by James Axler
His attention was taken by a patch of undergrowth on their left, and he peered toward it, cursing furiously under his breath as he tried to define if the rustling movement within it was a harmless animal, a possible predator or stickies waiting to attack.
While that occupied him, Ryan and Krysty exchanged looks. Such was the bond that had built between the two of them over the years they had been traveling that they could almost tell what the other was thinking.
If Arcadian had some motive for sending Toms to Jackson Spire, then they would be wise to be triple red. Maybe the baron was nothing more than a dabbler in trying to expand his empire than K.T. had half suggested. But maybe he had some motive that was as yet unfathomable, involving the convoy as much as—if not more than—the people of the ville.
The eighth wag of the convoy was an old military vehicle that had, at one time, been used as troop transport. Bench seats still filled the first half of its length before giving way to an area that had been cleared at the rear of the vehicle. Here were two mounted Brens, ancient but reliable, that covered both sides of the road. Currently they were manned by two of the wag crew. Ryan and Krysty were due to relieve them in an hour. Meantime, they tried to rest, knowing how uncomfortable the metal bucket seats of the Bren mountings could become. But it was far from easy, as Toms was a great believer in utilizing space to the max: cartons and wooden crates were piled precariously around them, barely contained by webbing. These were crew supplies, and were carried in sec wags to keep them separate from trade cargo. It was a reasonable system, except that it took no account of crew comfort during rest periods.
“Asshole trees,” K.T. cursed, louder than his previous mumblings. “Makes the land hard to read. You don’t read the land, you don’t know what’s gonna jump out at you.”
Which was precisely why Ryan and Krysty were themselves cursing at that moment. They were trying to get rested so that they could stay triple red, yet thinking that the only thing that was going to leap out at them on benches like these were their own kidneys.
It was going to be a long ride, despite the distance.
“DO YOU USUALLY follow this route?” J. B. Dix asked mildly, taking a look through the periscope attachment that had been welded into the roof of the rear wag. It was a fine piece of work, salvaged from who knew where and lovingly maintained. The welder had been a craftsman, the bearing-mounted swivel allowing J.B. to take a full 360-degree look at the territory through which they were passing.
Despite the mildness of his tone, J.B. felt uneasy. He had picked up from overheard murmurs that this wasn’t the usual route taken on leaving Arcady. The scope showed him that the roadsides were dense, impenetrable foliage, almost like a jungle—creeping vines, twisted and gnarled tree trunks with overhanging branches pendant with dark, oily leaves; thick, spiky grasses that poked out of gaps and lined the hillocks on which the trees rose and fell. Dark, ominous rustling from within could be danger, or could be just the movement of the heavy plant life.
This was the territory that had once been known as Missouri. Some of the vegetation he could see would have existed here before skydark, perhaps changed by the mutation of the nukecaust. But most of it was alien—not just to here, but to anywhere that he had ever been. Not least of which was the route they had taken into the ville. There was a sense of foreboding that hung over the old flat-top highway. It may have just been the darkness where the canopy of leaves blocked the sun, or it may have been the way in which the trees seemed to loom, as though waiting for the right moment to pounce.
Someone or something had laid this vegetation along this route. He’d bet on someone, and he also knew who would be his likely suspect. But the question was why? Was it a defense? In which case, why was the convoy being sent to Jackson Spire, which presumably was the only settlement along this old road, and the only place from which Arcady could want protection?
Or had they been sent this way because the foliage was part of an offensive rather than defensive measure? In which case, where was an attack to come from? The why could wait.
J.B.’s question was finally answered. “Not usual to go this way, no. But then, we’ve never been to Jackson Spire before. No reason to, really. As far as we were concerned, it was a dead-and-alive pesthole, with nothing to take us there. Nothing to trade, and no jack to buy.”
The giant Lou stretched himself, his arms rising so that they pushed against the roof of the wag, even from his seated position. He yawned, then pivoted on his swivel-mounted chair so that he faced the Armorer rather than the front of the wag.
“Why? Does it matter?” J.B. shrugged. He thought it might, but there was no need to cause unnecessary panic. “I was just wondering. It’s this weird shit at the sides of the road. Not what I remember when we came in.”
Lou thought about it for a moment, scratching at the stubble on his chin. “That’s true enough,” he said slowly. “Never seen anything like this around these parts before. Then again, Jackson Spire has a reputation for being rad-blasted, which is part of the reason people like us have avoided it before. Guess it’s just rad shit that’s done this.”
J.B. sniffed. “Yeah, guess so,” he agreed.
Of course he didn’t. There was an itch at the base of his neck, a sharp prickle that alerted him to a possible danger. If nothing else, he was going to stay triple red and be ready if it came at them.
Carefully, he stepped back from the scope, took off his spectacles and polished them with the hem of his shirt. As he did, he locked eyes with Mildred Wyeth. The doctor had been checking the med supplies that she always carried with her, separate to those of the convoy. It was the first chance she’d had, given the speed with which they had prepared for departure. But as she had listened to the exchange between the giant sec lieutenant and the Armorer, she had paused in her task. She knew J.B. far too well to take his words at face value, and she knew when he was trying to keep something back. Now, as he shot her a glance that was intended to stay hidden from the other crew members, she understood.
The wag that traveled at the rear of the convoy was longer than any others, and had a larger crew. Six people, besides J.B. and Mildred, were in the vehicle. A radio operator sat at a right angle to the wag jockey. All the vehicles were connected by an old shortwave system that, like the scope, had been salvaged and maintained with care. The whirling, crackling sounds of the rad-scoured ether were an ever-present low-volume background to the business of the wag, occasionally rising above the hum of the engine, sometimes blending with it almost hypnotically, broken now and then by the distorted voices of other wags passing messages.
The wag jockey had a sec man riding shotgun. Currently, an aging and emaciated man named Keef rode there, peering from behind spectacles thicker than those of the Armorer.
Behind these seats were chairs bolted to the floor of the wag. Lou reclined in one of these, and he was joined by another crew member. The final man in the wag crew—unusually, this was an all-male wag—was seated at the rear. A heavy-duty cannon was mounted over the rear axle, its barrel and scope exiting through the space that had once housed doors, but which had been modified to mold steel plate shielding around the blaster.
Around the chairs bolted into the floor were crew supplies, and along the sides of the wag were welded secure cabinets that housed meds and armament. It didn’t leave much room for the crew, cramming them close together. Yet, because of the low level of interior light—the windshield and wire-meshed glass on the side doors being augmented by fluorescent-lighting run off the battery—it was still possible for J.B. to convey all he wished to Mildred without anyone else in the wag being aware of what passed between them.
She moved across the floor of the steadily rolling wag, picking her way around the crates and cartons, so that she could take a look at the roadside. When she did, the sight took her by surprise: while inside the wag, having seen nothing of the outside since the convoy started to roll, she had assumed that they would be passing the kind of landscape that
she had seen surrounding Arcady. This, however…
“Wow, that is kind of weird,” she said in the best ingenuous tone that she could muster. “Can I take a better look?” she asked, indicating the scope and looking toward Lou.
He shrugged, an indulgent smile on his face. “Sure. It is fascinating, I guess.”
It was obvious that he could see nothing to worry about, and was amused by the interest that the Armorer and Mildred were showing. Relieved that he had asked no awkward questions, she moved to the scope and took a look at the surrounding territory.
No question. There was something dark and disturbing about the land through which they were passing.
Without comment, she left the scope and returned to her former post. She continued to check the meds, but also found time to surreptitiously check her Czech-made ZKR blaster. J.B., catching her doing this, indicated with the slightest inclination of the head that he acknowledged her understanding.
The convoy rumbled on. The suspension on the vehicle was good, but even so they could still feel the bump and jolt of the road beneath. Looking out at the surface, it seemed unbroken, but it was undulating as they passed over it. Root systems from the trees and bushes on either side had burrowed deep into the soil and spread across the gap between, pushing up the earth but not yet breaking through.
This made progress slower than perhaps J.B. or Mildred would have liked. The sooner they were out of this landscape, the better.
J.B. returned to the scope. To the rear of the convoy, there was nothing except the ribbon of road, the ville of Arcady a distant memory hidden from view by the twist of the road and the canopy of foliage. On either side, all that could be seen were banks of oily, dark leaves and pointed grasses.
Looking ahead, J.B. could see the convoy snaking around a bend in the road. The way in which the vehicles moved erratically across the surface of the flattop gave some indication of how the wag jockeys had to wrestle with the steering, wrenching back wheels that wanted to move with the undulations rather than the will of the driver.
The fourteen vehicles ahead of them were of varied size and shape, some old container rigs, some predark military vehicles. All had been repainted in a variety of colors, the only recurring motif being that the same kind of colors had been used. Maybe, J.B. figured, Toms had found a stash of old vehicle paints and had spread their use among his wags. It wasn’t pretty, but it identified every vehicle as belonging to this convoy. Made sense—no coldheart could hijack one of Toms’s wags and hide it with any ease.
They traveled with a set distance between every wag. There was little variation, and any wag jockey who strayed too far distant or too close was quick to drop back or to catch up. It prevented them from crashing into each other should the front of the convoy be pulled up, or from being separated and split up if the convoy was attacked from the middle.
J.B. had to hand it to Toms. For such a crude, laughable figure, which he was in many ways, the man had an intelligence that went deeper than was apparent. Which made it all the more odd that he should be taking this route, going to a ville he didn’t know, and all on the say-so of Baron Arcadian. From what Lou and K.T. had told them—indeed, what Toms had said when they had joined him on the way into Arcady—Toms had a high regard for the baron, and felt that it was mutual.
J.B. hadn’t met Arcadian, but he was aware that Lou shared K.T.’s wariness. Was it possible that Toms’s opinion of the baron had blinded him to any possible duplicity or danger?
Trouble was, all J.B. had to go on was a gut feeling. He knew Mildred felt it, too. He didn’t know about Ryan, Krysty, Jak or Doc, but if they’d taken a look at the surrounding land, he was sure that he could guess.
All his foreboding came to fruition as the radio crackled to life. J.B. and Mildred exchanged puzzled glances as Toms’s voice came over the airwaves.
“Wag One to all wags. Slow to a halt over the next quarter of a mile. There’s something we need to attend to. Repeat—slow to a halt over the next quarter mile and maintain distance. Condition blue. No need to fuckin’ panic, guys.”
The trader’s tone had been easy and friendly, with no sign of panic. Yet what could have caused him to call a halt on a empty road, with no sign of the ville up ahead?
J.B., ignoring Lou’s questioning glance, spun the scope through 360 degrees once again, staying when facing front. There was no sign of any obstruction ahead, and through to the next bend there was no sign of Jackson Spire—even given that they had only been traveling a few hours.
“What’s this about?” he snapped at Lou.
The giant sec lieutenant shrugged. “Fucked if I know. Guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
Chapter Two
Chapter Two
“And then Corleon turns to the guy who’s been trying to chill him all the way through, and he says, er…” Toms halted midway through the description and tugged at his beard, his beady, dark eyes darting around and taking a good look at the landscape that passed the windows of the wag.
Doc was relieved, in one way. This had to have been the fifth time he’d had to endure a blow-by-blow description of a scene from an old vid in the past few hours. In truth, he had ceased to pay full attention to what Toms was saying sometime back, and he had a sneaking suspicion that this particular scene was on its second run.
However, the way in which Toms stopped midstory was unnerving. The trader had found—he thought—a willing audience in Doc, and one that had knowledge of these old vids. Doc didn’t think it prudent to point out that an interest in one aspect of the past didn’t include an all-encompassing fascination.
Still, while Toms was droning on, Doc knew that all was well. For the trader to interrupt himself, something of moment had to be about to occur.
Hawklike, Doc studied the man as he paused, looked, then turned to the wag jockey. There was an unease in his manner, as though he had almost forgotten himself; as if he was about to do something that wasn’t necessarily to his liking.
“How far out are we?” he asked the wag jockey, his tone now businesslike.
The driver studied the odometer. “About fifteen miles,” he answered. His tone was curious, as though wondering why his boss had suddenly questioned him.
Toms nodded to himself, muttered, “Fuck, nearly screwed it.”
“A problem, perchance?” Doc queried.
Toms turned back, looking blank for a moment, before shaking his head and smiling uneasily. Doc noted that it didn’t reach his eyes.
“No, not problem. Just something that I nearly forgot to do.”
Doc could feel Jak stiffen, even though he couldn’t see him. The creeping apprehension that had flooded through him before now returned, and he knew that Jak’s sense of danger had also been pricked.
“Something we should know about?” Doc said, trying to keep his tone neutral.
Toms shook his head. “No. Well, kinda. But bear with me, you’ll know soon enough,” he told him.
Ah, yes, Doc mused, but would they like it?
“WHAT THE FUCK does that fat little shit think he’s doing? We’ve barely got the wags in gear and the prick is making us stop. What was the point of running the asswipe crews into the ground like a bunch of shitheaps if we’re going to stop and start like this?”
K.T. banged the palm of his hand on the side of the wag. Hard. So much so that Krysty winced, wondering how many bones the idiot had broken over the years because of his temper. It was a hard, flat sound in the enclosed space. K.T. cursed again through gritted teeth as the pain hit: not that it calmed him in any way.
“Pull the fucking wag up, then,” he yelled at the wag jockey. “Might as well pull out the bedrolls, light a fire and bed down for the bastard night,” he muttered fiercely.
“So you don’t know why Toms is doing this?” Ryan asked.
“Of course I don’t fucking know you shit rag. Think I’d be so fucking pissed otherwise?”
Ryan held his peace, knowing K.T. spoke crudely to everyone.
K.T. grabbed the handset for the shortwave. “Lou, bring it down to zero in three-fifty,” he said, visibly controlling his temper. The big man was the only one who could ever put him in his place, and resultantly he was always on his best behavior when talking to him.
“Sure, no problem,” came the big man’s mild tones. “And you keep it frosty, you hear?”
K.T. grinned. “I’ll try.”
He turned to Ryan and Krysty, the grin turning apologetic. “Shouldn’t have said that to you. Ain’t nothing to do with you if Toms goes weird on us.”
“That’s okay,” Ryan assured him. “But is there anything we should know? We’re supposed to be sec for you, so if there’s any problem…”
K.T. frowned, craning his head out the front window of the wag before answering. When he turned back, he had a puzzled expression. “Y’know, I’d tell you if I could, but I’ll be fucked sideways by a bunch of horny stickies if I can see anything weird at all out there. Far as I can see, there’s no reason why we should be stopping.”
Krysty’s hair pulled tighter around her throat, the coils moving in. “No reason” usually meant a real bad reason—just one that hadn’t jumped out to bite you on the ass yet.
LOU REPLACED the handset after speaking to K.T., pulling a face that bespoke his own bemusement.
“Guess you’d better get ready,” he said to J.B. and Mildred. “Guess we all had.” He stood with some difficulty in the cramped interior and moved to the metal gun cabinet bolted to the side of the wag. He took down a carbine and a Browning Hi-Power hand-blaster, checking that both were oiled and loaded before holstering the blaster and throwing the carbine over one massive shoulder. Both weapons were in decent condition.
