Pickers 2: The Trip

by Garth Owen

  There was a red smear across the road that Tony recognised as a biker they had landed on upon cresting the river bank. His comrades were swerving around the mess of flesh and metal he had left behind. Tony loosed a volley at them, then traversed to fire at the group coming around the wrecks on the other side of the road.

  When the magazine was empty, Tony stowed the assault rifle and reached into the bag of grenades. It didn't matter which type he pulled out, he wrapped the string trigger around the fingers of his left hand and tore it out. Tossing the grenade under arm so that it just passed over the far end of the wagon, he reached into the bag for another.

  The fuse was short, but, still, half the pack had passed the grenade before it went off, throwing sticky flames all over a van and several bikers. Tony had already thrown a second grenade, and was preparing a third. He tossed this one off to the side, guessing where parts of the splitting pack might go. A fourth grenade went to the other side, then he tore the string from his fingers and grabbed the assault rifle again.

  There were projectiles in the air between the wagon and the vehicles behind, dark slashes arcing through various trajectories. A crossbow bolt embedded in the roof beside the captain's chair, and another bounced off it. Tony had another magazine in the assault rifle now. He raised it and started squeezing off three shot bursts at their pursuers. They seemed to be dropping back, bikers and cars pulling away from the pursuit. The largest remaining vehicle was a pickup, and it appeared relentless. Tony fired several bursts at it, marking the plate across the windscreen, then putting several holes in the thinner metal of the bonnet. Something gave way, and there was a burst of flame and then smoke. The pickup slowed abruptly and waggled across the road.

  The wagon slewed sideways, dodging around a burning wreck in the middle of the road. Maxine was obviously doing a good job of thinning out the raiders between the two wagons. As the vehicles behind dropped even further back, Tony spun the seat around again to face forwards. There were several bikes and two cars in the gap. Tony fed the assault rifle another magazine, and started firing into the group.

  Up ahead, the valley closed in sharply and the road became steeper. The trucks they chased had slowed dramatically, and wagon one was closing on them almost too fast. It braked hard, and the rear waggled. The cars peeled to either side of it, avoiding collision, but not disaster. The one that went to the left hit a rock, folding one of the front wheels almost all the way back to the rear, and flipping it over. The one heading right found itself in the air, flying out and across the river to collide with the steep bank on the far side.

  One motor bike couldn't stop in time, and ran into the rear of wagon one. The rider tumbled down the bank to the river, and wagon two ran over the remains of the bike. The remaining bikers braked sharply, laying their bikes to skid along on their sides if they had to, to get out of the closing gap between the wagons.

  Tony spun his seat around again. What was left of the pack were milling around, soon to be out of range. The bikers who had crashed to get away from the wagons could have been easy targets, but that wasn't the sort of thing he wanted to do. Now that the wagons had slowed, however, he remained alert for further trouble.

  A short way ahead, the road flattened out again, and the trucks could speed up again. They maintained the new pace for less than a minute, before vehicles coming down the road from the head of the valley made them slow and stop.

  * * *

  Ahead of them, the road was blocked by two pickups and a big wheeled buggy. The pickups each had a heavy machine gun braced to the roll cage behind the cab. The road wasn't wide enough for them to sit side by side, but it was so steep that the rear one could easily fire over the top of the front one.

  Most striking about the three vehicles, compared to the raiders turning tail and running back down the valley, was the uniformity of their finish. They had no markings, but they were all in the same shade of battleship grey.

  Maxine felt the assault rifle lifting up, ready to come round and point at the first pickup. It was a natural movement, the adrenaline in her system running her body. She willed the movement to stop, lowered it, and managed to find the right place to stow it. The machine gun in the rear pickup wasn't just aiming over its companion, but above the five vehicles that had just pulled to a halt before it. It was aimed at the receding raiders. An impossible shot, no doubt, but reassuring.

  The come down had started. Maxine fingers could hardly coordinate themselves to release the buckle so she could stand, they shook so much. In the end, she held the belt in her left hand and clawed at the buckle with her right, until it opened.

  The gun men in the pickups had relaxed. They had decided the raiders were too far away to worry about any more. Their guns rested, pointing off to the right, at cliff face, and they leaned on the roll cages. Two men had climbed out of the buggy and were standing before the front lorry, having a low conversation as the braver of the convoy's occupants climbed down.

  Maxine pushed herself out of the seat, and almost dropped straight back into it. Her legs quivered, the muscles in them felt soft. She straightened her back, tried to lock her knees, and hold herself upright until this rush of chill left her. She hadn't felt like this after the fight in the bunker. She'd been in control there, though, calculating her moves and knowing she could take down her pursuers with ease. This had been a full on, high speed firefight, with so many more people at risk and so much more that could go wrong.

  When her legs had stopped vibrating, Maxine opened the hatch and climbed down into the wagon. Remy was standing in the door, waiting for her. He checked her up and down, and concern added extra wrinkles to his forehead. Maxine tried to follow his gaze, twisting her right arm around until she, too, could see the red stained cut in the sleeve of her shirt. Whatever had caused the wound, she hadn't noticed it. She tore the hole wider, all but ripping away the sleeve below it, and studied the cut. It wasn't very deep, and had already stopped bleeding. She wrinkled her nose and gave a little shrug.

  They left the bloodstained shirt in the cabin and climbed down from the wagon. Maxine washed the wound and shooed her father toward the front of the trucks, to talk to the militia who blocked their way. Back by wagon two, Veronique was checking Tony for holes. They both had the same post-combat shakes as Maxine was suffering.

  There was a first aid box just inside the wagon's door. Maxine found a pad and wrapped it around her arm, fastening it in place with the hook and eye strip that ran along the ends. She decided to leave Tony and Veronique to themselves- they'd soon go through the horny part of the come down, so some privacy was in order.

  Checking she still had her two smaller pistols on her, just in case, Maxine chose to follow her father. It was as she took the first steps that her hearing came back. The sound of gunfire had been echoing around her head since they had come to a stop, but it receded now, and she could hear the commotion from the trucks. Children, lots of them, were screaming and crying, terrified by what they had just been through. The engine in the middle truck was still running, loud and rough and occasionally coughing. It was on its last legs, and they probably didn't dare stop for fear of it not starting again.

  The trucks were like cobbled together versions of the wagons, over sized campers with space for ample cargo. As Maxine stood beside the rear truck, making sense of the sounds coming from it, a door in the side opened. She couldn't help but step closer for a look. The air that rolled out stank of vomit, piss and shit- lots of frightened kids and unchanged nappies. Before she could step back, she was handed a small child by the woman who had opened the door.

  The little boy was sticky and smelly and confused. When Maxine put him down, he promptly fell over and started making little hucking sounds, ready to start crying. Maxine stood him up again and made calming noises. He stared at her, wide eyed, soothed by confusion as much as anything else. Other, older, children had climbed down by now, and the little boy held his hands out to the nearest. Maxine let the kid go and carried on to
ward the small crowd forming around the driver and passenger of the buggy.

  Remy was hanging back from the scrum, arms crossed, listening in on what was escalating into an argument. Maxine stood beside him. "Those vehicles. They're militia from the Valley, aren't they?" she said. She was twitchy, her own horny part of the come down had kicked in, the rush of pure joy at being alive that wanted a release.

  "I think so."

  "We have children with us! Orphans!" a raised voice from the crowd said. The woman turned to point back. "We were told we could bring them to you. We wouldn't have made it this far if it wasn't for.... For them." Her finger settled on Remy and Maxine. "Who are you?"

  The crowd parted as they all turned, and Maxine and Remy got their first clear view of the pair who had climbed out of the buggy. Remy all but chuckled. He pointed at the male, who had removed his helmet to try to give himself more of an air of authority. "He might know." Remy said. "I recognise him, perhaps he recognises me."

  The young man- and he looked a lot younger now his mouth was wide as he struggled to hide his confusion- tried to make a sound. He was striving to make sense Remy's pronouncement, when Maxine upped the ante. "I know him. Yes, I know him." She strode through the crowd, the rush finding a way to express itself. "You used to make fun of my hair because it was so curly and hard to brush. But, well, but, you taught me how to use a bow when everyone else laughed at me and said I was a silly little girl. Your Georges. Georges.... Why can't I remember your family name? It'll come back to me."

  "Maxie? You left the valley, with...." Georges turned to Remy, "I recognise you now, sir. You left Papa your workshop when you went away."

  "It's okay, I'm not here to claim it back. But I do have important things to talk about with my brother. Was there a reason you were blocking our route?"

  "We didn't recognise these trucks. We wanted to search them before they could come any further. I was trying to explain that...." Georges gestured to the woman.

  "Well, if you'd just said that to begin with.... If you have to search us, go ahead and search us. We have nothing but ourselves, what we could rescue, and those children."

  Children had climbed, or been passed down from, all three trucks now, and formed a small army behind them. Veronique and Tony had managed to keep their hands off each other and were now standing in the midst of the youngsters, looking overwhelmed.

  "We're not going to refuse children. But our resources are being stretched, we may not be able to support everybody, no matter how much we want to." Georges said, taking a step back and signalling to the pickup crews to search the trucks.

  "That, we hope, is where we come in." Remy told him. "Let's get the formalities over with quickly and back on our way. It has been a long time since we were home last. I want to see how the old town has changed."

  Pickers continues in-

  Part 3: The Valley

  Part 4: The Pick

  * * *

  Also by Garth Owen-

  The Old Woman In The Rock

  B-Movie Night

  Mongrels

  God Hunt

  1point1

  Lost Picture Show

  Slashed

  Chosen Ones/Source

  The vault door image used on the cover is copyright: cboswell / 123RF Stock Photo