I can't help grinning. "Sounds like a plan, Small Fry."
Dropping the lock-bar, I thrust both of my arms out to the sides and rotate them at the elbows. One of the benefits of having Swiss Army hands: I'm never unprepared. The metal digits flip inward, and in their place, pivoting outward from each wrist, I now have two blades. I like to think of them as medieval broadswords. Close enough.
Squeezing between the crates and crushing a few inward as I pass, I make my way toward the front end of the shipping container. With two swipes of my blade-arms, I cut a gash in the corten steel wide enough to peel and punch my way through.
In case I didn't already, now I definitely have the attention of the pair inside the truck. The guard leans out of the cab and fires a few bursts from his Tavor assault rifle, sending rounds pinging off my forearms with sparks of light. I duck back into the cargo container and reach for that lock-bar. My right blade retracts into a compartment in my forearm as my metal fingers make a reappearance, gripping the bar like a javelin.
Usually, I try to avoid killing these raiders. They're not the enemy, not really. Their superiors have given them a job to do, and they do it. Efficiently. I've never gotten the feeling that it's personal, that they sit in dark corners during their off-hours and cackle gleefully at the thought of starving North American survivors to death.
But who knows? Maybe that's exactly what they do.
"Stop this truck!" I bellow.
The guard fires another few bursts in my general direction. The driver doesn't slow down one iota. Which is disconcerting, considering the terrain. Wouldn't take much to capsize this rig.
The next burst of weapons fire is too close for comfort. Almost hits my fleshy trunk—the part of me holding all the important wet works. Not that I'm overweight; I'm stronger now than I've ever been. Have to be, lugging these mechanical arms and legs around. Round-the-clock weight training.
"Pull over! Last warning!" I shout.
A few expletives from the guard this time, followed by yet another volley.
I've had enough of this little dance.
I hurl the lock-bar through the back of the cab, and it impales the guard. He slumps out the open window with his arms dangling, the rifle swinging from its strap.
Stepping forward, I plow my left blade through the cab's rear wall, right through the middle, and tear a hole big enough to see the driver. Can't make out the face inside the helmet, but the semiautomatic pistol aimed between my eyes is clear enough.
"We're not stopping," she says, keeping an eye on the barren landscape ahead. Smart, considering its unpredictable nature. One-handed, she steers us around occasional outcroppings of rock, ditches, and soft patches of sand that would send this tractor-trailer pitching off course if given half a chance. Without my mechatronic legs, I'd be having a tough time keeping my balance as we careen along the way. "Now you get the hell off my rig. Or I blow your brains out."
"I've got a better idea." I crush her gun with my right hand and pull it free of her grip. "You put on the brakes, and I'll let you walk away."
For a second, it looks like she's turned to stone at the wheel. Then she nods once and applies the air brakes, trailer first. As we decelerate into the dust she's been kicking up, I flip my left blade back into a mechanical hand and swing myself around the outside of her door. I watch her set the parking brakes.
Then I tear her door off and toss it twenty meters away. Just for show, really.
"Get out." I drop to the ground and wait for her to join me.
She moves slowly, keeping her hands where I can see them. "Why are you doing this?" Sounds like a bit of the fight has gone out of her. I can't see her expression behind the dark face shield, but I have a feeling she's spitting mad.
"I could ask you the same thing." Out of the corner of my eye, I see Shechara approach. She's got a 9mm in both hands, elbows locked in the tactical stance I taught her, muzzle trained on the driver. "You're stealing our food, our fuel and supplies."
"It's not yours," the raider scoffs. "It's ours. Always has been."
So she might actually be one of those bad apples who cackles in the dark.
"The world's changed," I reply. "North America doesn't exist for the benefit of the United World anymore. Maybe we did, once. Manufacturing and producing everything for you. But as you can probably tell, now we need it more."
"There is no United World. There is only Eurasia." She holds her spine straight, like she's real proud of something. Herself, most likely. "We live only now, never looking back."
"And those who ignore the past are doomed to repeat it." I shake my head at her. She's old enough to know better. "Start walking." I point toward her sore compadres, indistinct shapes in the distance. "We'll bury him."
She glances at the dead guard with the lock-bar skewering him through the chest. A length of steel piercing his heart like that would have killed him instantly. I gave him a chance to cease and desist, and he declined. I'm not thrilled that I ended him, but at least he didn't suffer any.
"We'll find you." The driver side-steps around Shechara and backs away from the truck. "There's nowhere you can take this rig without us knowing about it."
True enough. We don't have the time or the equipment to scan for a tracking device. My arms can do a lot of things, but not that.
"Until we meet again, then." I stare her down, my unreadable black goggles going up against her face shield. Guess we both win.
She walks away without a glance back, in no hurry to meet her bruised and battered pals. That pristine suit of hers will be as dusty as theirs in no time. It's obvious she's been behind the wheel for a while, not getting her boots dirty.
"Bury him?" Shechara inclines her head toward the dead guy.
Not now. We've got to get moving if we want to reach Stack before the raiders' reinforcements show up.
"Once we get to where we're going." I shrug my shoulders of flesh and bone. "If we can find the time."
"You big softy." She turns her goggles toward the retreating driver and tucks the 9mm into her belt. She keeps one hand resting on the grip, just in case. "Sure you can drive this thing?"
My grin is lost behind the head covering wrapped around my face, but I can't help it. I smile anyway. She has that effect on me.
"Girl, there's nothing on this wasted continent I can't drive. You know that."
"Have you driven one of these before?"
"Well, no."
"So this could be the first time you're stumped?" There's a playfulness in her tone.
"Let's get moving."
She skips toward me and stands on tip-toe, and I bend at the waist. Takes some effort, but we've figured out how to deal with our height difference. She's fun-sized, I'm cyborg-monster-sized, but somehow we make it work. Once the sun goes down, we won't have to kiss like a pair of mummies, pressing our lips together with these dusty head-rags in the way.
"I'll follow you, big guy." She pats my chest and returns to her jeep.
She'll keep an eye on our six while I steer this rig twenty klicks north, toward the only place other than the coast where shipping containers are a common sight. Once we're there, the locals will slide it off the flatbed to sit beside others of its kind. Then I'll ditch this tractor-trailer as far away as I can in the opposite direction. The last thing I want to do is draw any unwarranted attention to Stack. So far, they've managed to survive without earning the enmity of the UW raiders. Or Eurasian, if that woman's right about them no longer thinking of themselves as hailing from the United World.
Must be nice to be whatever you want to be. Reinvent yourself.
My gaze falls on my mechanical hands, metal digits curled around the rig's steering wheel as I sink into the driver's seat. I suppose I've gone through a couple rounds of reinvention myself.
"Strongman, this is Eagle Eye, over," Shechara's voice comes through the radio clipped to my shoulder.
I'm grinning again. "Trucker names?"
"Thought it was appropriate,
considering."
"My thoughts are somehow inappropriate at the moment, Eagle Eye." I release the brakes and rev the engine, allowing the truck to roll forward as I get a feel for how it handles. Starting out slow before I ramp things up. "How about you and me schedule a passionate tryst in this here trailer, say 1500 hours? Clothing optional?"
Her laughter is music. "How about you keep your eyes on the road, Strongman?"
Probably a good idea. But I'm already thinking back on our most recent delightful encounter—when was that? Yesterday morning? Last night? It was dark out, either way. She was incredible, as always. Said I warmed up my metal parts to the perfect temperature, just the way she likes it. Then again, she always says that.
She's never cringed away from my inorganic limbs. And I've never looked away from her eyes. Because they're beautiful, like polished silver and diamonds. Rare. Valuable. Unlike any other eyes on the planet. When she looks at me, I feel—
The engine makes an awful grinding noise as I shift gears, and the rig shudders so much I'm afraid it's going to stall.
"Is that a normal sound, Strongman?"
"Not a good one, Eagle Eye. Maybe I should call you Eagle Ear."
"Pretty sure everybody over in Stack heard that."
"Then they'll know we're on our way." The truck lurches forward, and without warning, it's off, rolling right along and gaining speed. "Hope you can keep up."
"Roger that, good buddy. Eagle Eye out."
I glance at the side mirror but can't see her jeep. Probably in my blind spot. And the screen of dust I'm kicking up isn't helping the view any. Best to focus on what's ahead.
I take the rig at half-speed off the beaten path traversed by the raiders on their trips to and from the coast. That unpaved road-of-sorts was uneven at best. This is untamed wilderness, and it's downright bumpy. I have to strap in just to keep from bouncing out of my seat.
"You go much slower, Strongman, and we might be able to welcome the raiders' reinforcements in style. Just the two of us."
"Thought you said out. That usually implies an end to the conversation."
"Am I distracting you? Does my big, strong man need to focus all of his attention on driving right now?" She's using that pouty voice she reserves for my grumpier moments. When I'm taking things too seriously.
Like when I'm hijacking a UW tractor-trailer.
"How're we looking, Eagle Eye? Any bogeys?"
"None to report. Will keep you posted. Eagle Eye out."
I wait for her to come back on the line, but she doesn't. And for the next ten klicks, the ride is uneventful—except for being a literal pain in my ass as I jounce and lurch, upping the speed just enough to make better progress without overturning the trailer. Or jackknifing. Wouldn't want that, either.
"No raiders in sight, Strongman," Shechara provides the halfway-point update.
"If you're not seeing them, they're not there, Eagle Eye."
"True enough."
Sometimes it's hard to believe she was that shy, quiet woman I met five years ago. Tough to get a word out of her back then. She and Daiyna were as tight as sisters, and they always had plenty to say to each other. Words mostly, but sometimes just expressions, like they shared a secret language.
We've all missed Daiyna. Luther loved her, I'm pretty sure. But Shechara lost a part of herself when Daiyna went off on her own.
Guess I was there when Shechara needed a friend. We bonded. Finding out we had ten kids generated in test tubes should have been enough to drive us apart, but it had the opposite effect. We talked about them, about maybe meeting them someday. Seeing who they look more like, me or her. We both agreed they should look like her, for their sake.
Back in the bunker, and even after we climbed out, I always dreamed of having multiple wives. Made sense, since we were the breeders, and it would be our job after All-Clear to repopulate the planet. Or so we were told. But Shechara is more than enough woman for me, even though she's only half my size. She's the other half I never knew I was missing. And now I can't imagine my life without her in it.
Being the closest thing to a preacher anywhere on this continent, Luther performed our marriage ceremony. That was seriously the happiest day of my life. Sometimes we talk about going back there, meeting up with the others. But I don't think we will. Better to hold onto the good memories of what things were like before the missile strike.
Two dirt bikes appear from behind a pair of boulders, one at my ten o'clock, the other at my two, fifty meters ahead in the late afternoon's fading light. Motors grinding, they kick up clouds of dust on approach. Chunky tires skid across the hardpan once they've cut the distance in half. Chugging idly, they sit there, each with a Wastelander in the saddle.
These marauders are a different breed. Nobody knows where they come from or how they de-evolved into insanity. Maybe they lacked a community of right-minded individuals seeking the common good instead of survival for its own sake. They don't seem to care about building a better life or fighting back against the UW raiders. Instead, they've embraced the late 20th century's vision of a post-apocalyptic lifestyle.
I may have watched a few of those films in the bunker. More than once.
"We've got company," I tell Shechara.
"I see them." Her jeep sidles up alongside the rig as I slow it down, balancing the trailer brakes with the truck's. "Not from Stack."
"Agreed." We're about five klicks away. Usually, Stack's sentries hold a perimeter a kilometer out.
The Wastelanders keep their hands on the grips of their dirt bikes. They face me in their bleached-white skull-masks, grinning with all the personality of a Jolly Roger. No way to tell what expressions hide underneath. Black goggles cover their eyes, and a bizarre amalgam of body armor, sandcloth, bones, and man-made feathers adorn their bodies. I assume the feathers are synthetic, since nobody's seen any birds around since before D-Day.
I set the parking brake once I'm within a few meters of their front tires, but I keep the engine running. I don't plan on staying here for long. If these fools intend to hijack a hijacker, they're in for a rude awakening.
"A little early for Halloween, don't you think?" I shout, leaning one mechanical elbow out my window. Then I give them a nod through the windshield. Neighborly, but not interested in leaving my seat.
"Halloween." They glance at each other and shrug. Then the one who spoke points at my silent passenger—the dead guy with a lock-bar through his chest. "Nice costume."
"You from Stack?" I say.
They shake their heads. Didn't think so.
"You're trespassing," says the Wastelander. "You have to pay the toll."
"This your land?"
They both nod.
"Funny." I pause. "Didn't see any signs posted."
The quiet one reaches behind his back. But he's not going for a weapon. Instead, he's got a length of rebar in one hand with a human skull mounted on top. He plants the thing into the ground, marking their territory.
"This is the way of things," he says.
Simultaneously, they reach for their belts. Slow and easy. Going for gunmetal now.
I grab hold of my dead traveling companion and haul both his arms and his assault rifle inside the cab. As the two Wastelanders draw their revolvers and aim our way—one at Shechara's jeep, one at me—I plow my left arm through the rig's windshield, popping it free and sending it sliding down the engine compartment. At the same time, I aim the dead raider's Tavor at them.
Oddly enough, they don't seem surprised.
"Half your load or half your woman," the first Wastelander says, slouching behind the .45 caliber muzzle of a classic Desert Eagle. His partner is a mirror image. "We decide which half."
Easy choice.
"Not my load. Help yourself." I rest the Tavor on the dashboard, keeping it aimed between the two bikers. "Back door's already open."
"Put your gun down."
"Not mine either." I don't move it. A sidelong glance is all I need to see Shechara
in her jeep with her 9mm out, ready for action. "Unless you've got backup, you'll want to hurry. The raiders we hijacked? Their reinforcements are on the way."
They have no response to that—other than looking at each other and sitting up straighter in their saddles. I could shoot them both right now. But one of those super-sized revolvers is pointed at Shechara, and I can't risk a knee-jerk trigger-pull. I'm sure she's got a headshot lined up, and I'm equally sure she won't take the same risk where I'm concerned.
"Deactivate the tracker," the Wastelander says, proud of himself. Problem solved, he thinks.
So, he doesn't have any backup.
"Would if I could. Don't have a scanner." I shrug. "We've got all kinds of good stuff up for grabs. What're you waiting for?"
They look at each other again, skulls gaping. Then, in unison, they pivot their muzzles skyward and raise their other hands as if to say no harm, no foul.
"Aw, they don't want a fight," Shechara says on my radio.
I keep the Tavor pointed their way. "Change your minds?"
Both Wastelanders holster their giant revolvers and nod to me, pushing with their boots to back up their bikes. They stop once my path is clear again.
"See you in Stack," says the second one.
Wouldn't surprise me if they were able to speak telepathically to each other. Stranger things have happened on this continent.
Revving their motors, they swing their bikes around 180 degrees in an impressive display of road warrior skills and tear off in the direction we're headed.
"That was weird," Shechara says.
"Those types usually are." I release the parking brake.
"I couldn't see them lying in wait."
"They were hiding behind solid rock. Far as I know, you don't have x-ray vision, Sweetness."
"I should have noticed something. Heat signatures."
"Don't let it get to you. All kinds of uncanny abilities are sprouting up these days."
"Maybe." She doesn't sound convinced.
We cover the next four klicks without any raider or Wastelander sightings. When the three Stack sentries eventually stop us with hands raised in the universal gesture for halt and their rifles aimed at the ground, we comply.
Spirits of the Earth: The Complete Series: (A Post-Apocalyptic Series Box Set: Books 1-3) Page 84
