister a prize,” the man replied. “Yeah, I got the beacon. Won’t be the only one. Guess I
’m just the first one here. Thing is, though, I’m wondering why you’ve triggered the rail ghost’s beacon when he’s long since become a ghost for real? ’Specially when the woman he gave it to isn’t here with you.”

  “Could it possibly be that that is the reason why? If you think about it logically…assuming you can,” Doc gasped, sense finally returning to him. Sense, and a very deep anger. They had called to these people for help, and the first thing they seemed intent on doing was to hold them at blaster point. Unsteady, the world spinning around him, Doc pulled himself up to his feet and pointed an accusatory finger at the stranger.

  “What, in the name of the Three Kennedys, gives you the right to answer a call for distress with such outright hostility?”

  The black man paused for a moment. It was almost impossible to read what was going through his mind, the goggles disguising whatever he may be thinking or feeling. The white plastic blaster twitched in his hands, as though he thought about raising it and just eliminating the problem. As one, the four friends who were still prone, or semiprone, stiffened, poised to go for their own blasters. Chances were that he could maybe chill one of them, but even as he did the other three would send him into oblivion.

  It wasn’t supposed to go this way.

  “Well?” Doc demanded, his stance as unsteady as his voice, his accusatory finger waving in an erratic circle.

  The man’s head moved almost imperceptibly. None could be sure, but it seemed that he was eyeing them all, considering his options.

  “Okay, why don’t you run it by me?” he said finally.

  Still fighting for breath, having to stop between sentences to fill his lungs with precious air, Ryan gasped out the story of how they had arrived at this point, emphasizing that the mystery rider and whoever was with him now had Krysty, and they had one hell of a lot of tech.