Collie pulled Gus back inside and flattened him to the floor. “Keep your head down.”
Gus stared at her.
“If the fuckers chasing us know what they’re doing, they’ll have someone covering the rear.”
His mouth dropped open at that thought. A second later, the lead truck shot out of the bay. There was a jarring slap of metal and a pop and jingle of strained bolts coming free. The last panel on the loading bay door flapped heavily over the pickup’s roof with a squeal of hinges. The truck banked hard to the right, tires squealing, and Collie rolled across the box bed floor and crashed into Gus. The truck then slammed into a wall, shaking the pair to their bones, before powering through in a screech-song of tires and burning rubber.
The escaping truck lurched forward with all the force of an unloading ballista.
Dozens of impacts lit up both sides of the box bed, but the vehicle picked up speed. As they sped away, Gus looked back at Lazy Lou’s warehouse. Low clouds hid the night sky, but about four pickups were parked across the rear of the loading area, barring the way. One pair, once parked nose-to-ass, now had a sizeable gap between them where the islanders’ truck had bashed through, leaving the two vehicles there resembling leftovers in a demolition derby.
A second set of headlights—the other truck filled with islanders—gunned for that gap.
Collie pushed away from Gus. On her belly, she took aim and fired. Controlled bursts punched into the machines forming the roadblock, and they shivered with every bullet. Collie shifted, taking care not to hit the islanders’ truck as it plunged through the wrecked gap and raced into the night.
“Thank you, Jesus,” Gus muttered, watching as the second vehicle caught up with them.
They raced north, and at present speed, he figured they should have no problem escaping their pursuers.
A second later, he heard a dismal fluttering, and his balls froze as if dipped in liquid nitrogen.
“Don’t fucking tell me,” Collie said, cocking her head.
Gus propped himself up, the cold night air whipping past his face. Their ride gradually took on a disturbing shimmy. He held on, disbelieving their luck.
The driver braked and pulled off onto the shoulder.
“Goddammit,” Gus said, leaning over the side.
Flat tire. Both of them on his side. Then he saw the crossbow bolts.
“No way,” he muttered.
The islanders were already getting out of the stopped rig. Cory jumped out from the passenger side and stepped back, inspecting the damage. He got closer and hunkered down, his face screwing up in distaste.
“What is it?” Gus asked.
“Nails,” Cory reported. “Goddamn nails. Looks like we rolled over one of them spike strips. The kind the cops would use to stop speeders.”
“Improvised spike strip,” Collie declared. “Crude, but it worked. Fucked up all four tires. Everybody out!”
She slapped Gus across an ass cheek to get him moving. The other pickup waited alongside, filled with familiar faces.
“What about the truck?” Gus asked.
“Can’t wait,” Collie said. “Pile into the back and hold on to something.”
She tossed her rifle into the box and went for the driver’s side. “Out,” she ordered upon opening the door. “I’m driving from here on end. Get out or get in the back, but do it fast.”
“Wait,” Gus said, suddenly holding his nose.
She smelled it. As did they all.
The first truck had rammed its way through the roadblock but ruined its tires in doing so. The second truck, while untouched by the nail strips, suffered a different fate.
A disgusted Collie looked over the box wall and sighed. She used her rifle to reach inside and hook the plastic bladder that had ruptured upon impact. She held up the dripping husk for all to see.
“Not the piss bags again,” Gus groaned.
“Piss bags or not,” she said, flicking the offensive matter away, “this is our only ride out of here.”
Far behind them, but not far enough, headlights appeared. Several sets.
That got the group’s feet shuffling. No one wanted to get into the box.
“If you can fit in, hang on,” Collie said, leaving them for the driver’s seat. Gus hopped for the passenger side, beating out Cory before he could protest.
“Where are we going?” Sarah Burton asked from the back seat, mushed against the window. Little Monica was crammed in there as well, holding tight to a worried Bruno. Gus took a second look at the man, disturbed by how dark and sunken his eyes were.
“What?” Bruno asked.
“Nothing,” Gus replied, deciding to keep his thoughts to himself.
Collie hit the gas, throwing Gus back into the front seat. “Buckle up, honeydew,” she said, squaring her shoulders and holding the steering wheel at arm’s length. “We’re going for lightspeed if I can get it.”
“Where the hell are we going?” Sarah Burton demanded, grasping the head rest.
Collie kept her eyes on the road. “North. We’re very close to where we want to be.”
“Where’s that?”
“Secret government bunker.”
That silenced the islander.
Collie glanced at the fuel gauge. “We got a full tank here. That should get us to Whitecap. Maybe. Did we lose anyone back there?”
The interior grew silent.
*
With a dozen Leather at his back, the Vulture stopped upon the threshold of the loading bay and stared out into the predawn night. The mask revealed nothing of the frustration coming to a boil, but the guards surrounding the leader dared not whisper a word. The Vulture took a moment to study the wrecked trucks and the gap punched between them. He saw the improvised spike strip—or what was left of it. The trap had been laid out by the Leather watching the rear door. There was a chance one or both trucks had their tires punctured. If so, the Vulture would find them.
And punish them for their continued impudence.
Engines chuffed and growled to life around the warehouse, moving to the rear where the Leather boarded their rides.
A commotion at his back turned the Vulture around. There, being shoved into the loading bay, were the survivors they’d captured. Bruised and bloodied, but intact. Three were forced to the concrete floor. Machetes tapped necks, keeping the prisoners in place.
One of the lessers approached the Vulture. He paid his respects and the leader bade the man to talk.
“One is an office administrator. One is a bank teller. The other is an assistant manager for a hotel.”
None of that impressed the Vulture. “Where’s the girl?”
The lesser shook his head.
The Vulture turned his head back to the night sky.
The lesser waited.
“Convert them,” the Vulture commanded.
The lesser slowly bowed, keeping his eyes on the leader the whole time.
We’re going after them right away, the Vulture repeated in his mind, fuming at how this small group of nothing flesh managed to once again deny him his prize. They were going somewhere, and the Leather would follow them to the end. When that happened, the Vulture intended to make his displeasure very much known.
And to take the prize for the Dog Tongue.
From the shadows, two of the Leather brought forth a box into the loading bay.
A short time later, the sound of the motorized armada flared to life, drowning out the prisoners’ screams of terror.
23
The pickup sped northward under dawn’s spreading light.
The mood inside had gone from frightened awareness to one of misery. Gus knew the feeling. The loss of a few more islanders had depressed the survivors. Their absence affected Gus as well. He didn’t know one of the missing, but he knew Davis, and Clifford—the other banged-up guy they’d freed from the trailer not so long ago. And he certainly knew Eva, quiet and composed and now feared captured. Not knowing what had happened to them bothe
red Gus, almost enough to tempt him to go back and attempt a rescue. Collie squashed that idea, reasoning there was no way a handful of them could possibly take on the small army of masked crazies, crazies who commanded an army of undead. Not when Whitecap beckoned. As long as they stayed ahead of their pursuers, Collie was certain that she could lose them in the maze of roads surrounding the mountain.
So they drove, passing through the little town of Cochrane on Highway 574. At one point, Collie pulled over and got Gus to take a turn at the wheel. So he did, grateful for something to occupy his mind. He nervously checked his rear-view mirror every five seconds, fully expecting to see a blazing display of headlights. Nothing of the sort happened, however.
A hot wire of light crisped the horizon ahead. The forest on either side of the road grew thicker, more distinct. Collie sat in the passenger seat, her sunglasses lowered, her expression neutral. The clouds broke apart, and the sun that peeked over the hills was a thing of beauty.
“Right there,” Collie said, harsh daylight coloring her face. She pointed. “Slow down.”
Gus did, spotting the turnoff onto a dirt road up ahead. He braked and stopped a few feet away, checking his mirrors as he did so. A sign that read “Private Property” had fallen over in the middle of the dirt road. Dried mud and dust covered the metallic sign, as well as the prints of tire treads. Along the shoulders of the road, however, was something even more ominous. Deep industrial-sized tire prints stamped the earth, creating a stitch-work of great ruts and potholes filled with water. A ruined assortment of saplings and dead brush resembling snapped bones lay in the wake of those prints.
“What came through here?” Sarah Burton asked from the back seat.
“A big ol’ truck,” Gus replied. “Biggest one you ever saw.”
That quieted her for a moment. “A truck made those tracks?”
“You’ll see,” he said. Gus exchanged looks with Collie.
“That rig barely fit the road,” Collie noted. “Like a tank driving over a footpath.”
The operator got out of the truck without comment. She strode over to the sign as if to verify, and then rounded the front of the truck to the driver’s side.
“I’ll take over,” she said, opening Gus’s door. “No one following us.”
“But they will,” he said.
Collie smiled. “They’ll try.”
“We there yet?” Bruno asked, careful not to disturb little Monica cuddled in his arm.
“Not yet,” Collie said, getting behind the wheel. “Give another two hours or so.”
“That far?”
“That far.” She checked the fuel gauge. Gus knew what she was seeing.
“We got a quarter of a tank left,” she said.
“Yeah,” he agreed.
“It’s gonna be close.”
“How close?”
Collie fixed him with a neutral look before driving off the highway. “Pay attention now,” she said and pointed. “You remember the way?”
“Who, me?” he asked. “Hell no. I was stoned for most of the ride here. And I wasn’t driving on the way out.”
“Well, don’t worry,” she assured him. “I got this.”
Gus hoped so. He glanced out the window and studied the deserted highway behind them. As they advanced, the highway disappeared behind a screen of trees. Gravel and rocks popped under the tires, and potholes made the ride a jumpy one. He settled back, bracing for the deeper drops.
The forest thickened into a spotty blend of orange and yellow held up by columns of wrinkled brown. They drove deep into those backwoods, and more than once the road forked off to destinations unknown. Collie kept the truck moving forward without hesitation. Gus tried to remember each turn, tried to commit a landmark to memory, but soon gave up and left the driving to her. He cracked a window, allowing fresh and surprisingly warm air to flood the interior.
Soon the trees parted, framing a set of mountains in the distance.
“That’s it?” Gus asked.
“Not quite.”
“We’re getting closer, though, right?” Bruno asked.
“No,” Collie said as they bounced past a No Trespassing sign. “Not even close. This whole network was designed to confuse Joe Blow from getting anywhere near the base. There were hidden guard posts about halfway in, where security started taking a special interest in anyone ignoring the signs. You know about the Men in Black?”
“Yeah,” Bruno said.
“Well, we had agents in camos stationed all along this road. Enough to scare the bejesus out of the nosier types. If you got this far and didn’t have the right plastic with you, you were greeted by some very intimidating individuals who wanted to know why.”
A nervous Bruno glanced out his window.
“‘Course, that was back in the day,” Collie said. “Now, not so much.”
They scaled a small hill, the road bordered with smashed trees, the splintered branches left upon the shoulders. The whole road was like that, hinting at the passage of a massive piece of machinery.
“Christ almighty,” Gus said. “That thing just fucks up landscapes as it goes along.”
“Easy to see why they had it.”
“What’re you talking about?” Sarah Burton asked.
“You’ll see,” Gus said, then to Collie. “How’s the gas?”
She shook her head. “Remember when I said it was gonna be close?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, I might’ve been wrong.”
That worried Gus. He wasn’t looking forward to another hike in the woods, road or no road. His legs hadn’t recovered from the day before. Hoping to God above that the truck made it all the way, he sat back and watched the wilderness roll by. One thing for certain, they wouldn’t get lost, not when the mighty Komatsu truck from days gone by had left its mark upon the world.
An hour and change later, the pickup began to gasp and sputter.
Gus sat up and glanced over at Collie. She stopped the truck and met his worried stare.
“Don’t tell me we walk from here on,” Gus asked.
She answered with a sad smile and cracked open her door. “Everyone out,” she ordered. “From here on, we walk.”
Fuck, Gus silently mouthed.
“What?” Sarah Burton asked from the rear seat, shoving her glasses up on her nose with a single finger. “What does that mean? I mean, how far do we have to walk?”
She got out of the truck with the others and faced Collie on the other side.
“Another hour,” the operator reported, retrieving her rifle. “Sorry, I had no say in where the place was built.”
Cory stood beside Bruno, and little Monica was between both men, nervously watching the exchange. The others formed up in front of the dead truck. Allie was there, the quiet woman they’d freed not so long ago, as well as Jane Wong and Jeremy Walton. Rich Trinidad was there as well, which, at a quick count, placed the total number of survivors at an even ten.
“It’ll go faster if we start walking right now,” Collie said. “Gather up whatever you got left.”
“There’s nothing left,” Sarah Burton said.
“Nothing?”
“We unloaded everything back at Lazy Lou’s,” Sarah answered. “Wasn’t much to begin with. Just some dried meats and preserves. Stuff that would last a few months if we had needed them. Thing was, we didn’t really expect to have to need it.”
“Not at this stage,” Jane Wong added in a quiet voice.
Collie studied them each in turn. “This way,” she said. She started marching, holding her rifle two-handed. “Wish I had a shoulder strap for this bastard,” she muttered under her breath.
The group followed her.
Gus lagged a bit, watching the road but not able to see very far back.
“You comin’?” Rich Trinidad asked, walking backwards.
Gus took one last look before picking up the pace.
*
The Vulture sat in the formidable cab of the biofuel
-burning Mack truck. His elbow lay upon the windowsill, his fingers tapping out a slow cadence of impatience, one that would irritate anyone listening. The driver, another masked individual, simply lowered his head and awaited orders. Chrome spikes lined his knuckles, which only tightened upon the steering wheel.
The Vulture wondered where their quarry thought they were going. He had reasoned that the bedroom store had been a gathering place for survivors, in the event the island was attacked, but he didn’t know where they would go after that. However, it was clear they were heading somewhere, somewhere with a purpose, rather than fleeing into the Canadian wild. Perhaps another place Carson had chosen not to reveal, despite the Leather’s best attempts at persuasion. He might have to interrogate the mechanic again, but he wondered how much damage Carson could take before he became completely useless.
In any case, this area was littered with dirt roads that snaked off into the wild, most adorned with No Trespassing signs and the like. The road itself wasn’t a wide one, but wide enough to fit the Mack truck. Distinct prints stretched beyond the gravel, flattening the earth on either side, as if a pair of transport trucks or even bulldozers had gone over them multiple times, side-by-side. These prints continued along the roads the Leather ignored, crushing and leaving a terrible stamp upon the countryside. The Vulture doubted that bulldozers had been used, but something had done that to the earth. Something remarkably heavy.
The Vulture’s eyes shifted to his side mirror. Framed there was a long train of vehicles, including fuel tankers. Individuals clad in shining leather rode those machines. Some were visible behind the windshields, while others stood in the box beds of pickup trucks, leering over the roofs like polished gargoyles.
They were mechanized titans. Fuel-injected warlords. And, in this new world, they were the last remaining road clan of any notable power, laying claim to whatever spoils remained.
Mountain Man (Book 5): Make Me King Page 21
