by James Axler
The line of the benches was broken on each side by the mounted blasters that were aligned with the blaster ports. On first climbing into the back, J.B. had checked those visually and could see that the barrels were trapped in the ports, able to move only within the confines of these gaps, and couldn't be used to turn inward to the wag. Given the obvious attitude of their traveling companions, he was relieved.
The work party was seated, four on each side of the wag, at the front end. That left the benches at the rear of the wag for the companions and for Bronson. It was a tight squeeze, but all eight settled themselves.
No one spoke…except Tex. As the wag rolled on through the desert, eating up the blacktop, the nasal, whining drawl became a buzzing irritant that stretched already frayed nerves. For the atmosphere in the rear of the wag was as taut as a piece of elastic stretched to breaking point, and the constant monologue from the driver was like an object that played on the elastic, twanging the stretched material until it would suddenly break.
As with all men of his type, the driver was supremely unaware of the damage he was causing to his passengers' nerves as he kept driving and talking. Behind his back—and that of Crow—the work party kept up a silent campaign of hostile stares at the companions. Ryan and his people did their best to ignore it, but Dean's temper was being pushed to the limit, and of all people the one who seemed to be suffering most was the sec man Bronson, who nervously fingered the trigger of his Uzi and seemed ill at ease with the atmosphere. If Crow knew what was going on—and if he was even listening to what Tex was saying—he kept his peace, his impassive and still figure seemingly unconscious of what was going on behind him.
Ryan felt sure that, if nothing else, the Native American could smell the tension. For the wag wasn't built to comfortably hold that many people, especially on a run in such weather conditions.
The desert sun was now at its height, and although they were spared the direct glare of the glowing orange-red orb, the uninsulated metal of the wag acted as a conductor and storer of the heat, magnifying it and making the interior of the vehicle a sweatbox. The only air came via the breeze stirred by the open blaster ports, and the small door windows at the front of the wag.
The companions had no way of knowing how long the wag journey would be, and it seemed that with each passing minute the temperature in the interior of the wag rose a few degrees, the heat causing everyone effectively trapped within to sweat profusely. Even if the wag had only contained the work party, the atmosphere would have rapidly become close, the heat and smell growing to unpleasant proportions. Doubling this because of the excess number of people crowded into the rear of the vehicle, and adding their mutual distrust and dislike, and it was a recipe for disaster, the brooding, tense atmosphere not helped by the constant whine of Tex's monologue.
It was going to break. And when it broke, it would be violent.
"SO ANYWAYS, I was always telling Slim and Satchel about how you can never trust them damn gaudy sluts down at the Red House. Lord, why Silas don't do somethin' about that place I just don't know. Y'know, I've got nothin' against a good gaudy, 'cause you can just go and have some fun and not ever have to worry about getting' yourself no problems like kids or any shit like that to slow you down, 'cause that's what I always used to worry about since I was with Lula and she had that kid… Course, that was way afore she was killed in that accident back when they was first trying to get the wellhead open and there was that there explosion that chilled twenty. Lord, that must be a few years back now, but I guess you could say that it was one of the best things that kinda happened to me in a way. But anyways, as I was a sayin', I was always telling those dudes not to trust those sluts any farther than they could toss them. Course, it's supposed to be the other way around, but that ain't the point. Point is, they were there doing the do and getting some fun when Satch looked around and found one of the other gaudies had snuck into the room and was diving down his pants looking for his jack. Course, like he said to me, that would've been all right if he'd still been wearing the pants, but he wasn't, so he got real riled and yelled, squirming out from underneath the gaudy on top of him and tryin' to get his hands on this other slut. That would've been okay if not for the fact that Slim still had a part of hisself in her mouth, and as she fell she kinda bit too hard and made the bastard bleed. So there's him cursin' and swearin' and tryin' to beat on her for injuring him, while Satch is trying to catch this other gaudy with nothin' on below the waist—which included his blaster. And dang me if she don't run straight into Waldo, that big retard they use for sec down there. 'Waldo, Waldo, this boy done gone screwed me and don't want to pay,' she says, all innocent and that big lug Waldo pulls out his blaster, and he says—"
"Why don't you shut up," Dean interjected, the heat and incessant noise finally snapping his patience.
The sudden bark of the young man cut Tex short, and in the sudden relative silence of the sweltering wag, there was an increase in tension.
"Why can't Tex say what he wants?" Hal growled, "Why should some boy tell him what he can and can't do."
"Hell, Hal, I knows I can sometimes get a mite carried away and go on and on without stopping, like a gaudy slut on extra time, and—"
"No, this time you do shut the fuck up," Hal broke in across him, '"cause the way you could talk the pads off a stickle ain't got jackshit to do with it."
"So what has it got to do with?" Ryan answered in a growl even lower and more threatening than the workman's.
"It's got to do with you uppity dipshits comin' in out of nowhere and tryin' to muscle in our jack," Hal returned.
"And nothing to do with not getting our pussy?" Mildred countered.
"You take our jack, we take it out in trade," Emerson rumbled from behind Hal.
"We don't want your jack," Ryan said. "We just want our blasters back and to get on our way."
"Yeah, sure, but if Crow here decides that he wants to divide up the bonuses with you, you ain't gonna say no," Hal continued.
"Think we triple stupe as you look?" Jak said, sneering. Never the best traveler, the confined space, heat and movement of the wag made him feel like puking, and made his temper unnaturally short. This pointless argument was beginning to grate on his nerves.
Rysh decided to take up the argument. He half rose from his seat, swaying unevenly as the wag raced across the old blacktop, and leaned across to where Jak was sitting, hunched into himself to try to counter the feeling of sickness.
"Listen, you white-faced mutie scum, why don't you keep your views to yourself, 'cause I don't want to listen to the opinions of some piece of shit freak like you. That okay with you, is it?" he said mockingly, leaning almost into Jak's face. He was bent over, legs slightly apart to keep his balance, his left hand gripping the mounting shaft of the blaster that divided the bench seats.
"Oh, dear," Doc murmured to himself.
For Doc had seen Jak tense within his jacket, which he had wrapped around him protectively despite the heat. The multicolored patches, dulled in hue by time and travel, contained tiny pieces of metal that were sewn into the fabric and kept the much repaired camou jacket together. Doc, seated right next to Jak, had seen some of the small metal shapes just shimmer as they moved slightly.
He knew it meant just one thing: trouble.
Rysh's sneering smile was still right in Jak's face when the albino moved. His calf muscles had tensed and pushed, throwing his body forward. This momentum was increased by a nod of his head that brought his cranium forward at the optimum point of his torso's movement, giving his scarred and pitted forehead extra momentum at the point of impact.
It was a sudden and violent movement, unexpected in such a confined space despite the air of tension and the taunting. Jak's stringy white hair flailed around him in strands as his forehead connected with the bridge of Rysh's nose, the crack sounding preternaturally loud in the enclosed space.
The thickset and muscular workman howled like a baby as the bone in his nose splintere
d beneath the impact, shards of it tearing through the skin and nasal membrane to gush out of his nostrils with the seeming river of blood that flowed freely. His eyes blurred, suddenly distant and out of focus as he staggered back instinctively, his grip loosening on the blaster's mounting shaft that had been helping him to keep his balance.
Tex was unable to resist a quick look over his shoulder, yelling "Fuck!" when he saw what was happening. Despite this, Crow didn't look back, but he did notice that the wag suddenly slewed across the road as the distracted Tex lost concentration for a second. The vehicle jerked as it moved, the sudden change of direction throwing the occupants in the back off balance.
Tex looked back quickly and corrected his course. But the damage was already done. Rysh, with no mounting shaft to steady him, and his senses misted by, the pain, staggered in the middle of the wag before falling onto his back. He hit the floor of the wag with a groan as the air was driven from him—not by the impact of the fall but by the sudden intervention of Jak's knees on his abdomen.
Jak was the only traveler in the back of the wag not to be affected by the sudden change of equilibrium. The same innate sense that had made him such an excellent hunter enabled him to adjust within a fraction of a second to the sudden movements and maintain the poise that had enabled him to win fights against heavier, better-armed opponents. Rysh's falling had just made Jak's task easier, for the youth had already launched himself through the momentum of the head butt, his legs uncoiling beneath him, with the sole purpose of driving his larger opponent to the deck and using the man's own weight to make him land heavily and drive the breath from him. The fact that Rysh had already started the fall made it easier.
Too easy for Jak. As the workman lay on his back, straddled by the wiry and immensely strong albino, with his eyes still unfocused and his brain failing to register what was happening through the pain, he was only aware of the fact that he could now taste the blood from his nose down the back of his throat, and it was starting to choke him.
Jak punched him hard, one, two, three times. Each blow was with the full force his forearm, to protect his knuckles, and was aimed at the prone man's temple. Quite simply, Jak wanted to cave in the man's skull at its weakest, most vulnerable point.
The other workmen had been stunned by the sudden ferocity and speed of the attack, but now it was beginning to dawn on them that the albino would actually kill their colleague unless they intervened.
"Nuke shit! Rysh'll buy the farm unless we stop the little fucker," Tilson roared. He was the wiriest of the workmen, and also the one who had been the least antagonistic toward the companions. But this was too much for him. With a speed that his wiry frame suggested, he reached for his blaster. A snub- nosed .38 Smith & Wesson, it nestled in a holster in the small of his back, and it was only that fact that saved Jak from a chilling. For it took him a fraction of a second longer to reach to his back than it would have done to reach to his waist. And that fraction of a second was all that Ryan needed.
Tilson may have been quick, but the one-eyed man was quicker. The almost incoherent roar of rage from Tilson had drawn Ryan's eye to him, and as the man's hand began to move toward the small of his back, so Ryan began to move. Pushing himself from his seat, he took an explosive spring step that propelled him past the prone Rysh and Jak. He twisted his heavily muscled torso so that his body began to spread full length across the workers seated on the bench seat. Because Ryan had one big problem—if Tilson had been seated diagonally opposite, then he could have leaped across and tackled him head-on. But the workman was actually seated on the same side of the wag as the one-eyed warrior, and so he had not only to leap from one end of the wag to the other, but also to change direction so as to be facing his opponent.
It was tight, but he managed it. He felt sinews strain as he tried to attain enough momentum, and as Tilson's blaster hand emerged from behind his back, thumb already cocking the blaster's hammer, Ryan was able to reach for the man's wrist and pinion it in his own iron grip.
Tilson gritted his teeth and hissed a barely suppressed yelp of sudden agony as Ryan's muscular wrist tensed, and the fingers like rods of steel closed on his own bony wrist, crushing cartilage and bone and cutting off the blood supply to his fingers.
The nerves in his fingers twitched, enough to make his trigger finger squeeze and loose off a round within the wag. His arm had been forced right back behind and above his head by the sudden action of the one-eyed man, almost wrenching the arm from its socket. His hand now pointed toward the roof of the wag, the muzzle of the blaster almost touching the rounded metal top of the vehicle.
The explosion of the blaster within the wag was deafening, resounding with a ringing that continued for some seconds. The stink of cordite joined that of sweat and fear. The slug hit the roof and ricocheted wickedly, driving across the far side of the wag and almost taking off the top of Emerson's head. The large workman ducked instinctively and overbalanced, falling onto Jak, who was still in the process of beating the now insensible Rysh.
The slug whined back, plucking at the shoulder of J.B.'s jacket as the Armorer's instincts and experience made him calculate the angles and move out of the way, pushing down Mildred as he did so. The ricocheting shell finally came to rest in the leg of Bronson, hitting the sec man in the shin and shattering the bone. He yelled and went deathly white, the color draining from his face at the shock and pain. He dropped his Uzi and grasped at his leg, blood pouring over his fingers as he dropped off his seat beside Krysty.
The Titian-haired beauty would have attended to his wound, if not for the fact that the shot had galvanized everyone into action, and she had to first defend herself and her companions.
Ryan and Tilson were still struggling, the wiry worker trying hard to head butt the man, but not having the momentum to get any real force into it. Their hands were still locked together, though the nerveless fingers of his blaster hand had let the weapon fall behind him with a clatter against the side of the wag. In his attempts to reach across, Ryan had thrown himself against Hal, Mikey and Hay, pinning them to their seats. But only until the initial shock had passed. As soon as they had gathered their collective wits, Ryan found himself under attack and in no position to defend himself. He gritted his teeth and winced heavily as Hal brought his fist down in a rabbit punch to Ryan's kidneys, the pain coursing through his body. He felt Hay try to bend his leg against the knee, and he sharply brought the knee up so that it hit the workman in the chest. But with no real swing, there was equally no real force behind the blow. Mikey was in the middle, and ideally in the position to disable Ryan instantly, as he aimed a blow at the one-eyed warrior's unprotected groin.
He didn't have a chance to make the blow.
As soon as he had avoided the ricochet and had pushed Mildred down with him, J.B. had risen to his feet and jumped across the small interior of the wag, avoiding the grappling bodies in the middle of the confined space. He had identified Mikey as the man most likely to disable Ryan in the group, and had no hesitation in aiming where his first blow was to be struck. His arm extended rigid as he drove his hand forward, palm flat to the ground, fingers bent at the first and second knuckle joint. The ridge of bone and tissue made by the finger between the first and second joint was rock hard, and drove into the space between the point of Mikey's chin and his thorax, driving his Adam's apple up into his mouth so that he felt his throat was exploding from within. The excruciating pain caused him to momentarily black out, and all thoughts of attacking Ryan were lost.
Without pause, and without even having to think about it, J.B. pulled back his arm and pivoted on his heel, turning toward the still pinioned Hay, who, having seen the Armorer disable the man next to him with ease, was now desperately trying to free himself. He looked up at J.B. with an almost pathetic expression in his eyes, which the Armorer ignored as he drove his arm forward again, this time with fingers extended and rigid. The blow smashed into Hay's face, deflected from its intended path of between his eyes by Hay's
raised left arm. The blow took out one of his eyeballs, the ball popping from the socket and resting on his cheek. The iron-hard fingers of the Armorer broke the socket bone.
Freed from the attentions lower down his body, Ryan was able to finish what he had started. Tilson's dead arm went limp in his grasp, and the one-eyed warrior loosened his grip, allowing the useless arm to fall down. His other hand was still locked in a grip with Tilson's other hand, their fingers enmeshed in a grip neither could relent.
It did, of course, leave Ryan with a free hand. He formed it into a fist and drove it twice into the side of Tilson's head, the stinging blows making the man's head ring, and a numbness creep down his face. Stunned, his grip on Ryan's other hand weakened momentarily, and the one-eyed man used this advantage to twist savagely, breaking Tilson's wrist. As it snapped and went limp, another iron fist pummeled the workman's face, and consciousness left him.
This just left Hal, who had been torn between aiding Mikey or Tilson, and as a result had helped neither.
"Sweet Jesus," he whispered as he found J.B. and Ryan in front of him. It seemed as though he would just submit…but then, with a yell that was part savage and part resignation, he threw himself at both of them.
It was a noble but pointless gesture. Both men hammered him in the face and body with a succession of blows as he rose from the seat, and in mere seconds he was an unconscious, bloody heap slumping back to the bench seat.
That left Mildred, Krysty, Dean and Doc to deal with the remaining men. Doc landed a right hook on the rising Emerson that knocked the man into the path of Mildred, and she and Dean finished the burly worker with a succession of kicks and punches that soon rendered him unconscious. Molloy was next in line. He tried to take Doc from behind with a blow from the butt of his blaster—the workers had realized as soon as Tilson squeezed off a shot that the dangers of using blasters in such a confined space made them impractical except as clubs. Doc moved, taking the blow on the outside edge of his shoulder, and caught the worker with an upward blow to the solar plexus that doubled him. A shove from Doc's boot in his ass pushed him toward Dean and Mildred, who finished him off.
