Within moments of deploying the second roller-drone a loud CRACK! echoed from sky, drawing Ben’s attention to the sight of their aerial drone breaking apart in a cloud of smoke and burning fragments. Then a tremendous Bang! Shocked his attention up the road, where his first sentry-bot scattered over the road in pieces.
He ran back to the truck’s cab, peering into the cargo hold to find his passengers clinging to the floor of the truck. The crackle-ping of bullets hitting the steel armor echoed through the cargo hold. Finally reaching the cab, he saw Nessa huddled in the truck’s passenger foot well and Felipe writhing in pain. He was relieved to see Martinez still firing the 50-cal, until he realized he was shooting into the trees beside the convoy. Ben suddenly realized they were being flanked, and his heart sank.
“Nanner,” he said into his mic, as calmly as he could manage. “I need you back at the truck. Fall back. Fall back now.”
A trail of blue-gray smoke snaked from the hillside behind him with a whoosh, and Hunter-5 blew into pieces. He turned just in time to see two of his fighters thrown from the smashed vehicle—in pieces. The smell of smoke, burnt oil, and sulphur hung in the air.
Carolina Velasco. James Wallenberg, he pondered. Scrappers just like me. Expendable urchins for hire—with no one who loved ‘em enough to give ‘em shield from this kinda life—gone forever at the asshole end of the universe.
“Well, fuck-wad,” Nanner shouted to him over the din of his 50-cal and hostile bullets clattering on the truck’s steel hull. “I say we giddy-up and get gone. Whaddaya wanna do?”
“Which way?” Ben shouted.
“I think the shooters in front are thinned out—I say straight ahead.”
“Alright. Get on GEO to see if we can make it.” Nanner obliged, bringing the geospatial system online. “Me and Billy’ll rally whatever vehicles we have left. Wait, where the fuck’s Billy?”
“Right there,” Nanner replied, pointing to the ditch behind them. Ben stood in disbelief in seeing his friend leading two others in a charge up the craggy slope at the side of the road. They scrambled up the rocks and disappeared into the brush.
“So much for gittin’ gone,” Nanner sighed.
“Alright.” Ben tried desperately to clear his head. “I’ll get the last vehicles fired up and moving. We’ll at least be a harder target if we’re rolling. You go get Billy, and I’ll try to reach him on comms.”
The hillside flashed, and another thunderous BANG! rang out. Ben and Nanner crouched instinctively as an orange fireball rose up through the trees. Then frenetic gunfire, shouting, screaming, cursing. Two more massive explosions and the firing stopped, at least on Billy’s side of the canyon.
Running down the road to rally the other vehicles, Ben caught sight of Billy and his two followers again, this time crossing back over the road to the other slope. Nanner shifted his direction, only to displace, join the line behind Billy, and charge into the trees.
Goddamn it! Ben fumed. But all he could do was carry on with his own job, and soon he was back in the lorry, driving in a slow circle with his last two attack vehicles.
Two more winding trails of rocket smoke snaked at them from the hillside, but both missed their marks. Another flash and another orange plume punctuated the tree-line, and a group of men charged them from the tree line.
“Martinez!” Ben shouted in alarm.
“Got ‘em, Boss!” Martinez spun his turret and felled three of the attackers in the street. Two had reached cover beside the truck, though, and later a burn-scarred face pulled open Ben’s truck door and threw him from the cab. Ben rolled onto the pavement and looked back as the raider climbed into his seat and slammed the door shut. The lorry straightened out and began to pull away, when a single shot rang out, splattering blood, skull fragments, and brain matter on the door window. Ben, still splayed on the ground, watched his truck coast to a stop before the door flung open, and two boots launched the pulpy attacker onto the street.
Ben’s split second of relief gave way to terror again as he watched another attacker catapult himself into roof of the truck and shoot Martinez straight through the head before he could spin his turret. Ben readied himself to hop to his feet, when a third raider began climbing into the cargo hold, and four pairs of muddied boots galloped past him.
Billy Washington leapt up and killed the invader of the cargo hold with a buck-knife and then sped to the driver’s side of the truck to kills the rooftop attacker with a single shot from his pistol.
As quickly as it had started, the battle was over. Silence fell over the canyon, save for the quiet crackle of flames eating up the remains of the people and machines laid waste in the attack. Nanner hoisted Ben to his feet and looked him over for injury. Seeing none, he patted him on the arm, and gave him a wink.
“Now, let’s get gone,” Nanner smirked.
Only three of Ben’s vehicles survived the assault in working order. To Ben’s relief, one of them was the cargo lorry, so his remaining soldiers climbed aboard with their passengers—only one of whom was injured. They rolled forward, cautiously at first, then faster as they regained their confidence and the urgency of getting away settled in. The site of the ambush now appeared as a glowing red splotch on GEO. Soon, perhaps, jump-ships from the territorial militia would be converging on the site—too late for Ben’s dead soldiers, but just in time for mopping-up and looting whatever survived the fires.
With long-range comms finally restored, Ben reached Farid Sherman in hopes of warding off any attacks by the territorial militia. The rest of his team did its best to ignore their cuts, bruises, and burns—mustering what little energy they had left to keep their weapons poised.
Caught with our dicks in the wind twice, Ben fretted silently.
Ben urged Nessa to join the others in the cargo hold, where she would be safer behind the thicker armor. She refused, though, insisting on sitting next to him on the last stretch to the MAC. Ben saw it as a burden at first, but within minutes on the road, he was thankful for the company—and the implicit gesture of confidence she still had in him.
Within the hour, his battered convoy had limped into the waiting area of the Salt Lake City MAC. The dry and bitter-cold wind of dusk gnawed at the cut on Ben’s forehead.
“That was one fuck of a day,” Billy muttered to Ben as they waved goodbye to their shell-shocked passengers. Ben could find no words. He sat, deep in thought about the twists and turns of their lives and the irony of their intersection with the cohort of sex vendors for the Ellies. Himself, once in the very position of these poor souls, now hired to protect them from the marauders who shared his current station. All of them to be cast back into the Wilds like animals.
Always a pawn. He blew Nessa a kiss, as inconspicuously as he could when she turned around one last time before she disappeared through the gates of the MAC. He wiped the tears welling in his eyes before they could fall down his cheek and draw the attention of the others. He took a deep breath of cold air. He turned away from his friends to compose himself, clear his head, and plot their way back.
Back into the Wilds. Onto the road. Onto their next terrible mission.
Chapter 13: Homestretch
(Paul Lancaster)
Paul Lancaster struggled to defy the sunrise as it streamed through the broken windows of the large, musty restaurant—their makeshift home and headquarters—where he had slept with his mother, sister, and half a dozen other families. The sunlight shined unrepentantly into the abandoned restaurant, illuminating his closed eyelids a molten red. His disoriented mind went to war with itself at once. A familiar, anxious voice demanded he get up and face whatever the day had in store for him. Another pleaded for just a little more sleep—a few moments of peace before the onslaught of reality began. Both were convincing to him, but he soon realized that the call to get up always won in the end, so he might as well get it over with.
He reluctantly reached up to rub his eyes, only to find his arm constrained by his sister, who slumbered beside him.
It was almost enough to tip the scales back to sleep, but the nagging in his mind was relentless. So, he bid farewell to the first almost-restful sleep he’d had in days. The energy to rise came slowly, and he braced himself for the day—almost delirious—by taking stock of his situation.
Just days before, he had thought the worst was over when his mother returned to him and his sister in the Salt Lake City MAC. “The Mormon MAC,” as it was known, was said to be the most humane and generous of the relief centers, but its hosts didn’t distinguish between non-Mormon Commonwealth citizens and non-Mormon transnational migrants. Weary travelers entered, registered, received hand-outs of basic necessities, and moved along without ever stepping foot into the Mormon’s would-be capital city, Salt Lake. No one around him in the milling crowds showed even a hint of disobedience, seeming almost grateful for their host’s begrudging generosity.
Knowing the Constitution of the Commonwealth prohibited citizens from being constrained in their movements, Paul bristled at being herded like cattle through the MAC processing center. He also knew better than to challenge the process, lest he lose what little they might give to him and his exhausted family.
His mother had just returned from an overnight excursion on Christmas with a handful of other women, boys, and girls. They arrived back at the MAC dazed, exhausted, and eager for consolation. Though Paul knew instinctively what his mother had done, he pushed it from his mind as she clung to him and his sister. A sorrow—and rage—simmered inside him. A murderous desire for retribution against his father, whatever Ellie had dared to touch his mother, and even himself. Her sacrifice reminded him of how powerless he really was to protect his family. As he held her tight, the wrenching moment of her departure flooded back on him.
“Welcome to the Southern Rocky Mountain Territory. Salt Lake City Migrant Assistance Center,” came Operetta’s cheerful voice again as yet another trainful of people lumbered into the station. “The next train northbound departs from platform five with stops in Idaho Falls – Butte – Helena – Shelby – Lethbridge – Calgary – Edmonton. The next eastbound train departs tomorrow morning at eleven-hundred hours for Grand Junction, Denver, Wichita, Kansas City, and St. Louis—transfer point to the eastern provinces. Travelers requiring MAC assistance, please follow the yellow arrows at your feet. Please obey all rules and instructions during your stay.”
The Operetta’s slightly robotic voice had been incessant, delivering orders and helpful precautions to the point that it made Paul’s head throb. Still reeling and sulking from the violent exodus of his father, he followed the track of his mother’s stare to a platform across the MAC courtyard, where a well-dressed man, flanked by a handful of heavily armed guards, sorted through a swelling line of women and boys. Guards led each person the man picked to a nearby medical truck, where doctors administered health inspections. As each person presented their irises and surrendered their blood for inspection, small lights blinked red to deliver news of rejection, or green to admit the lucky person to the next line.
Paul was gobsmacked when his mother’s face turned to steely resolve. She stood up and tugged at her dingy dress, shaking her hips until it was taught. She unfastened her top buttons and pulled back the collar, exposing a little cleavage. Then, to his shock, his mother removed one of the safety pins holding the seem at her knees together, pricked her finger with it, and rubbed a drop of blood on her lips. The small droplets that followed she rubbed onto her cheeks.
She then turned to him and his sister Victoria and said in a soft but determined voice, “I may be back very late, but I will be back before the train leaves. I promise. Stay together.” With that, as Paul sat in stunned disbelief, Nessa Lancaster turned and started on her way towards the line, ultimately disappearing in the swirl of people.
His mother still had a youthful beauty, which seemed to withstand every stress and setback life threw at her. While the other women in California-Sur leathered in the blazing sun, his mother somehow seemed to stay fresh, with a radiance reinforced by a tirelessly positive personality. So, he wasn’t surprised to catch a fleeting glimpse of her passing through the medical-screening station and into the line beyond. He craned his neck and squinted to see where they would lead her next, but he only caught the top of a large steel lorry, which soon departed.
Paul feigned nonchalance for the sake of his sister, he knew she didn’t need it. More than old enough to understand it all herself.
She’s nobody’s fool, he reminded himself.
They made their way through the crowd to the MAC’s sheltered area, where they huddled together through the cold night in an anxious half sleep.
Paul was barely awake with Victoria leaning against him, when his mother returned as promised the next morning, smelling of perfume and alcohol. Wearing a new floral sundress, rough-spun but clean and flattering, she carried a new knapsack. She clutched a small duffle bag in one hand, her threadbare dress from the night before peaking out. There was no joy on her face as she crouched down in front of him and put one soft hand on his cheek, the other on Victoria’s sleeping head. As her eyes welled with tears, Paul—so relieved to see her—almost leapt forward to embrace her. Victoria stirred and sat up. Their mother leaned in, and anguished tears flowed for what seemed like hours, until the Operetta’s sickly-sweet voice echoed over the loud speakers again.
“Welcome to the Southern Rocky Mountain Territory. Salt Lake City Migrant Assistance Center. The next eastbound train departs from Platform Four for Grand Junction, Denver, Wichita, Kansas City, and St. Louis—transfer point to eastern provinces. Eastbound travelers please proceed to platform four and obey all rules and instructions.”
They hurriedly made their way through the crowds to the platform and loaded themselves onto the train. Paul breathed a sigh of relief as the box car clanked and lurched out of the MAC. Paul’s tired eyes darted across the exhausted and vacant faces of the other travelers—including some of the cowards who had stood by during the assault on his family the day before. The wretches who did nothing to help or comfort him and his sister when their mother vanished all night. There were fewer of them now. Some had probably been detained, he figured—wanted criminals too stupid or desperate to realize they’d be caught as soon as they registered at the MAC. Others maybe quarantined for whatever illness they carried. Most had probably taken the northbound rails to Calgary, Edmonton, or Winnipeg for work and relief from the miserable, waterless landscape.
Not many travelers nowadays headed to the Desert Plains Territory—at least not to stay. Some passed through on their way to the Great Lakes Province or Appalachia, the Mid-Atlantic, or Northeastern Coastal Provinces. Few dared to venture as far as the Republic of Quebec or the Disputed Territories of the St. Lawrence, despite the relative relief it offered from the chaos of the southern provinces and territories. They were welcomed there even less than in Salt Lake City, and arriving there weaponless and penniless was a recipe for trouble.
With fewer people in the boxcar and an angry disdain for his co-travelers, Paul jockeyed aggressively for position on the pews and benches mounted to the floors and sidewalls, where he hoped they might recover with a little sleep. Paul insisted that his mother lay down first, assuring her that he and his sister could manage. She patted him on the hand, resisting the suggestion. Paul then slid up next to an old man next to them and whispered in his ear the same way he had done when they departed the Las Vegas MAC, prompting the old man promptly stood up and moved to the other side of the car.
His new-found sharp elbows changed something in him and in the way his mother looked at him as she yielded, laying down and closing her eyes for some desperately needed sleep. Though his eyes ached with exhaustion, he sat beside her and relished each menacing stare he delivered to his fellow passengers.
I won’t need a stranger’s help to kill you, he telegraphed to them. I won’t need a stranger’s help again.
Some hazy hours later Paul realized that he had dozed off upright on the bench when the
train squealed and jolted him awake. The boxcar doors slid open, but the passing conductor—flanked by armed guards—offered no explanation as he made his way down the long line of rail cars. After an anxious wait, news began to spread that the locomotive ahead of them had been attacked by raiders just outside Glenwood Springs.
Finally, the conductor’s voice crackled over the loud speaker and announced that they would go no farther. Passengers, he explained, could wait with the train—without any estimate of when it might move again, but they would have to make do with their own supplies. Alternatively, they could hoof it to the small Grand Junction MAC, 87 miles back the way they had come. Or they could move by foot onward toward the Denver MAC, and hopefully skirt whatever bedlam was affecting Glenwood Springs. If he was able to get the train moving again, the conductor said, he would stop at a few points along the way to pick up whatever walkers he could. But no guarantees.
“Just cain’t tell,” the trainmaster announced. He was an old, weathered African man with a thick accent and a demeanor calloused by years of shuttling broken humanity—the vulnerable and the helpless, along with the opiate junkies, tweakers, meth-mad criminals, and edgy road raiders. The trains invariably carried stocks of food supplies, but he could never let his passengers share. That had to have hardened him, Paul reasoned. “Word is the attack ain’t even cleared yet. Could be days. Could be weeks. Y’all can stay with the train here, or you can move ahead on foot and hope the fightin’s settled by the time you get there. Grand Junction MAC ain’t big ‘nough for too many.”
“Goddayam immigrant,” muttered the old man Paul had displaced from the bench. “Let them fuckin’ ferners in, and now they gedda tell us we’re fucked. Cain’t stand it,” he continued, getting up to leave the boxcar. “Sure as shit ain’t stayin’ here, waitin’ to die o’ thirst, while this in’erloper sits fat-n-perdy in his cabin. I’m walkin’.”
Fire, Ruin, and Fury (Embers Saga) Page 15