Desolation Crossing

by James Axler

  “WHATEVER YOU WANT, the answer is no. I’m too busy. I don’t have what you want. I don’t want to have what you want. I don’t care. Just go away.”

  J.B. raised an eyebrow at Trader. “Friendly bastard,” he said mildly.

  Trader shook his head. “You know, the seasons come and go, but some things just stay the same.” In a louder voice, he yelled, “Luke. Get your ass out here before I take my custom elsewhere.”

  “Elsewhere my ass. No way you’re gonna find any where else around here that can do what I can. Figure it that you’re not gonna find anywhere else anyone that can…” The owner of the voice wandered into the storefront from a back room as he spoke. Without missing a beat or changing tone, he added, “Still, it’s good to see you back, Trader. Always give me good business, and it’s nice to hear a voice that doesn’t talk about the same small ville shit that everyone else never shuts up about.”

  “Yeah, it’s good to see you, Luke,” Trader said with a grin. It hadn’t been as fulsome a greeting as that of the baron, but it was infinitely more sincere. “But I’m figuring that you’ve got some competition that you didn’t count on. Meet John Barrymore Dix, my new armorer, and probably the only man I’ve ever met who could give you a run for your jack.”

  Luke eyed the slight figure of J.B. with a mixture of suspicion and disbelief before extending his hand, withdrawing it hastily to wipe the gun oil off and onto the stained apron he wore, then extending it again.

  “John,” he said with a curt nod as the Armorer met his firm grip.

  “J.B.,” he corrected.

  “Whatever.” Luke shrugged. “So you know a bit about blasters, do you? Trader here told you how good you are? Pity if he has, as he doesn’t know enough to cover his own ass, so he may have sorely misled you.”

  “I don’t figure,” J.B. replied in a noncommittal tone. “I was doing the same kind of thing as you do here before I met Trader.”

  “You were, huh?”

  Trader was enjoying every moment. The two men were circling each other like hungry dogs, sizing each other up before plunging in for the chill, establishing who was best. Except they were too much alike as men to go for the jugular. No, they’d do it the long way around.

  J.B. sniffed and looked around at the storefront. Coffee-sub boiled on a stove, there were a couple of tables and chairs in the floor space in front of the counter, and the back room was shielded by a long drape.

  “Of course,” he said at length, “I didn’t have to run a coffee stall, as well as work on blasters. I was able to devote the whole of my time to the real work.”

  Luke snorted, half derision, half laugh. “This is no coffee stall, my friend.” He gestured at the pot. “This is just for those who wait for me to get my work done.”

  J.B. nodded slowly. He knew Trader well enough to know that the man was enjoying the encounter, but also that he wouldn’t do it just for sport. If Trader said Luke was good, then he was. No sense in letting him know that just yet, of course. J.B. looked him up and down. He was a big, powerful man. Around six feet, broad-shouldered, with maybe the very beginnings of a gut where he spent too long sitting working at a bench. He was wearing a plaid shirt and torn denim jeans under the apron, which was of thick, polished hide. His face was dark complected, his eyes in darker hollows framing a sharp nose. He was wearing a tattered ball cap turned backward, and his demeanor spoke of someone who didn’t like to waste time.

  And he was thinking that maybe this was wasting his time.

  “So?” Luke said, tired of waiting for J.B., maybe even tired of being sized up. “Do you have any work for me?” he directed to Trader. “Or has wonder boy here seen to it all?”

  “I’ve tidied up anything that Trader needs,” J.B. answered, drawing the attention back to himself. “So mebbe he’s brought me here so that I can help you out.”

  Luke looked as though he might explode in anger. A simmering, slow burn came over him, and he said softly, “Ever tried to fit a stock on a Sharps that some damn fool has tried to recalibrate?”

  “Can’t say I have. You rebored it?”

  “Got the lathe, just in the middle of it. Care to, uh, give me your expert opinion on what I’ve done?” he asked with some sarcasm.

  J.B. smiled wryly. “I could try.”

  Luke lifted the flap of the counter, allowing the Armorer to pass through. He raised a questioning eyebrow at Trader, who shook his head. Without a word, Luke let the flap drop and followed the Armorer into the back room.

  “Long time since I saw one of those,” Trader heard J.B. say. He didn’t know what he was talking about, and he didn’t much care. He had the feeling that they’d lose him after a few minutes, anyway.

  His mission here was done. Get the boys acquainted. Get them past their own spiky natures, and when they were ready, get them to look over his ordnance and anything they might pick up on the outbound journey.

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Seven

  The Present

  Attack came sooner than any of them would have hoped. The only good thing was that, out in the dustbowl environment they traversed, there was no way that any kind of attack could be a surprise. There was no place to hide or shelter when under attack, but equally there was nowhere for any potential attackers to lie in wait. You could see the coldhearted bastards coming for miles.

  That was scant consolation when a person was on a motorbike, unable to hear the comm tech from the rest of the convoy, and more exposed than any of your fellow fighters. Come to that, more than any of your enemies.

  Ryan and Jak were the first to be in the firing line, and the last to see what was coming. No wonder, then, that their journey was almost over before it had begun.

  K RYSTY HAD LONG SINCE ceased to pay any attention to what Ray was saying. He was a nice enough old guy, she supposed, but the fact that he never shut up meant that only one word in ten was worth listening to; and after a while, you couldn’t even summon the energy to try to catch anything. But that was okay, seeing as the old man didn’t seem to care whether she was listening. She guessed that he was used to people zoning out on him after a while, and was just grateful for a passive audience that let him believe he was doing something other than just talk to himself.

  She looked at him, past him, and occasionally shifted on the padded seat to look the other way, at least in a token attempt at surveillance. But the truth was that his voice became kind of hypnotic after a while, and she could feel herself start to glaze over. While he talked about LaGuerre and the others in the convoy, old vids and old music, even singing snatches of old tunes in a quavery tenor, she found that she was becoming more confused. Who had been on the convoy, and who was some old vid actor from predark days? Had there been an actor called Tarran? Had there been sec men called Seagal and VanDamme? It became a little blurry around the edges.

  Which was exactly how she was feeling. A little blurry. Slipping into that daydream reverie that led to sleep.

  And that was why she nearly missed it. It was only when he repeated himself that she realized it was something important. He hadn’t repeated himself once up to this point. More than that, when he did, the even tenor of his voice had changed, and he spoke more slowly. But still the words didn’t make sense for a moment.

  “Said that there are bandits on the horizon, and ain’t it about time someone said something about it? Hellfire, missy, if I can see them, then it’s sure as shit that someone else in the convoy will have. This is the problem, see, no one talks to each other anymore, do they?”

  Krysty snapped to attention as the words began to be more than a collection of syllables delivered in that sing song tone and took on meaning. She looked past the old man, out beyond the road and the dustbowl. They had been driving nonstop for nearly eighteen hours at a steady pace, and she was sure that she had to have dropped into some kind of sleep when it was dark, but for the most part she had been awake. It was now almost the middle of the day after they had joined the convoy, and
the sun beating down on the arid land had thrown up that weird heat haze again, limiting the horizon.

  Which meant that the wags she could see in the distance weren’t as distant as she could have hoped. They were low-level, obscured by the clouds of dust that they were throwing up in their wake. There were at least six vehicles, maybe more but hard to tell at this stage as the formation and the clouds of dust made it hard to distinguish at distance. They didn’t seem to be gaining at a great pace, which suggested that they might be at a greater distance than she had first thought. Or they were slower than she had estimated in her first, shocked, glance.

  None of that mattered too much—they were hostile, and they were coming. That was all that counted.

  She snatched the comm mic from the unit that rested between herself and Ray.

  “Enemy approaching from the southwest, mebbe six wags. Anyone else seen them yet?”

  Despite the high level of technology, the unit’s age and the rad count in the atmosphere meant that it still crackled like the most primitive of radios. So when Mildred’s voice came back, it was distorted and barely understood.

  “I see them, Krysty. Figure we should assume that we can see six, but there may be more in train. It’s better to be safe. You and me only have hardware to fight close-up. What about the other wags?”

  Krysty thought about that. Why hadn’t the others said anything about the incoming? Then it hit her—the other wags may be better equipped, but they were lower. The cabs of the refrigerated wags were raised much higher, and rode above the clouds of dust and wag exhaust raised by the convoy. The lower level wags that came between the trader’s lead wag and the refrigerated wags would be enveloped in the clouds they raised. Then she thought about the bikes riding shotgun at the rear of the convoy. How the hell did LaGuerre expect Ryan and Jak to function with any degree of…She stopped that train of thought. If anyone could look after themselves and cope with the most adverse of conditions, it was would be Ryan and Jak. They could handle the situation.

  Meanwhile, it was up to Mildred and herself to make sure the odds were as level as possible.

  “I don’t think they can see them because they’re obscured by the convoy’s own dust. I hope the bastards are listening in.”

  “Sure as shit am,” broke in a peevish, whining voice. “Would’ve said something else if you damn women would shut your yaps once in a while.”

  “Cody, you shut your bastard mouth. You’re worse than the rest of us put together,” Ramona’s voice cut across. “Let the sister speak, you damn fool. You’re not in Armand’s wag now. We need their intel.”

  Krysty, despite the severity of the situation, found it hard to suppress a sigh. Arguing among themselves, never shutting the hell up…It was nothing short of a miracle that they’d gotten this far. No wonder they’d lost so many the last time they’d been in a firefight. Then she remembered that, if the friends’ suspicions were correct, they’d acquired the refrigerated wags as a result of that firefight. Maybe they weren’t that bad, then, if they could stop the arguing and pull together.

  While this had been running through part of her mind, she had also been surveying the approaching attack party. The convoy had either slowed, or the attackers had picked up speed. Whatever the reason, they were now gaining, moving from a diagonal line of approach to a straighter line, aided by the slight bend of the old highway. Even through the clouds of their own dust, it was easy to see that the initial estimate of six, maybe eight, had been too optimistic. There were two rows, one running almost exactly behind the other.

  Twelve wags.

  Shit, Krysty thought. They had three armed wags, two men on bikes and two big cabs that carried a minimum of ordnance. If the attack party knew what they were doing, they could flank and divide the fire of the convoy, giving them openings to pierce the defenses. They couldn’t allow them to get that close.

  Of course, being wild riders in the dustbowl region, the bastards might just be out of their brains on jolt, and up for a firefight rather than a concerted attempt to raid the convoy. That would make them easier to deal with, as they would be reckless and triple stupe because of the drug. Yeah, she hoped that was the scenario. They could just pick off the bastards one by one.

  But they couldn’t take that chance.

  “Doc, J.B.,” she said urgently, “you hearing this?”

  “I am indeed, dear girl.” Doc’s tones were clear and ringing, even with the static. “I am assuming that we want to eliminate the risk before it becomes too close?”

  “Got that right,” Krysty agreed.

  “We’ve got cannon fire capacity in this wag,” J.B.’s voice said. “Eula tells me that you got that, too, Cody. And it’s in your wag, Doc.”

  “Hell, yeah,” Cody said.

  “I am told this is true,” Doc confirmed.

  “Okay,” J.B. said slowly. Even from just the one word, those who knew him could tell that the Armorer’s brain was working overtime, playing out scenarios in his head, assessing every possibility as he estimated the best move for all concerned parties. “We haven’t heard from Jak or Ryan yet. Figure they can hear us?”

  Cody was blunt. “No way. Stupe idea giving them the comm shit. Guys who bought the farm last time told me they couldn’t hear us, and just acted according to what they saw.”

  It was as J.B. had suspected—whatever tactics they planned and relayed to each other, they would have to assume that Ryan and Jak would be acting independently. So they’d have to give them space, and not end up helping them buy the farm by accident.

  “We have to keep triple-red alert for them. Soon as they see the enemy, they’ll head for combat. So we need to hit as hard as we can, and now. Millie, Krysty, you’ve only got ordnance for close-range combat, so it’s up to me, Doc and Cody to knock the bastards out. Lay down a barrage and get their range.”

  “My dear John Barrymore, it’ll be a pleasure.” Doc cackled.

  “Yeah, let’s hope it’s that easy,” J.B. said wryly.

  “DOC, YOU SURE you used one of these before?” Raven asked as Doc seated himself behind the rocket launcher that had been mounted and bolted into an ob slit in the wag.

  “Not this particular model,” he said with assurance, though ruined the effect by adding, “at least, I think not,” in an undertone, and thus undermined the confidence he wished to instill in Raven and Ramona.

  “Yeah, that’s cool. We let the old guy loose with a honkin’ big piece of hardware that he doesn’t know squat about,” Ramona said dryly, without taking her eyes off the road ahead, squinting through the wash of dust that billowed from the refrigerated wag in front of her. “You see where these jokers are, Rave? ’Cause I can hardly see Ray’s ass in front of me.”

  “That ain’t a pleasant thought, babe,” Raven answered, distracted, as she kept one eye on the approaching attack party and the other on Doc. “But, yeah, I can see them. And they’re about to hit our range,” she added to Doc, hoping he would take the cue.

  Doc, studying the rocket launcher and mentally comparing it to previous weapons he had fired, was only too quick to comply.

  “You are going to like this. Not a lot, but you are going to like it.” He whooped with glee as he loosed off the first blast. A few seconds later, the bloom of the explosion rose from the left of the onrushing group. A couple of the wags veered, but no damage was done. The actual sound of the explosion was lost in the noise of the wag convoy.

  Doc’s face fell. “Heavens, what a waste of ammo. John Barrymore would be fearfully annoyed at such waste. I must endeavor to find my range a little more easily. Like this, perhaps,” he added, sighting and firing once more. In the interim, another bloom had sprung to the other side of the attack party, as one of the other wags had fired and missed. Not J.B., Doc would wager.

  No, that one was dear John Barrymore, he added to himself as a blast hit dead center of the attack party, followed moments later by another that hit at the fringes. That latter was his, he was sure, and
he gained more satisfaction from the fact that it hit just where some of the attack party were veering to avoid the damage of the center-aimed hit.

  The clouds of dust and smoke from the approach, hits and damage of the first rocket assault meant that it was now almost impossible to see how much damage had been caused.

  “Hold fire,” J.B. said over the comm. “Wait till we can see the bastards.”

  “Indubitably,” Doc agreed.

  Ramona shook her head. “Man, speak our language.”

  “Right on, uh, man,” Doc said with a grin.

  BOTH K RYSTY and Mildred felt helpless. At this point there was little that either of them could do, sealed in the cabs of the refrigerated wags with little in the way of hardware that would be of use for anything other than the most up-close of combat. And, in truth, close fighting with a bunch of coldhearts who outnumbered them was the last thing they wanted. Nonetheless, it seemed to them that they had been reduced to mere spectators, and that wasn’t a good feeling. They worked as a team, and if their companions were in danger, then they wanted to join the fray. To be sidelined was a frustration that both women could do without—although, seeing the first rocket strikes, it didn’t look as if J.B., Doc and Cody would need much help.

  Their trucks were several feet higher than the dust and exhaust cloud that surrounded the lower level wags of the convoy on the old highway, so they were able to observe the results of the attack with a little more clarity. At first, the attacking party was lost in its own dirt, with the rocket damage adding to the obscuring screen of smoke and dust. But, as that began to clear, it revealed localized black columns that bespoke of hits.

  There were three columns of dissipating smoke from the rockets hits, with craters at their base. Of the twelve wags, three were nothing more than smoking wrecks with their own columns of smoke from the wag fuel that rose high into the air, flames at their base. Another two were entangled together, having crashed into each other during evasive maneuvers to escape the rockets. As the women, in their respective cabs that seemed to be hermetically sealed from the outside world, looked on, the two entangled wags exploded, one after the other rather than simultaneously, in a ball of flame that spread wide.