by Tom Abrahams
The car hit another bump. The engine whined. Zeke and Uriel lifted out of their seats. The harnesses kept them from hitting their heads on the roof of the muscle car. They dropped back down when the tires hit the dirt with a crunch. The suspension sagged and expanded.
“There’s a Tic tunnel up here about a mile or so,” Zeke said. “We should be able to access that no problem. It’ll take us under the walls and put us in the city.”
“You’re okay using a Tic tunnel?” she said. “Aren’t they hunting you?”
“Nobody guards it. You have to know where it is. And it’s only accessed when there are water runs. Those happen at night. Whether it’s sunrise or sunset, doesn’t matter as long as there’s daylight. Plus the Tic pays off the TMF guards. They won’t care what we do.”
They bounded along to the spring of the suspension and growl of the engine without speaking. Zeke was focused on the task at hand. His eyes danced across the car’s gauges and then scanned the expanse ahead. There was nothing in their path.
Until there was.
A large TMF troop transport emerged from the city gates, a plume of brown smoke trailing it. It was the kind of vehicle that carried four or six Marines. It was unmistakable even at a distance. Its blocky, straight-angled exterior and its beige camouflage paint gave it away.
“He’s trying to cut us off,” Zeke said under his breath. He cursed and pounded his fist onto the wheel. “The Tic must have tipped them off. Or maybe those Badlanders. They knew we were coming.”
Uriel picked up the rifle. “I thought you said—”
“I know what I said,” Zeke snapped. “We’ll beat him there.”
“So I guess the TMF knows where your secret little tunnel is?” she said as she loosened the straps at her shoulder one at a time. “And the payoff didn’t work?”
Ignoring her, Zeke checked the RPMs. He didn’t like the feel of the boot on the gas. He was used to his cheap, threadbare sneakers. He could feel the road in those.
Still, the Superbird responded and the speedometer inched to the right. Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred miles per hour.
“C’mon, baby,” he coaxed the Plymouth. “C’mon.”
He was a good mile from the tunnel access. He checked to the right. The TMF transport burned a trail across the terrain. The large earth-moving tires raced across the desert without resistance.
“We’re not going to make it,” said Uriel. “How far do we have to go?”
Zeke checked his rearview. The F-150 was falling behind. He looked right. Now there were two TMF carriers. The second hadn’t been visible in the dust trail of the first, and now took a different angle, going for the truck.
“Far,” he said.
Uriel checked the rifle’s magazine and slapped it back into place. Then she leaned over and cranked down the window.
Zeke pulled the handkerchief over his nose and mouth with one hand while steering with the other. He lowered the brim of his hat and squinted. Swirls of dust swam through the cabin.
“This is not good,” she said. “Not good at all.”
Uriel leveled the rifle and lowered her eye to the scope, using the door ledge to balance the barrel. The uneven terrain hammered it up and down.
“Can you keep steady?” she asked.
“I’m trying.” Zeke held the wheel tight, feeling it respond to his touch and the earth underneath the car. He focused on the path ahead. They were getting close.
Up ahead were many clusters of dead trees. The gray trunks reached skyward, their branches extended and praying for rain that never came.
The area represented what Zeke was told had once been a swamp. It wasn’t anything now other than a petrified, wooden testament to the barren wasteland the world had become thanks to the Dearth.
Zeke identified the cluster that hid the tunnel’s entry and aimed for it. To his right, he saw the first armored transport. It blazed to intercept them before they could dip underground and escape.
His speedometer read one hundred seven. The engine was maxed. He couldn’t push it any harder or he’d risk blowing the engine. It roared and grumbled against the dirt.
“Hold your course,” said Uriel. “Hold it. Hold it.”
A percussive series of pops pierced the air. The rifle snapped back. Flashes of light strobed from its muzzle.
“Damn it,” said Uriel. “I missed.”
She lowered her head again, shifting the barrel of the rifle to the right. She was twisted in her harness, half-facing the open window.
Another series of loud pops cut through the air. Tendrils of smoke drifted from the rifle’s muzzle back into the Superbird’s front seat and danced with the dust twirling inside the cabin.
“Got it!” Uriel said excitedly.
Zeke checked and saw the transport’s rear driver’s side tire smoking. She’d punctured its thick, rubbery shell with an impossibly accurate shot. But the transport kept moving undeterred.
“They’ve got twin tires on the rear axle,” said Zeke.
Uriel glared back at him. “You could have told me that,” she spat.
“I didn’t know you were aiming for the tires.”
The car hit a divot, sank with a loud, bone-jarring thud, and then bounced into the air. Uriel lost her handle on the M27. It hit the top of the open window frame before falling through and skittering across the dead terrain.
Uriel cursed, using words Zeke didn’t know women ever said. In the rearview mirror, he saw the rifle disappear in the wake of brown dust spraying from the back of the Plymouth.
Ahead, Zeke and the lead transport were on a collision course, aiming for the same spot. He didn’t see any way to avoid it.
“What do we do now?” he asked.
Uriel checked the side-view mirror and then the transport. She punched the dashboard and cursed again. Her face was crimson. A thick purple vein strained underneath her skin, resembling part of a tattoo.
“Let me drive,” she said.
“What?”
“Let me drive,” she repeated.
“I can’t.”
“Well, either you let me drive, or you multitask.”
“You’re making no sense.”
“I don’t have a gun, Zeke. And it’s not like mine was doing the trick anyhow.”
Zeke tensed as they hit another rut. He felt it in his neck and shoulders and back. “So?”
“You have that revolver Pedro gave you?”
“It’s under the seat.”
“Can you drive and shoot at the same time?” she asked.
“Huh?”
“Don’t be a moron. Stop answering my questions with questions. That’s what I do. It’s lame when you do it. Can. You. Drive. And. Shoot. At. The. Same. Time?”
“I guess. I don’t know how accurate I can be though.”
“You don’t have to be accurate, as long as you can point the thing and pull the trigger.”
They were closing in on the transport and the tunnel. There wasn’t much time left, and it was obvious he wouldn’t beat them.
“Why don’t you do it?” Zeke reached between his legs, trying hard to keep his head up, and fished the weighty six-shooter from underneath the seat. He held it in his left hand. It was cold. He reached across his body to hand Uriel the weapon. She waved him off and inched her body into the space between the door and the seat bolster.
“No, Pedro gave that to you,” she said. “I’m not allowed to use it.”
“Why not?” he said.
“No more questions,” she said, exasperated. “Fire at them, dude!”
There were fifty yards at most from the transport, close enough now that through the open passenger window, Zeke saw the driver’s attention shifting between his own path and Zeke’s.
Two armed Marines in the back had their M27s pointed at the Superbird.
Uriel leaned back and covered her ears. “Fire!” she yelled. “Do it now. Now!”
Zeke switched hands, the wheel in his le
ft, the gun in his right. He lifted it, struggling against its unseemly weight. He leveled it, taking aim at the driver. He was yards away from the tunnel’s entrance. The transport was closer still.
“Do it!”
Zeke shifted his aim toward the engine compartment at the front of the transport and put his finger on the cool trigger.
“Do it!”
He applied pressure and fired. Zeke expected the solid crack of a six-shooter; the spring throwing the hammer forward and into the primer, the primer exploding and igniting the propellant, forcing the bullet along the barrel. That wasn’t what happened.
Instead of the crack, the weapon emitted a low, vibrating tone that sounded like a warbling hum. The weapon kicked up, its barrel lifting and Zeke’s grip jerking back toward him. His bicep tightened. His forearm tensed.
The whoomp of the gun sent a shock wave into the ether. The air outside the Plymouth bent and warped like water around a tossed stone. Wave upon wave shot outward, expanding as they moved concentrically toward their target.
The Plymouth reacted as the laws of physics would dictate. It shot sideways, pulling Zeke toward Uriel and crushing her into the space at the door. Then the trunk drifted, spinning the front of the car to the left.
Despite the immediate vertigo, Zeke saw the effect of his shot. The waves of energy slammed into the transport, knocking it sideways and carrying it in its field until the truck slapped into a pair of thick tree trunks. Its windows were shattered. Its driver’s side looked like a tin can crushed in a drinker’s hand. All the men inside appeared unconscious.
Zeke managed to slam on the brakes of the Plymouth. The car shuddered before the engine hammered to a stall. They came to a stop twenty feet from the tunnel’s entrance.
“What was that?” Zeke asked, breathless. His body trembled. His healing shoulder ached.
He held the weapon in hand, mesmerized by its cold steel. The cylinder glowed electric blue for several seconds before fading back to the stainless, reflective surface common to less effective revolvers.
Uriel uncupped her ears and blinked. She stretched her mouth wide, trying to pop her ears. “What?”
Zeke held up the revolver. “What is this?”
Before she could answer, the rumble of approaching vehicles caught Zeke’s attention. He sat up and saw the second transport. It was closing in on them and about to intercept the F-150.
Without hesitating, or understanding what it was he was doing, Zeke unfastened his harness and opened his door. He shouldered his way out of the Superbird and stepped onto the dry ground. He rested his elbows over the roof of the car. The heat from the dark metal seeped through his shirt, burning his skin. He ignored it and gripped the weapon tightly, this time ready for the kick.
Zeke took aim at the other transport. Without urging from Uriel, he braced himself, clenched his jaw, and pulled the trigger.
The whoomp vibrated through his hands and the weapon kicked. He was ready for it this time.
Translucent waves of air pulsed outward, growing in size until they hit the front of the transport. They stopped the truck in its tracks, shoving it backward two feet before upending it. Its rear flipped forward and its nose pointed into the dirt. Then it crashed onto its side.
Zeke, despite his preparation, was no match for the equal and opposite force of the weapon. He was blasted backward into his car’s door, crashing into its frame and falling to the ground in a heap.
Disoriented, he lay on the ground for a moment, not remembering how he’d gotten there. He was on his side, his back to the car, the grit of dirt pressed into his cheek. The smell of earth and sand filled his nostrils. From underneath the open door, he saw the thick, stubborn trunks of the trees to his left. They were gray with veins of brown and tan, like someone had peeled their skins.
And he saw the entrance to the tunnel, marked by a pair of stumps hardened into cylindrical boulders cemented into the ground. His head pulsed at the temples. He was staring at the petrified stumps when he heard the shuffling of dirt underfoot, and a pair of boots moved into frame, dominating his field of view.
“You okay?”
He tried to speak, but it came out as a muffled groan.
“You don’t sound okay,” Uriel said.
He leaned back against the frame of the car, the open door between them, and looked up at her. She had her hands on her hips.
Zeke cleared his throat. “I’m okay,” he said, and realized the weapon was still in his right hand. He’d somehow kept hold.
“Good. Let’s get going, then.”
Zeke blinked the fog from his brain and picked up his hat. He set it on his head and stood. Behind him, the F-150 grumbled. He pivoted, resting against the roof of the Superbird, and saw Phil behind the wheel.
He and Gabe offered twin thumbs-up and nods of approval.
Zeke offered a wave with the gun in his hand. The smiles vanished from their faces and they shook their heads in unison. Both were fixated on the gun.
Zeke lowered it to his side and waved an apology with his free hand. Uriel had walked back around to the passenger’s side. She stood at the open door.
“Nice shots,” she said, leaning over the hood. “I guess you can multitask. Good to know.”
Zeke slid back into the driver’s seat, fitting in between the bolsters. He put the gun underneath the seat where he’d kept it for much of their road trip. Uriel climbed back into her seat. They sat there for a moment before she shrugged.
“What is it?” she asked.
“What is that thing?” he asked her. “Where did it come from?”
“Pedro. And it’s a pulse gun. Or more accurately, a modified pulsed energy weapon.”
“That’s fictional stuff,” said Zeke. “Like Jules Verne or Gene Roddenberry. That’s not real.”
“Two things,” she said, holding up two fingers. “It’s real. You saw it. Twice. And I don’t know who Julie Verne or Jeannie Raspberry are.”
“They wrote science fiction before Earth, well…died. You’ve never heard of them?”
She shook her head. “Nope. Don’t know who those women are.”
“They’re men.”
“Even less interested. We can talk comic books later. We have a tunnel to traverse before those dudes wake up.”
He looked past her at the pair of crushed transport vehicles beyond her open window. The driver in the first transport was moving.
“They’re alive?” he asked. A smile broadened across his face. He needed to get to Li, but he was a smuggler, not a killer. It hurt and he touched his jaw. He must have hit it when the ray gun knocked him backward.
“Yep,” she said, “and it won’t be long before they’re angrier than red ants. Let’s go.”
Zeke started the car. It resisted for a second; then the engine turned over with a comforting rumble. He put it into gear and maneuvered to the hole in the ground that led into the single-lane, unlit tunnel, which would lead them smack-dab into the heart of the city.
Chapter Ten
Brina walked past the Torquemada, her arms full of the day’s rations. She’d stood in line for a good four hours between the two queues. She was an enforcer with the Tic and had access to whatever she wanted, but appearances were important. Her mentor had taught her that all those years ago. He was gone now, but his lessons survived.
The streets were busy. Word had gotten out that engineered wheat flour was available, but in short supply. It was a commodity almost as rare as water, though not as valuable, as it wasn’t life-giving. Still, a baked treat just couldn’t be passed up. Life was hard enough.
Brina had scored a half bag of the flour. Along with her jug of water and a pound of the chemically produced enviro-pork, she’d be stocked for a good long while. She liked the sensation of feeling jealous eyes on her as she moved through and amongst the throngs of hungry, thirsty people. Some of them had water, some had the engineered pig, and a couple had the flour. Very few had all three.
She passed the
Fascio government building. She shifted the weight of her wares in her bulky arms and gazed upon the rotting corpses hanging above the wide stone steps leading up to the grand entrance. It was hard to make out who the people had been. She tried to imagine what their appearances had been before the birds and heat had gotten to them.
Her eyes studied them until she was satisfied she knew them all. They’d been part of the Tic, but they’d gotten sloppy. They’d earned what they’d gotten. If the Overseers hadn’t ended them, the job might have fallen to her, which would have meant less time for baking. She adjusted her packages and started her march again.
Crowds and the winding station queues that snaked into the streets slowed her trek back to the compound. She did make a point of slowing her march as she passed the stations. She listened to the Marines posted at each one, hoping for gossip, actionable intelligence, something that might give her superiors an advantage or opening.
There was always much to be gained by listening to the Marine guards. Few people understood this better than Brina. Water was like platinum to the protectorates. That was undisputed. But information was virtually priceless.
Her mentor, the man who’d saved her from a life of starvation and vagrancy, had taught her that too. Thinking about him, she clenched her jaw. Her teeth ground together as she worked through the swell of anger rushing through her body. She focused on the task ahead and reminded herself of the lessons he’d imparted.
Like water, information flowed in all directions. It surged, forged its own path, and shook things loose from their foundations. Brina twisted her way past the last of the watering stations and landed in a narrow alley, which fed to a back street offering the only entrance to the compound where she plied her violent trade.
She set her wares on the ground in front of her and pulled a set of special keys from her waist pocket, then slid one into the hole at the center of the door. She twisted it until it clicked, and turned the large patina brass knob, pushing inward. The door swung loudly on its hinges. They needed oil they would not get.
Brina stooped, picked up her belongings, and stepped into the cool darkness of the compound. She shut the door behind her with a swing of her hip. It groaned and clanked shut. She deftly twisted the deadbolt and headed for the kitchen.
