Perception Fault
Page 16
“Bastard pit dug in the road!” a voice shouted back. “Whole wag went in. We aren’t gonna get it out without a couple Hummers pullin’ on it! Hey, who’s— What the hell!”
Blasterfire suddenly erupted from the bottom, the sharp barks of blasters interspersed with some kind of loud whoops. Ryan tried to see what was happening, but the plume of dust kicked up by the SUV still hadn’t dissipated, and he wasn’t about to slide into whatever was going on down there without seeing where he was going first.
The heavy chatter of the M-60 on the rear Hummer suddenly overwhelmed the fight that had broken out in the pit. Ryan turned to see the turret gunner firing short bursts at groups of raiders mounted on…blue horses?
Ryan resisted the urge to rub his eye to see if his was hallucinating, but a blink or two cleared the last of the errant dust away, letting him see the figures astride their painted horses clearly.
As if they had headed back down to the hell-roasted southwestern desert, Ryan and his convoy were being set upon by a large group of Native Americans on horses streaked with blue paint, obviously in homage to their crazy dark blue effigy on the desert plain. These raiders were armed with automatic longblasters, and, Ryan had to admit, insane courage, guiding their mounts with their knees while using both hands to aim and shoot their weapons. Bursts of fire were coming from both wags on the road now, aimed in all directions, as the raiders seemed to flow in and out of the dust cloud their galloping horses raised like desert ghosts.
The dust had settled enough in the pit for Ryan to finally be able to see enough to try to descend into it to help the men down there. He had just taken his first step when a woman’s shout was heard, followed by three shots, then the sounds of a scuffle.
“J.B., take the right side!” Ryan hissed as he tested the rear bumper of the wag, which was resting on the lip of the square hole. Satisfied that it would hold, he stepped up onto the back of the vehicle and started making his way across the roof, intending to reach the hood of the vehicle and use that as a way to reach the floor. His attempt was interrupted, however, when a dark brown hand striped with blue reached out from inside the Hummer and grabbed his ankle.
Surprised, Ryan tried to wrench his foot free while keeping his balance on the metal rooftop, and failed to do both. Pitching headlong over the side, he vanished into the black space between the wag and the dirt wall.
“WHAT FUCK!” JAK HAD DRAWN his .357 Magnum Colt Python and was watching the horde of perhaps thirty to forty riding bandits approach. “Bein’ attacked by Indians!”
“The correct term would be ‘Native Americans,’ since they had roamed this land long before either your or my ancestors had come along.” Doc peered out of his side of the wag at the approaching raiders, readying his LeMat for action.
“At least we aren’t in a covered wagon on this prairie.” Mildred had also drawn her target pistol at the first sign of trouble, and was watching the riders gallop toward them along with everyone else. “I take it we’re staying here?”
“Can’t leave Ryan and J.B. out there unprotected,” Krysty said from the front seat. “Besides, these wags are armored enough to protect us from whatever they’re carrying. We just have to make sure they don’t get too close to us.”
Just then the gunner from the rear Hummer shouted in surprise. Mildred and Doc in the backseat both looked back to see something shiny and flaming arc through the air from one side and land in the turret with the tinkle of glass. A moment later, a burst of flame made the sec man leap out, screaming as he beat at the fire consuming his clothes. A shot cracked, and he fell to the ground, the fire hungrily consuming his body. The return fire increased from the third mil wag, but more burning bottles seemed to come from nowhere, and soon the entire top of the vehicle was covered in flames.
“Shit, Ryan and J.B.’ll take care selves. If not get out here, we dead!” Jak scrambled into the driver’s seat and pulled the start button.
“Jak, we can’t leave without them—” she began when the tinkling of glass was heard nearby as a bottle smashed to pieces on the hood of their wag. It was followed by the familiar whoosh of flames as flammable liquid covered the hood.
“Fuck! Not leavin’ them. Evenin’ odds to come get ’em later!” Jak pushed the button again, letting the engine roar into life while he twisted the wheel and stomped on the accelerator. The wag surged forward—directly into the running line of men and horses. As they moved, Krysty saw bursts of flame erupt in the dry prairie grass as more Molotovs exploded nearby. “Head west! The fire’s going to spread east.” She glanced over at the rear end of the mil wag that had fallen into the pit, but couldn’t see anyone moving there. Ryan, she knew, would be all right. He’d been in worse situations than this.
“Goddamn! The sec men getting out of the other one are being cut down right and left!” Mildred shouted as she watched. “Looks like Jak had the right idea.”
“Mebbe. Hang on!” Jak pushed the Hummer up as fast as he dared, playing a deadly game of chicken with a group of six riders coming right at him. Most of them shied away, but one, his face and upper body painted bright blue, was determined to face down the four-wheeled menace, and kept his horse charging right at them while he aimed his M-16 at the windshield, snapping off shots as fast as he could pull the trigger, his bullets starring the windshield as he drew closer and closer.
It was no contest. The armored three-ton vehicle, traveling at almost forty-five miles per hour, pulverized the horse and rider, snapping off the animal’s front legs and disintegrating its rib cage into fragmented shards of bone. The horse didn’t even have time to scream before its internal organs were pulped into mush by the battering ram of the mil wag’s front bumper and grille. Its body tumbled across the hood, smothering most of the fire before sliding off as Jak whipped the steering wheel hard right to dislodge the great bloody mess. The firing warrior was thrown from his mount and sailed twenty more yards through the air before crashing to the ground, dead upon impact.
Jak powered over the dead horse’s body, the wheels snapping more bones as they passed over the corpse, and turned back again toward the ambush site.
“Gotta provide distraction for Ryan, J.B.,” he grunted, sticking his blaster out the side window and firing at the remaining warriors.
“By the three Kennedys, I think that ought to turn their heads!” Doc took aim with his LeMat, dropping another rider in a cloud of smoke and pellets.
Their ambush only partially successful, the raiders had swiftly reformed into four smaller parties, and were now charging at the wag from four different directions. The companions’ smaller blasters were outmatched by both the caliber and number of weapons carried by their attackers, as well as the incoming volume of fire. They were reduced to sniping when they could as Jak labored to keep the groups scattered while not setting themselves up for too much concentrated return fire.
The best way to do this, he accidentally discovered, was to charge straight at one of the groups, forcing it to scatter as Krysty, Mildred and Doc took out riders or their mounts. Doc’s LeMat scattergun barrel was particularly effective, the balls crashing into the legs of horses and their riders, often sending the raiders crashing to the ground in a screaming, tangled heap of horse and human. Often Krysty or Mildred were able to take out at least a couple of the blue-painted warriors as they passed, as well. Although the horses were able to change directions more nimbly, the faster, more powerful wag had the edge in outpacing its attackers, and after several passes, the remains of the large group of raiders were broken and demoralized, with lone riders peeling off to retreat and fight another day.
Doc blew smoke out of the barrel of his ancient revolver. “Verily, I declare that we have driven off the raiders without injury to ourselves, and thus I declare us victorious.”
Krysty’s sweat and dust-covered face was grim. “Yeah, but we haven’t won the day just yet. Let’s get back to Ryan and J.B., and make sure they’re all right.”
Jak executed a neat
180-degree turn and headed back to the ambush site, clearly marked by the column of greasy, black smoke rising into the sky. A few minutes driving brought them back to the road, where the bodies of sec men and painted warriors littered the ground.
But there was no sign of Ryan and J.B. at all.
Chapter Nineteen
Ryan hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud, his attempt to roll with the impact thwarted by the narrow space he found himself in, trapped upside down between the dry earthen wall and the wag’s front fender. Tasting acrid dust, he spit to clear his mouth. He knew his ambusher was still nearby, but couldn’t tell exactly where he was, and that was the second largest problem he had.
On the wag’s other side, he heard the short burst of an automatic weapon—J.B.’s mini-Uzi. He’d bet his life on it. He tried to call to the Armorer for help, but he could only manage a pitiful wheeze. The awkward way he’d landed was compressing his lungs so that he could only suck in enough air to survive, but not to call for help.
His right arm was pinned against the ground, making drawing his blaster impossible. Reaching out with his left hand, he felt empty space, then warm rubber—the tire of the wag! Just then he felt a stinging blow on his leg, as if someone had whacked him with a thick stick. He didn’t know if his enemy was checking to see if he was still alive or just torturing him, although judging by his throbbing shin, Ryan suspected the latter. He reached around the tire just as the stick came down again, this time on his other leg, making him grunt with pain. He lashed out with his left foot and felt it graze something, but before he could connect with it a second time, his shin was struck again, the pain jolting all the way up his leg.
Gonna grab that fuckin’ stick and shove it up his ass, Ryan thought. Grabbing the tire again, he pulled himself forward with all his might. At first he didn’t move, but then his body shifted an inch, then another. All the while more blows rained down on his legs, the pain radiating from each strike almost overwhelming. Ryan grit his teeth and remained silent, not wanting to give his tormentor the satisfaction of knowing he was doing damage. At last, his other arm was free, and he scrambled underneath the mil wag, narrowly avoiding another flurry of blows.
Ryan groped for his Sig Sauer just as a face out of nightmare appeared, glaring at him from the side of the Hummer. With wide, wild eyes, a snarling mouth filled with rotting teeth, and his entire face painted in diagonal stripes of blue, the warrior brought the other end of his stick around—this one ending in a razor-sharp metal spearhead—as Ryan was trying to line up his blaster with a tingling, partially numb hand.
Both men attacked at the same time. Ryan was forced to scoot backward to avoid being stabbed by the spear, which threw off his aim, making his shot go wide. The Native American saw the blaster but apparently didn’t care, since his only reaction was to crouch near the rear tire and advance under the Hummer, jabbing with the spear as he did so. As he shuffled forward, chanting an incomprehensible language, Ryan saw he was mostly naked, with only a leather breechcloth covering his genitals. His face was broad and flat, with narrow, dark brown eyes and a protruding forehead and jaw that made the rest of his face look like it had been pushed in. He was also fairly short, at least a foot shorter than Ryan’s own rangy frame.
Hot, sweaty and furious at being stymied by his stone-age attacker, Ryan rolled toward the front of the vehicle, giving him enough time to aim properly and fire three times. The trio of bullets pierced the man’s chest and carved through his heart, killing him almost instantly. He stumbled backward, leaning against the rear tire for a second before it shifted under his weight and sent him sprawling to the ground.
J.B.’s face appeared on the far side of the Hummer. “You okay?”
Ryan tried to speak again, but only expelled a small cloud of dust. He nodded, hawking up saliva for his parched throat and spitting out more brown dust. “Fine, thanks…” He took J.B.’s extended hand and slid out from underneath the wag, narrowly avoiding stepping on four more breechcloth-wearing, brown-skinned bodies. “Busy over here?”
“Only took out two. Other two were dead when I got here. There’s a wounded man, too, one of Carrington’s. Not for too much longer, looks like.” J.B. shook his head as he regarded the man sprawled half out of the passenger seat, the front of his fatigues covered in dark red blood. The man’s face was growing paler as he bled out, but he lifted a soaked hand and beckoned the two men closer.
“Hell, it’s a wonder he’s still living now.” Ryan leaned over to hear what he had to say. “Rachel…Carr…ington…stowaway…taken prisoner…taken…” He tried to say something else, but his voice was cut off by a bright red bubble of blood, and when it burst on his lips, his last breath hissed out with it.
Ryan turned to stare at J.B. “You’ve got to be kidding me. We have to go after her again?”
“Apparently so. But where the hell’d they take her? Didn’t see anyone come out on my side.”
“Me neither. And if these guys were waiting to attack anyone in the vehicle, that means…” Ryan grabbed a flashlight from its holder under the dash, switched it on and played the beam around the interior of the pit. Underneath the rear wheels he saw what he was looking for, but hoped he wouldn’t find—a low, narrow tunnel leading away from the trap.
“Still thinking this was a good idea?” J.B. asked as he stared at the black opening.
“Less every minute.” Ryan coughed as he replaced the low magazine in his blaster with a full one. Climbing up on the fender of the wag, he peered into the passenger compartment until he found a heavy, plastic canteen. After draining half the bottle and splashing the rest over his head, he walked to the entrance to play his light down the tight corridor. “That woman’s going to be the death of me yet.”
“Tell the others?”
“No time. If we’re only a few minutes behind, we got a better chance of taking them by surprise and getting her back now than if we regroup and come back later. Come on.”
Ducking, he entered the passageway, almost stumbling over another body as he did so. A third warrior lay before him, his bulging eyes and protruding tongue making it fairly clear how he’d died. “Looks like someone took out another one here.”
J.B. didn’t waste words on the body’s condition. “Yup.”
Ryan shuffled down the tight passageway, breathing shallowly with each step. As hot as it had been in the pit itself, the tunnel had to have been at least twenty degrees warmer, making sweat bead all over his body. The air was also thick and foul, smelling of earth, unwashed bodies and smoke. The top of Ryan’s head brushed the ceiling, and there was just enough room for him to advance if he turned his shoulders so they were at an angle to the walls. Blaster in his right hand, crank flashlight in his left, he duckwalked farther in, ready to chill anything that moved in front of him. He thought he might be on a downward slope, but it was hard to tell. He heard J.B.’s stealthy movement behind him, so Ryan had no worries as far as his back was concerned.
The tunnel continued straight for several dozen yards, then doglegged left. Ryan paused at the bend, keeping the light low so as not to make himself a target. He flashed the light around the corner first, trying to flush out any ambushers. When no spears or bullets came his way, Ryan leaned out long enough to glance down the tunnel, seeing nothing but empty corridor.
He reached behind to signal J.B. to move out, then crept into the passageway. After the noise of the fight both in and out of the pit, the silence was disconcerting. Ryan expected to hear movement at least, maybe conversation, screaming, some sign of life, but although he strained as hard as he could, he heard nothing at all up ahead.
Where the fuck did everyone go? he wondered. He hadn’t passed any side tunnels, and there hadn’t been any forks yet, either. The passageway just seemed to keep on going, deeper and deeper. Squaring his shoulders, Ryan followed, trying not to think too much about the tons of dirt and stones above his head, or what would happen if a section of tunnel were to suddenly collapse on him.
After a slow thirty-count, he was satisfied the area was empty. Edging into the doorway, he swept the entire area with the muzzle of his blaster one last time. Straightening, Ryan stepped inside—and was shoved to the ground as a large weight fell on him from above, his blaster flying from his grasp as a dirty arm snaked around his throat.
Ryan felt another hand tear at his face, and he grabbed it and bent the fingers back at an impossible angle, feeling two snap under the pressure. His opponent didn’t make a sound in response, but the forearm around his throat constricted more tightly, cutting off Ryan’s air. Grabbing the man’s arm with his left hand, he wrenched it off his windpipe and back around while reaching for his blaster, just out of grasp, with his right hand. His adversary wriggled out of his grasp and tried to choke him again, but Ryan jammed his chin into his chest, preventing the warrior from securing his stranglehold again. Feeling hot, fetid breath on his ear, he dipped his head even lower and snapped it back, feeling a crack as his skull smacked the other man’s jaw. He head butted him a second time, this one landing more solidly, making the man rear back.
Giving up on reaching his blaster, Ryan went for the panga on his left hip, drawing it as he rolled onto his back to try to dislodge the man. As he did, he saw J.B. locked in combat with another of the short men, both of them shuffling around as if in a deadly, clumsy dance.