Desolation Crossing

by James Axler

  He was risking his life. An open target, he could either have been picked off by a sniper, chilled by a stray shot, or even have overbalanced and plunged to his doom on the blacktop.

  The standard had to have been recognized. As it fluttered in the backdraft, a few stray shots of a heavier caliber—perhaps even mortars—overshot the convoy on each side, falling on either side of the blacktop. These ceased, and there was no further fire as the convoy approached the edge of the ville.

  Eula and J.B. helped haul the trader back into the wag.

  “Which side of the road do we go?” Cody asked.

  “How the fuck should I know?” LaGuerre coughed, the dust from the road still spewing from his lungs and nose with each mucus-ridden hack.

  “Take the left,” J.B. told Cody, looking out of the ob port he had just heaved closed. It seemed to him that the shacks on that side were larger. If this ville was anything like Guthrie—and he was sure as hell that it was—then the larger shanties indicated the ville’s leader, if baron was too grand a title for such a place.

  As Cody guided their vehicle in that direction, J.B. picked up the comm mic and relayed their intent along the length of the convoy. If anyone had anything to say, their chance was lost as the leading wag hit the center of the settlement and found itself surrounded by men and women holding heavy-duty blasters.

  “They’re all over us like a gaudy’s rash,” Eula said mildly, staring out the back of the wag at those in their wake, all of which were now surrounded by men and women of the ville. They had clustered around too close to be easily fired on.

  “So who’s gonna explain to them why we’re not who they’re expecting?” Cody asked. “Mean to say, someone’s got to do it.”

  J.B. looked at LaGuerre. “Should be you,” he said, “but somehow I don’t trust you to do the job properly. Ah, dark night, I guess it’s shit or bust. Come with me, asshole.”

  The Armorer grabbed LaGuerre and opened the side door of the wag, thrusting the trader out first.

  The people of the ville had not been expecting such an action, and in surprise they parted to let the trader sprawl at their feet. As the shock passed, and LaGuerre dragged himself upright, they moved forward as one. J.B. fired a burst from the mini-Uzi into the air.

  “What’s the problem here?” he yelled. “You don’t want the trade you ordered?”

  A fat, scabby-faced man with a gray-flecked auburn beard stepped up.

  “Moe. Baron here. Dunno who the fuck you are, but you ain’t Homer, and that’s who we made agreement with.”

  “Homer ain’t here. We are. You want we should take this shit back with us?” J.B. snapped.

  “We ain’t gonna let you do that,” Moe said slowly. “Where’s Homer?”

  “I dunno.” J.B. spit. “I don’t care, either. This guy—” he gestured to LaGuerre “—is the trader here. I’m just one of his hired hands. Way I hear it, he did a deal with Homer, jack changed hands and he took over the run. ’S’all I know. So you pay the man, you get the goods, we’re all happy.”

  “Mebbe,” Moe said, eyeing J.B. carefully. “See, we like Homer. We deal with him a lot. You, we don’t know. What’s to stop us, say, chilling you ratfuck sons of bitches and just taking the goods?”

  J.B. smiled, long and slow. “You could try that, Moe, but it wouldn’t get you far. Soon as your people start shooting, the man in the wag there—” indicating Cody at the front “—hits the switch, and all the wags go up like it’s skydark all over again. See, you don’t trust us, but there’s no reason why we should trust you. You try something stupe, and we blow the whole lot to fuck. Hell, we get chilled either way, but at least it’d be quick. And we’d take some of you with us for trying.”

  There was a moment’s silence while J.B.’s eyes met with Moe’s, both men trying to understand each other, size each other up and scope each other out. Except that Moe was for real, and J.B. was bluffing.

  “You know Guthrie?” J.B. said softly.

  Moe nodded.

  “I was there years back,” J.B. said. “Lived there for a while. Name is Dix. Mebbe—”

  “Shit, yeah,” Moe said, his attitude changing suddenly. “You were the wonder boy with blasters. That guy Trader took you with him. He was a good trader, man, never cheated you for shit so that he could come back and do more business. Yeah, I know you…The glasses…Shit, J. B. Dix. Why didn’t you say who you were from the git-go?”

  Moe’s change of mood spread through the whole crowd, which now began to back off.

  “I didn’t know you’d wired the wags to explode,” LaGuerre whispered in J.B.’s ear. “When the hell did you do that, man?”

  “Don’t be a stupe,” J.B. murmured back. “When would I have had the time? Moe didn’t know that, though.”

  LaGuerre said nothing, though the sly grin that spread across his face spoke volumes.

  Moe cleared a space around the armored wag, where necessary beating back those who were too slow with the butt of his rifle.

  “Okay, Dix, you get your wags right into the center. Bring trader boy with you, and we’ll sort the payment before your people unload. That okay with you?”

  J.B. grinned at LaGuerre. “Sure, that suits me just fine. C’mon, trader boy, time you earned our keep.”

  M OE TOOK THEM to the largest shanty in the ville. It was only a few moments from where the convoy had come to rest, and as they made their way through the crowd, J.B. cast a glance over his shoulder. He could see Mildred and Krysty still in the cabs of the refrigerated wags. Jak and Raf had emerged from the second wag, and at the rear of the convoy he could see Ryan and Doc. All four men were seemingly unarmed and at ease, but the Armorer could spot the signs that told him they were poised to spring should the need arise. His friends he could read from experience, and the dreadlocked warrior carried himself like a giant shadow to the small albino by his side. Whatever else he may be, LaGuerre knew how to choose his crew.

  The crowd began to disperse a little, some of them drifting off to somewhere he didn’t know. Others still milled around the convoy, while others followed in a loose line behind the ville leader and the convoy party.

  Moe led them into the shanty, where a man and a woman were waiting for them.

  “Well?” the woman demanded. “Who the fuck are they? Where’s Homer?”

  “Don’t know.” Moe shrugged. “These guys brought the stuff, they get the payment.”

  “I dunno…” she mused. She was squat and dark, with darting brown eyes that betrayed a sly intelligence as she eyed the trio accompanying Moe.

  “Cool it,” the second man said. He was as emaciated as Moe was fat, long and lean with clothes that hung off him.

  “Lenny’s right, Selma,” Moe said. “This boy here is the famous J. B. Dix,” he added, clapping the Armorer on the shoulder, “and if we can’t trust in him…”

  “Long time since I heard that name,” Selma said, looking at J.B. in a different way. He felt like he was being sized up like a piece of merchandise.

  “System works like this,” Moe said, breaking a silence that was becoming uncomfortable. “You check the payment. Larry and Selma carry it out to the convoy, one of yours with them, while I check the goods with you. When I say okay, then we exchange.”

  “Sounds fair,” J.B. agreed. “Don’t take it the wrong when I say this, but any moves to fuck with that, and—”

  “Same here,” Moe said, looking J.B. squarely in the eye. Both men agreed without a word being exchanged.

  Larry pulled back a tarp that had been covering boxes marked with what J.B. knew to be predark military insignia. They’d been opened and then resealed. But that meant nothing. Anyone would do that to check the contents. Question was, what did the boxes contain now?

  “You know what the payment was supposed to be?” J.B. asked LaGuerre.

  “Sure. You just tell me if it’s working, and I’ll tell you if it’s inventory,” the trader murmured.

  For the next half hour, may
be longer, J.B. could feel the tension in the room from the Jenningsville trio as he and Eula checked the condition of the weapons and explosives that had comprised the payment. Frag and gas grens; semiautomatic and SMGs; ammo for these and for the crate of handblasters that also accompanied them.

  LaGuerre had obviously memorized the payment in ventory as he was able to recite the contents of each crate and mentally tick them off as Eula and J.B. checked them. There was the original fee, plus the rapid delivery bonus minus the lost day. When LaGuerre got to this, Moe seemed to be expecting an argument, and was a little surprised when the trader let it pass without comment. J.B. contained a grim smile. Hopefully, he wouldn’t suspect the reason for the seemingly lax attitude shown by the trader.

  When the check had been successful, Moe directed Larry and Selma to take out the payment. J.B. wondered how the pair of them could carry so much, a curiosity sated by the appearance of a small forklift wag, powered by an electric battery. The crates were already on a palette, and the powerful wag lifted them with ease.

  That was significant. The wag was weather-beaten, and looked as though it had racked up a good few klicks in its time, over some rough terrain. They obviously used this to carry goods back and forth to the stockpile or redoubt that supplied their barter. That also had to be where they recharged the battery motor.

  By the look of it, the stockpile wasn’t near the ville. That was worth pondering. J.B. wondered if LaGuerre actually knew the location, or if he had a plan for obtaining it from one of the ville people.

  All of this passed through his mind while he led LaGuerre and Moe back to the convoy, Eula watching their backs. There was no real need for such sec, but it did no harm to maintain the aura of vigilance.

  LaGuerre began by taking Moe to the two low-level wags, indicating that the rear doors of each be opened, and the crates containing the clothing and other supplies be likewise, so that the vile leader could check his inventory.

  Moe obviously still held some vestige of suspicion, as he checked carefully. And when it came time to climb into the refrigerated wags to check the food supplies, J.B. noted from the corner of his eye that some of the ville people moved surreptitiously forward. Not in a manner that would raise the hackles of the convoy, but enough to cover their leader as he made his check.

  Moe took Reese’s wag first, and finished his task quickly as the taciturn driver opened the rear of the wag and accompanied him inside. Ray’s wag took a little longer, as the old man couldn’t help but give the ville leader a running commentary on the merchandise and how hard it had been to get it to this point. When Moe emerged, he gave J.B. a quick look that spoke volumes, and almost made the Armorer lose his composure.

  The fat man jumped down from the refrigerated wag, stumbling a little as he landed. He held up his hands and announced in a loud voice, “It’s as it should be, guys. Larry, give these people their due. Rest of you, let’s get this unloaded before it spoils.” He turned to LaGuerre. “Is that okay with you?”

  His tone suggested that he would brook no argument. But then again, he wouldn’t get one from a satisfied LaGuerre.

  “Sure, man…do it,” the trader replied laconically.

  THE TRADE WAS EASIER than J.B. could have hoped. The people of Jenningsville were well-versed in dealing with convoys, and they unloaded crates and boxes of chilled and preserved foodstuffs from the refrigerated wags using battered electric wags like the forklift. J.B. noted that, and figured that the battering of the vehicles had to be from constant use rather than actual distance, unless the people had moved the battery chargers from the redoubt to the ville. He wondered if he’d have a chance to find out.

  While this was done, others from the ville loaded the payment into one of the refrigerated wags, ensuring first that Reese—whose wag they had picked—had turned off the refrigeration. Moe stood with LaGuerre to make sure the trader approved the change-over, and also the sealing of the wag doors.

  “Cool,” Moe said without a hint of irony. “That’s done. Now let’s tie some shit on. Every time we get a convoy through it could be the last for all we know, so it’s worth getting crazy over.”

  HE WASN’T FAR WRONG. The exchange had taken most of the day, and the air was cooling with the dusk as the ville began to go crazy. Music issued from both sides of the blacktop as musicians started to play. Brew and jolt also started to be passed around, and that affected the musicians, whose already rough melodies became more and more random, their timing affected by the drugs or drink they had imbibed. Some slowed down and others speeded up, the music becoming a blur of sound in which it was impossible to discern a rhythm. But that was okay, as those few who danced did so to a rhythm in their own heads.

  J.B. lost track of the others in the midst of the bacchanalia. He had managed to exchange a few brief words with Mildred, but nothing of any importance, either personal or to do with LaGuerre’s mission. His task ensuring that the exchange went well had taken him away from them, and he had no idea if they had been able to even speak to one another. The only thing he knew was that wherever he turned, Eula was there.

  The brew and jolt took effect on everyone in the ville. The dwellers also smoked a weed they grew especially, from seeds and stems they had discovered in the redoubt. A cloud of it now hung over the ville, drifting across the blacktop and into the night. It didn’t exactly help anyone keep their focus.

  Ryan and Doc had managed to reach Mildred and Krysty, and told them of their suspicions. But Jak had so far eluded them.

  The one-eyed man, even with his razor instincts, was startled when LaGuerre seemed to appear at his side as if from nowhere.

  “Hey, Ryan man, listen. This might not be the best time to ask, but I tell you, man, I got nothing but respect for your people. I know I bitched, man, but c’mon—you guys got us here, and the trade wouldn’t have gone so well if not for your man J.B. I got something to put to you—”

  “You want us to find their stockpile and raid it?” Ryan hissed in his ear. “Are you fucking crazy? They outnumber us, and even if you know where it is, then—”

  He stopped suddenly, realizing from the startled look on the trader’s face that he had misjudged LaGuerre. He didn’t have the balls and imagination.

  “Man, you’re the crazy one,” LaGuerre whispered, almost too low for Ryan to hear. “I was just gonna ask you to join us permanently.”

  No, he didn’t have the guts. But Ryan realized who did—the one responsible for their being in Jenningsville in the first place…

  “J.B., IT’S TIME,” Eula whispered in his ear.

  The Armorer shrugged off the emaciated gaudy who had entwined herself around him despite his best efforts, and dropped the mug of brew. He felt a little light-headed, and realized that it had been stronger than he had suspected. No matter. He could still function okay.

  “I haven’t been able to talk to the others yet—” he began.

  Eula cut him short. “Doesn’t matter. Armand will see to that. Right now, we need to get out there and scout it. They may have sec out there. But probably not. Not tonight.”

  J.B. nodded. “How we getting there?”

  “I’ve got a wag. This way,” she said, pulling at his arm.

  J.B. followed her, allowing her to lead. He didn’t see Jak.

  Something had been worrying the albino youth all day. He had noticed how, since the Armorer had checked the payment, the girl had kept him apart from the others. When J.B. had the chance to speak to Mildred, it was Eula who had contrived to separate them. Jak’s instincts were working overtime, and they told him nothing but bad.

  Looking around, there was no way that he could find any of the others in this crowd. Jak opted to trail them himself.

  Eula took J.B. to an old Jeep at the far edge of the ville. Everyone was clustered in the ville center, so it was easy for them to slip away unnoticed. Equally easy for Jak to take a motorbike from the same place—some kind of mechanic’s shed—and follow.

  Jak kept them
in sight, but stayed back so that the sound of his bike didn’t cut across their own engine noise.

  About two miles out, the Jeep slowed. So did Jak. He cut the engine, let the machine drop softly to the dirt and began to move forward on foot.

  J.B. and Eula got out of the Jeep. Jak could see that the Armorer was unsteady.

  What the hell were they doing out here? There was nothing at all to bring them here. Not that he could see.

  “THIS—THIS ISN’T RIGHT,” J.B. said, trying to clear the muzzy feeling in his head. “No stockpile I’ve ever seen has been in territory like this. No place to—”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Eula snapped. “You really believed that crap? You believed that shit about LaGuerre? Like he has the intelligence or guts to do that.”

  Before a puzzled and senses-dulled J.B. had a chance to react, she had drawn on him. Why? And why had her tone changed so much?

  “I thought for a while you were smart. A worthy opponent. That would have somehow justified the shit.” Her tone was harsh, grating, as though emotion strangled the words in her chest. She sighed heavily as she caught J.B.’s bemused expression. There was no way he was going to try to draw on a markswoman with a .44 in her fist, even though the heavy blaster looked too heavy. And still he didn’t get it.

  “John Barrymore Dix,” she said heavily. “You remember Laurel. You remember Luke. You remember Hollow star. But you don’t remember me, do you? No,” she continued, not giving him the chance to answer, “and you haven’t put it together yet, have you? I haven’t brought you out here to recce a stockpile. There are no plans. And I don’t give a fuck about the jack or the weapons. It’s you I wanted.”

  “Why?” It was feeble, but it was all he could manage.

  “Because it’s time for the truth. You want to know about that? You want to know the truth about my mother?”