Desolation Crossing

by James Axler

  There was the humming of the air con. The breathing of the three men—Jed was wheezy, his weight making it hard for him to take in air; Cody was short and shallow, the adrenaline making him nervous; Raf was calm and measured, a warrior keeping himself in check until real effort was a necessity.

  There were the creaks and groans of the metal interior and exterior of the wag, and the sound of the other convoy wags beneath this.

  And then there was something more. Was it a sound, or the slightest change in vibration beneath them? A change that could only be unconsciously registered; the feel of the blacktop and wag meeting that did not correspond as there was some other disturbance? Maybe—just maybe—the faintest echo of yowling and moaning had been sucked in by the air con and had registered beneath the radar of Jak’s sleeping mind.

  There were many who met the small albino hunter who assumed he was a mutie. It was partly his size, the scars that distorted his face, his pale skin and red eyes, and the speed and ruthlessness with which he could act. But it was also because of the almost preternatural ability he had to detect prey, to smell out danger.

  In truth, Jak was no mutie. He was just short and albino because of genetics, and not those blasted by radiation. His secret was nothing more than a desire to hunt that, from an early age, had led him to develop and heighten his senses by constant practice to a point where he was able to feel and hear with a level of ability that was in all men, but had not been used for scores of generations in that land that had become the Deathlands. He was a human animal who, rather than regressing, had simply rediscovered those senses that, allied with intelligence, had enabled man to first rise above the other animals.

  But people took one look and thought he was a mutie. And no matter how much it pissed him off, he had neither the vocabulary nor the patience to explain it. So, when he took one look at the faces of Cody and Raf, he figured that he’d let them think what the hell they wanted, as long as they listened to him.

  “Pack coming, then. Nor’ nor’east, think. And fast.”

  “You sure?” Cody asked.

  “He’s sure,” Raf answered for Jak, taking in the albino’s expression.

  Cody, if disinclined to trust Jak’s instincts because of his inability to understand him, was nonetheless equally inclined to trust the word of the black giant, who had stood by him in countless firefights. The thin, nervous man moved over to the comm equipment and picked up the mic.

  “Armand, J. B. Dix—you guys listen to this….”

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Twelve

  LaGuerre exchanged glances with Eula as he listened to what Cody had to say. J.B. watched both of them. He knew to trust Jak, but would they listen to him?

  “This true?” LaGuerre asked simply.

  “It is,” J.B. stated before Eula had a chance to say anything. “So what should I know about this pack. Pack of what, for fuck’s sake?”

  Eula glanced at LaGuerre, who nodded. Dragging in a breath, she told J.B. exactly what Jak had been told.

  “We’ve got wags, plenty of ordnance. Why should we be too worried about this pack?”

  “Stories are just that they’re vicious as fuck, and that there’s a shitload of them. Enough to drive most wags off the road.”

  “Most wags in these parts aren’t like yours,” J.B. mused. “But if Jak’s alarmed…” He hit the comm transmitter. “Jak, how many of these fuckers are there, and why should we be triple red?”

  Jak’s voice came back over the comm without pause. “Not tell how many, J.B. Just know big number. And bad. Smell like chilling. Like locusts.”

  Jak’s comparison was enough to convince the Armorer that this was a serious threat. Jak Lauren was not a man given to exaggeration. He was about to question LaGuerre and Eula about tracking equipment in the wag when he was forestalled by Mildred’s voice over the comm.

  “John, I think Jak’s right. Take a look out the port.”

  J.B. moved to the ob port that faced the direction in which Jak had heard the approaching pack. When he looked out, he sucked in his breath sharply.

  “Dark night!”

  In the distance, a dust cloud was thrown up against the backdrop of the moon, the pale light coloring the cloud gray against the clear dark skies. It spread over several hundred yards, and rose almost half as high. Close to the ground, they could see a number of shapes, moving and shifting together in and out of phase, an amorphous mass that, even at such a distance, oozed malevolence.

  “What the hell is that?” Mildred’s voice wondered over the comm receiver.

  “The pack,” J.B. replied. “Whatever the hell that turns out to be.”

  K RYSTY HAD HEARD about the approaching pack, and the legends surrounding it, from Ray. And at great length. She had been inclined to write it off as yet more of the old man’s ramblings—at least, until she had seen the distant cloud. As she watched, her sentient red hair began to curl protectively around her skull and her neck. Ray noticed this as he turned to speak to her once more.

  “Whoa! I didn’t know you were a mutie. I remember once we were in this ville where they used to burn people they thought were muties, figuring that they were witches, like some of those old ways they had long before skydark. Those who worshipped that guy Satan, instead of God. Though I’ll tell you for what, if there’s a God then he sure as shit deserted this world a long time ago. Mebbe the nukes got him at skydark? Anyway, I’m figuring that your hair going all weird like that ain’t such a good thing, right?”

  Krysty looked at the old man. “Right. Looks like trouble ahead. LaGuerre better have some answers.”

  Ray looked at her, his ingenuousness lending chilling weight to his words. “Sweetie, that’s why your people are here. It ain’t Armand that needs to have a plan, it’s your man J.B.”

  They would stand or fall by J.B.’s ability to marshal a convoy ordnance that he did not fully know, assisted by an armorer with an agenda that would not, necessarily, be sympathetic to his cause.

  She watched the pack get nearer, the shifting mass of shapes beginning to take a more recognizable form.

  “Gaia—there are hundreds of them,” she whispered.

  IN THE REAR WAG, Ryan had been watching the approaching pack, along with Ramona and Doc. The three of them were at the ob ports, looking out over the empty expanse of dustbowl at the approaching cloud.

  “That’s one hell of a big herd,” Ryan whispered. “How can they survive out here?”

  “Don’t matter how they survive, gorgeous,” Ramona replied. “The only thing that matters is that they want our asses.”

  “On the contrary,” Doc murmured, “I think Ryan has a very good point. We see before us a very large, and very hungry horde. I cannot imagine that there is much in the way of pickings for them along this stretch of the highway. Indeed, I find it hard to imagine that a mass even half that size could survive out here on just the occasional convoy such as ourselves.”

  “Especially as they’ll lose numbers coming for us,” Ryan added. “You thinking what I’m thinking, Doc?”

  “I fear that I am, my dear boy. And if so, it puts us in a very perilous situation.”

  Ramona looked from one to the other. “Shit, wish you’d tell me what you’re thinking then, boys, as I don’t have a clue. And I’m sure my girl there doesn’t, either,” she added, gesturing to Raven.

  “Babe, I’m trying not to think about it…Not while I’ve gotta keep this thing on the road,” Raven replied.

  Ryan and Doc looked at each other. Was this the right time to share their thoughts, or should they avoid spreading unease until the current situation had been dealt with?

  They were spared from making a decision by J.B.’s voice over the comm receiver.

  “Wait till they come within range, then hit the bastards with everything we’ve got. Rockets long range as soon as they hit the optimum. Then blast them with machine-gun fire if they come through it. This isn’t the time to be tactical.”

  TH
E ARMORER HAD ONLY to think briefly about his course of action. Even the briefest recce had been enough to establish that, although the herd was big, it was only coming from the one direction. There were no pincer movements or counterattacks to consider. No ordnance had to be diverted to the flanks. The herd was moving in one direction only.

  It didn’t take the greatest tactical brain in the world to work out that their best course of action would be to direct fire in a concentrated stream against the onrushing mass of the herd. To deflect and damage was the sole aim.

  Wipe them out? It was possible, but not likely. There was such a mass, and their approaching speed was such that it was likely that at least some of the animals would make it through any barrage to the convoy. The question then would be whether the animals were strong enough to cause damage. J.B. had seen wags that had collided with single animals the size of a cow. They had incurred some damage. Okay, so the wags they were traveling in were armored, and the refrigerated containers were huge. A single animal wouldn’t cause sufficient damage to stop it. Yet a group of them may be able to deflect an armored wag from its path, and in so doing cause collisions for those in its wake. To be run off the road and damaged in this wasteland, at the mercy of even the remnants of a ravenous horde, was not a prospect he wanted to consider.

  At all costs, they had to keep as many of the pack as possible from getting close.

  In the three wags, the rocket launchers all had comp sighting equipment. In theory, this should have made it easy to get the range, aim and fire. In practice, it worked out a little differently. While much of the ordnance tech was in itself fine, and that which had incurred wear and damage had been replaceable or repairable, the comp equipment was another matter. Some of it worked; some of it appeared to work; and some of it was blown and would never work again. So it was always the better move to eschew the possibility of using tech as a shortcut, and to sight and aim by eye alone.

  Which was okay if you were familiar with the ordnance you were using, but not so good if it was new to you. The thought crossed J.B.’s mind as he seated himself at the rocket launcher and tried to sight on the approaching pack. He was acutely aware of LaGuerre and Eula watching his every move. Normally, the Armorer would be able to block out such distractions. Now was different. Now was about what the woman and the trader were really after, and how it would affect not just himself, but his friends.

  Dark night, J.B. thought, this was no time to let your mind wander. The Armorer focused his attention and his vision on the sights in front of him. The night vision scope on the sights still worked. The figures that should have given him auto direction and distance were broken up, the digital figures in the corner of the screen little more than halflines. That was okay. He was more concerned about what the rest of the screen told him.

  He felt a churning in his guts as he caught his first close-up view of the pack.

  There were more cattle than dogs in the herd. About four to one, he reckoned. They were several hands high and looked different from cattle he had seen in other parts of the country. High on the shoulder and narrow of breast, their forelegs were more developed than he would have expected, with the shanks more heavily muscled. They had power. That accounted for the speed with which they were approaching. More than that—their heads were abnormally long, their noses tapering into snouts that had protruding incisors. Their eyes were dark, as were their hides. Their eyes were hooded, their hides thick and scaly. For a moment, it occurred to the Armorer that these hides may be too thick for standard ammo, in which case they’d better hope that the rockets took out as many as possible. But only for a moment. There would be time enough to worry about that when it happened.

  The dogs that moved between them were also different from many of the mangy creatures that he had seen across the width and breadth of the Deathlands. For a start, the manner in which they snaked between the legs of the cattle that towered over them gave them an almost serpentine grace that made them seem something other than what they were. It was astounding that, without looking down, the cattle were able to continue sure-footed without trampling, or stumbling over, the dogs. For their part, the dogs moved without looking up or pausing, continuing their slithering path without recourse to the creatures with which they ran. It was as though the two species were symbiotic in some way, and able to move as one.

  The dogs were loping, almost vulpine in build, and like the cattle, heavily muscled. That meant they had to either have a ready supply of food somewhere out here, or else they were deadly efficient hunters. The thoughts that had been bothering Ryan and Doc had not entered his head—perhaps this was just as well, as it was one less problem for him to consider. And right now, the less to clutter his focus the better.

  Because either way, the convoy was in trouble. The dogs, with their matted and oily fur hanging in clumps as they ran, had a look that was equally as dangerous—as blankly malevolent—as the cattle. They, too, had long snouts that ended in overhanging, sharp incisors that looked practiced in the art of ripping flesh. And, like the cattle, they, too, had dark, hooded eyes that spoke of nothing other than the lust for blood.

  The more of these bastards they could take out at distance, J.B. knew, the better. No doubt about that.

  J.B. judged from the size of them in the night-vision scope that they were in range. He was unfamiliar with this kind of launcher, sure, but he knew enough to make an informed guess.

  “Cody, they look just right for blasting. This is your tech—you figure I’m right?”

  “Hell yeah, let ’em rip,” the rangy fighter replied over the open comm line.

  J.B. triggered a rocket, and from the corner of the ob port saw a trail like that left by his own weapon as Cody also let fly. A cackling laugh over the open line told him that Doc had also let loose from the rear wag, an impression reinforced when a third streamer entered his line of vision.

  No sooner had he the time to absorb this impression than the three rockets hit home, almost simultaneously. Because of the speed of the convoy, the explosions seemed to be at their rear, the mass of the pack already having changed direction to shadow them so that the three rockets caused damage, but nowhere near as much as the Armorer would have wished.

  The noise from the pack rose to such a pitch that it was higher and louder than that produced from the convoy as it motored along the blacktop. A screeching howl of fury and pain from the cattle and dogs—pain from those scorched by the very edges of the rockets’ detonation, fury from those who were not affected, but felt the loss of their fellow pack members; as though, perhaps, they were of one group mind.

  The rockets had caused some damage to the whole, but had only really caught the fringes of the group. Those that were old, slow and not the most vicious and driven by the urge to chill had been taken out. These had disappeared in the cloud of explosive smoke caused by impact, which had mixed with the cloud of dust thrown up by the hooves and pads of the creatures, now tinged also with the red mist of blood and vaporized flesh and bone. As the pack moved on, pulling the cloud with them and leaving that which was in their wake to settle, so the remnants of what had once been cattle and dogs spread out behind them—strips of hide, of flesh roasted by the intense heat of the impact, of bone and while limbs and skulls left by those who had not been in direct line. The debris did little more than remind of how large the pack was—at least, would have done if the convoy could have stopped and observed.

  Coming to halt was the last thing they wanted. Enraged by the attack on their corporate being, the pack had increased its pace and was beginning to gain on the convoy.

  “Dark night, how fast can those bastards move?” J.B. breathed. Without a needed comp reading, but from his experienced eye alone, the Armorer could tell that the pack had dipped under the minimum range of the rockets. To unleash such explosive power now would result in an impact that would blow back on the convoy itself.

  He turned to LaGuerre. “Get that boy to up the speed,” he barked, indicating the
still impassive and motionless Zarir.

  The trader shook his head. “Can’t do that. We go faster, we leave the big rigs behind. Ain’t gonna do that.”

  J.B. turned back to the approaching animals. He knew it was only his imagination, but it seemed to him that he could smell their hot breath down his neck, could smell the reek of their hide. The former was his fear; the latter was a genuine sensory impression. It hit him that the pack was now so near, and so large in numbers, that the heat produced by their collective stampede was enough to drive the smell of their fury across the blacktop, sucked in by the air con and relayed to those who may have thought themselves safe in wags, but were now inclined to reconsider their position.

  “Machine-gun fire. It’s our only option, and we’ve got to make every shell count,” he barked over the open comm mic. “Too close to risk the rockets.”

  “Figure you’re right,” Cody’s voice returned. “Switching to that right now.”

  J.B. was glad of the backup from the convoy man. In the lead wag, Eula had watched in silence, as though waiting for the Armorer to slip up, to show a chink in his armour. For what reason he could only guess. One thing for sure, she was not helping anyone else in the convoy, and why LaGuerre was letting her do this was something he could only put on hold, to puzzle over if they got out of this in one piece.

  So it was that he glad to hear Ryan’s voice follow hot on the trail of Cody’s.

  “J.B., Doc let me take over the machine guns. Let’s chill those bastards before they get the chance to do it to us.”

  DOC HAD BEEN DISSATISFIED as soon as he had seen the rockets hit home, even though Ramona had whooped with joy to see the pack hit by the three-pronged attack.

  “Go get ’em, Docky-babe,” she yelled, hugging him. “Those fuckers are nothing more than tomorrow’s barbecue.”