Salvation Road

by James Axler

  That just left Doc and Jak. The old man was mentally unstable at times because of the things he had experienced in his bizarre and unique life. But the bottom line was that Doc's determination and fire kept him mostly sane, and was what had caused the prenukecaust whitecoats to push him further forward in time after plucking him from the past. Doc wouldn't like the idea of walking away from a job half-done. And Jak was another matter altogether. He was a born fighter and hunter who had lived through seeing his wife and child killed before tracking down the killers and exacting revenge. The albino was the last person to leave anything undone.

  It seemed to Ryan like forever since he had last spoken, and he was aware of Crow watching him intently. If the Native American reported back to Baron Silas that Ryan and his people couldn't or wouldn't do the job, then would the baron decide that they had a price to pay for opting out?

  The attitudes he knew his friends to hold, and the possible repercussions of leaving, were two factors that combined to make only one answer possible.

  "Tell him we're going to get the fireblasted shitters behind this, and to hell with what those stupes think. We don't run away from a fight if we can win it, and this one we can win."

  Crow allowed a rare smile to crack on his heavily tanned and lined face. "I kind of figured you'd say that. So is there any plan of action that you want to tell me, or would you rather keep it to yourselves?"

  "I don't see any harm in sharing it with you or Baron Silas except for one thing—we don't really have a plan," Ryan replied. "That's what we need to get together before we patrol tonight."

  J.B. sat back, pushing his fedora up on his forehead and scratching at his head as he spoke thoughtfully, "I guess what we really need is to get an overall idea of the layout. We've ridden it, but we need to quarter it up so that we can plan a series of watches."

  "Exactly," agreed the one-eyed man.

  He turned to Crow. "Are there any plans of the sites that are down on paper and that we can use? I'd guess there should be."

  The Native American agreed. "Myall must use something to plan his patrols. I guess the best thing is to ask him."

  "Let me," Jak said, rising to his feet.

  The albino walked out into the sun, screwing up his eyes as the harsh and brilliant light hit him. He walked over to the paddock, where he could see McVie coaching some of the sec riders.

  "Hey, Whitey, how's things?" McVie greeted Jak as he approached. "Hear you and Crow had some trouble last night."

  "Stupe fighting," Jak said offhandedly. "Myall around?"

  "Sleeping. He was on late patrol out at the well," McVie replied. "Unless it's real necessary I wouldn't like to disturb him, so is there anything I can do?"

  "Mebbe. Got paper for this?" Jak asked, indicating the immediate area with a sweep of his arm.

  "What, the sec camp or the workers' camp?"

  "Both. And well and refinery," Jak added.

  McVie scratched at his chin, screwing up his eyes as he thought. "Guess there must be, 'cause we must have planned the patrols somehow. But it's been such a while that I can't…just used to doing it from memory," he added.

  Jak said nothing, but it crossed his mind that the sec patrols had been taking the same routes for so long that they had grown stale, maybe not so attentive to change. That would make them soft, and easy prey for the saboteurs.

  "Tell you what," McVie said finally, "come with me."

  Jak followed the sec man across the camp, past the area where the radio shack was erected, and to the back of the blockhouse where the food for the camp was prepared and served.

  "In here," McVie said, beckoning Jak to follow him through a door that led past the kitchens and into a small office area. It was a room barely big enough for the table and chair that stood in it, and the table was bare on top, with two drawers beneath. "Myall keeps our patrol schedules and routes in here," he said as he opened one of the drawers. "I don't know what's what, seeing as how I don't read, but I guess there must be a map of some kind here as we had to know where we were going in the first place, right?"

  The stocky sec man took a bundle of papers from the table drawer and placed them on the top. He spread some of them out, looking for something that was a drawing rather than covered in—to him—incomprehensible writing. There were several drawn maps, and although all of them were labeled, he was unable to work out which ones mapped out which areas.

  "Hell, I sure hope you can make something out of all this." He shrugged, stepping back to let Jak come near. The albino had limited reading skills, but he knew enough and had enough intelligence to work out which of the maps were of the camp area, and which of the well and refinery. He picked out two maps that folded out to nearly the area of the table, and put the rest of the papers back in the drawer, closing it.

  "Tell Myall have these," he remarked to McVie.

  "Yeah, sure," the stocky sec man replied. "Wanna tell me why you got them, just so I can tell him?"

  Jak studied the sec man's face, his red eyes piercing over his thin, hawklike nose. McVie felt a shiver of fear pass over him at the cold way Jak regarded him, like an eagle about to stoop on its prey. For his part, Jak was trying to decide whether McVie was asking the question from anything other than an idle curiosity.

  Finally, he replied, "Just say Ryan need." He walked past McVie and out of the office, leaving the stocky sec man with the feeling that he had come close to buying the farm, without being able to explain why he had that feeling.

  When Jak arrived back at the companions' quarters with the maps, Ryan and J.B. spread them out across the long dining table. The two maps joined together to form a long diagram of the work camp, the refinery, the well and the area in between.

  "Look at this," J.B. said as he indicated the area between. "In the dark night there are blind spots where even the most alert of sec patrols could be avoided."

  "Even if the saboteurs used wags like the one we saw the other night? Surely the sound would carry across the desert and alert us," Dean said.

  "Yeah, but any wag could outrun those horses, so the speed would beat the noise factor hands down," Mildred pointed out.

  "That's true," Ryan agreed. "If we leave the work camp to Myall and his men, to keep it sealed at night, that still leaves us a lot of ground to cover with just the seven of us."

  "Then may I suggest, my dear Ryan," Doc said as he removed one of the maps and let it fall to the floor with a gentle flutter, "that we completely forget about the area between there and here, and concentrate instead on the work sites themselves."

  "Problem there is that we've got the pipeline between to cover," Krysty said, running her index finger along the line on the map that represented the pipe system linking the well to the refinery and the storage tanks.

  Ryan examined the map closely. It was a relatively large area, and an extremely awkward shape to cover from all angles.

  "J.B., what do you reckon?" Ryan asked his old friend. The Armorer had a mind like a steel trap when it came to sec matters.

  "My opinion?" J.B. pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. "I don't think we can actually cover the whole area completely with just the seven of us. And I don't think we can trust the sec here to help us. Not," he added hurriedly as he saw Crow's expression, "because they aren't any good, or might be behind this, but because they're not used to being with us, and it'd be more difficult to manage if they were just running around out there trying to second-guess what we were doing."

  "You'd have the radios," Crow said simply.

  "Yeah, but we know how to fight together. They'd get in the way and make it hard. They could end up getting hurt. More important, they could stop us getting at whoever is behind this," Ryan interjected.

  Returning his attention to J.B. he asked, "So how do we quarter this up?"

  The Armorer felt in one of his pockets and produced a stub of pencil with which he drew a series of lines swift and straight across the map. "Way I see it, there are twelve points on her
e where they could stage an attack that would take out the site and cause a lot of damage." He marked twelve points: two at the storage tanks, three along the pipeline, two at the well and five at the refinery buildings, including the pipes that ran between them. "We need to keep a constant watch on those twelve."

  "Except there are only seven of us," Krysty added.

  Ryan nodded. "So the best thing we can do is take seven of those points on each watch, keep on them for four hours, then move around to another seven points for the next four."

  "That keeps the night watch busy, and covers all points, but leaves five points unprotected for half the night."

  "Not much we can do about that," Ryan said, "except mebbe to keep those uncovered points staggered so that no two of them are close together, and to stagger them on each night so no one can work out a pattern."

  "Sounds good." Crow spoke softly but firmly. "Baron Silas will approve."

  "Baron Silas doesn't have any choice," Ryan answered shortly. "Now pass me that pencil, J.B., and let's get the first night's route planned right now."

  BARON SILAS WAS SEATED at the head of the long dining table in his dining hall, surrounded by his pre-dark antiques. He was brooding darkly on the situation regarding his well and refinery, getting slowly drunk on moonshine brewed on the far side of the walled ville, in a quarter that was allegedly under scrutiny from his sec force. In fact, it was the home of an illicit still that he kept from being closed down because it supplied the best moonshine in this or any other ville. He had a large pitcher in front of him, and it was almost empty.

  "Girl!" he yelled, his voice echoing in the empty hall. The double doors at the far end opened, and one of the redheaded maids he kept as his personal fetish slid into the room.

  "Yes, sir?" she asked in a honeyed drawl, her dark eyes and Hispanic coloring betraying the nature of her hair. "What can I do for you, Baron."

  "Plenty, mebbe…mebbe later," he mumbled, before adding in a louder, clearer tone, "Get me more of this hooch, girl, and look lively about it." With which he drained the jug and sent it spinning down the table toward her. She took it smoothly and turned without a word, exiting the room silently.

  "Gaudy slut," he mumbled under his breath. "Think I don't know what y'all say about me when I'm not around? Think I can't hear in this house?" he added in a shout, knowing that the cameras would pick him up. "Shit, just give me a sign," he added inconsequentially.

  He had just drained his glass when the door opened, and instead of the maid he was expecting, Crow entered with the jug of moonshine.

  "Hellfire and damnation," Baron Silas breathed, "I do believe sometimes that my old daddy was right, and there truly is a greater force."

  "That's as may be," Crow replied even though he knew it hadn't been directed at him, "but my people could have told you that a long time ago."

  "There's a lot of things your people could tell me if I choose to listen," Silas snapped back. "But I'm only interested in listening to you right now. What's been going on?"

  "Plenty. The usual fighting among the workers and their families—"

  "Shit, what do we expect? They all hate each other from a distance, let alone when they're real uptight and close. It's a wonder they ain't all chilled each other already. Fuck 'em, as long as enough stay alive to open up the well."

  Crow bit hard on his tongue. To see these people's hatred had a greater effect on him than on the cold-heart baron.

  "Any of 'em tried to blow the well and got caught?" the baron asked.

  "No, but there was an attempt to blow part of the refinery a few nights back."

  "What?" Baron Silas sat forward, knocking a dirty plate off the table as his feet clattered to the floor. "Why didn't Myall tell me of this?"

  " 'Cause he didn't know. Cawdor and his people stumbled on the attempt and chased off the saboteur. Didn't get him 'cause he was using a wag. Mean bastard of a bomb he left, too. But J.B. managed to defuse it. Brave man, smart with it. Ran a check on the plas-ex used, and it didn't come from works stocks. He reckons that mebbe it isn't any of the workers."

  "So why didn't they bring Myall in?" "Oh, they told him eventually, and he left it to me to report 'cause he knew I was headed here. But they had to check him and the rest of sec out first."

  "Shit, they didn't trust him?"

  "Isn't that why you hired them? To trust no one?"

  Baron Silas thought about it, then nodded soberly. "Yeah, of course. So what do they plan to do about it?"

  "It's an interesting kind of plan," Crow said, drawing a map from his vest pocket. "I stopped off downstairs and got this map of the site from your study. Got me a pencil, as well," he added as he produced a finely sharpened writing utensil. He spread the map out on the table and took an empty glass, then lifted the jug. "May I?" he asked. "This could take some time to explain."

  "You take all the time you need," Baron Silas replied, indicating that Crow should pour some moonshine.

  The Native American poured himself a glass and took a sip, feeling the burning spirit coruscate down his throat before warming his chest and the pit of his belly.

  He took a deep breath, then started to draw lines on the map, marking in the twelve points J.B. had identified as being weak spots, and explaining the way that Ryan intended to cover the ground with only seven people. It took him almost an hour and several glasses of moonshine to explain fully the way in which Ryan and his companions had been operating at the work site and camp, and the way in which they intended to operate.

  Eventually, he stood back from the table, the marked up map in front of him.

  "So that's it," Baron Silas said flatly.

  Crow nodded. "And they reckon that the sabotage isn't from the camp at all, but from an outside source?" Again the Native American merely nodded. Baron Silas whistled softly. "This is gonna be more difficult than I ever thought."

  Chapter Sixteen

  The night was still and silent. Dean exhaled, his breath misting on the cold air and mingling with the mist created by the breath of his horse, forming a cloud around them.

  He looked at his wrist chron. It was only halfway through his watch, and he tugged gently on the mane of his mount to turn it slightly to the left, giving him a better view down the pipeline toward the storage tanks. There was nowhere for him to huddle, no recess to provide even the slightest touch of closed-in warmth. He shivered under his heavy coat. So far there had been nothing. If it stayed that way, then it would be a wasted night.

  But it didn't stay that way. As he turned his horse the other way, to survey the opposite direction, he heard the distant rumble of a wag engine across the desert. It came from behind him…no, from the direction he was facing…but then again.

  "Hot pipe!" Dean muttered to himself. "Three of the bastards."

  JAK AND KRYSTY HAD BEEN the first to know they were coming. Krysty's mutie sense of danger and threat, and Jak's acute hearing, attuned through generations of hunters, had given them the indication before the others would have any clue. Jak was out by the derrick, and he could tell immediately that there were three wags. One was headed for the storage tanks, one for the refinery area and one toward him. He wheeled his horse around so that he could ride to the blind side of the derrick and see across the still and flat land beyond. His sense of direction told him that the wag nearest to him was circling around to come his way, the pitch of the engine changing as it moved behind dunes and hummocks of dry earth.

  Krysty felt her hair tighten on her scalp before she had the opportunity to register the sound. The Titian-red curls drew in close to her skin, winding around her neck. She stilled her breathing so that she could hear better. Although not as sharp as Jak's, she had sensitive hearing, and could tell that one of the wags was headed for the refinery area, which was where she was stationed. Krysty had been assigned first watch on the two pump houses joined by the covered walkway, leaving the farthest refinery building unattended for the watch. It was also the building that faced out onto the
desert, and although she had questioned Ryan as to whether it would be better to cover that and so keep the unprotected side of the entire refinery covered, she had accepted his reasoning that this way they could keep more of the actual machinery covered.

  It had been a gamble where the cards were falling badly.

  The wags were now approaching at speed, and were audible to every member of the party.

  Dean spoke into his radio. "Three wags. Looks like one of them is headed for the storage tanks."

  "Check. One is going for the outlying refinery block," Krysty's voice crackled over the handset.

  "Fireblast!" Ryan yelled into his radio. "Anyone get a direction on the third?"

  "Around back to wellhead," Jak snapped into his radio. "I take it."

  "I'm nearest you," J.B. returned quickly. "I'll ride over. Doc, Mildred—you're nearest Krysty, so you head that way."

  "Good," Ryan snapped back. "Dean, I'm nearest you, so I'll come to you. Head for the tanks. What I want to know is how the hell they knew those were unprotected points."

  "Mebbe just luck," J.B. said.

  "A whole shit load of luck if it is," Ryan said sourly. "Let's get moving."

  THE QUESTION OF HOW the three wags knew to head for areas that weren't under watch was something that had crossed the minds of all of the companions, but right now there were more important matters to attend to. The wags were closing in fast, and although the distances involved weren't that great, the horses the companions were using weren't the fastest creatures any of them had ever seen. It was a race against time when there was no time. Jak turned his mount and started to drum his heels against the beast's flanks, spurring it into action and heading it toward the far side of the derrick. As he gripped the mane of the horse with one hand, his other drew the Colt Python and readied the blaster for action. Firing from a moving animal was harder than from a wag, but Jak had sure instincts and this should compensate if need be. Besides which, he knew the Armorer would be close behind.