Hell Road Warriors

by James Axler

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Canadian prairie opened up in front of the convoy. The giant grass grew taller than the wags. The stalks had turned yellow with the late summer. The mutated grass sent forth its seeds like dandelions, and the air was full of floating white seed parachutes the size of grens. It was like being in a snowstorm in the middle of summer. Ryan tried to point out the beauty of what nature had wrought in Canada, but Krysty wasn’t having it. She spent her time angrily lurking in the sleeper cab and spelling Ryan behind the wheel. He could see the beauty of it, but by all rumors death lurked in the long grass. Whatever form death took on the prairie, so far it seemed unwilling to take a crack at so many armed and armored wags.

  This section of the Trans-Canada was remarkably well preserved. The giant grass couldn’t seem to gain any purchase where the asphalt had once been. A smaller, greener variety pushed its way up through the concrete instead, forming a “green highway” that was easy to follow. Where the green grass started to rise in wag-threatening prominence or belts of giant grass had intruded, the dozer blade of the engineering LAV sheared the stalks and ground them beneath the wheels like an angry harvester.

  Nevertheless it was fairly slow-going and met with occasional brutal encounters with rusted-out wag hulks that appeared out of the grass. Ryan and Krysty switched stints standing in the machine-gun nest over the cab, watching the road from the tallest position in the convoy. Ryan looked back with a frown for the hundredth time as they left the Lake of the Woods in their wake. Even where the convoy had been forced to leave the Trans for a stretch, they left an almost perfectly manicured path for Mace and Thorpe to follow.

  Something was going to have to be done about that.

  That something came along as they crossed into Manitoba.

  Boo Blacktree knelt with one palm on the cracked asphalt of the Trans-Canada. He looked northward. “They’re coming.”

  “Better not be another heard of goddamn pigs,” Mildred muttered.

  Blacktree said he had seen signs of the horse barons on this patch of land before. Between Winnipeg and Lake of the Woods, it formed a two-hundred-klick choke point where they were likely to meet one of the easternmost migrations.

  Ryan turned his eye on a pothole the morning rain had turned into a puddle. The muddy water was very slightly but very distinctly shaking. The curtains of grass taller than a man had been trampled and shorn by the vast herds bison, elk, deer and wild mustangs that were migrating south. Clumps of giant grass that the herds had missed in their haste formed forlorn islands dotting the landscape.

  “These horse barons,” Ryan asked. “Are they First Nations?”

  “First Nations, Canuck, Deathlander, all mixed. Say the first ones were the French who fled St. Boniface when the Peg got hit. Say they even take muties as long as…” Blacktree trailed off uncomfortably under Ryan’s gaze.

  “As long as they’re useful and not too deformed,” Ryan finished. He’d heard it all too often.

  “Yup.”

  “They friendly?”

  “Like anybody else.” Blacktree had become downright chatty since Goosekiller had left him to vocally fend for himself. “See an opportunity, they’ll take it. You weak, they raid. You in a strong place, or stronger, they’ll trade or go around.”

  Ryan raised his Navy longeye and looked out at the northern horizon. The rain kept down the dust, but there was a wavy line appearing right at the edge of sight. The line slowly resolved. It was horses. Hundreds of them. Ryan watched the line resolve into a sea of churning hooves and bobbing heads. They were already growing shaggy, corded winter coats that would allow them to survive the northern winter and the Deathlands harsh ultraviolet radiation. The riders were as wild and woolly as their mounts. They were mostly dressed in breechclouts, leggings and deerskin shirts like a horde of mountain man Mongols. Most carried black-smithed muzzle-loading muskets or longblasters. A few had more modern equipment. Some few had bows and lances but not many, and the lances mostly seemed to be used for carrying banners.

  Ryan looked at J.B. where he stood in the LAV’s commander hatch. “Flare.”

  J.B. raised the flare blaster and sent a burning red star into the blue skies over the prairie. Thirty riders detached from the horde and galloped toward the convoy. J.B. trained the LAV’s turret on them. The horsemen came to a halt. The banner man carried a lance bearing a black pennant emblazoned with a white skull with a broken jaw.

  Ryan stepped forward and gazed up at the leader.

  He was a big man, tall and rangy. He had a strong, pointed chin that he took the time to shave. A wolfskin was draped over his shoulders, with the taxidermied head forming a hood. Wire-rimmed glasses hung incongruously on his nose and gave him the look of an intellectual savage. A long, flat, fish-shaped club hung from a thong on his wrist. A heavy-caliber, double-barrel, predark hunting blaster rested across his thighs.

  Ryan slowly raised a canteen and took a sip. He capped it and tossed it to the horse lord. The man caught it and took a huge swallow. He gasped as the hawberry brandy burned like sweet gasoline down his throat. “What rad crater did you brew this in?” He capped it and made to toss it back.

  Ryan gestured for him to keep it. “Compliments of the Lakes.”

  The man nodded and shoved the canteen in his saddlebag.

  “Compliments back.”

  “Baron…?” Ryan asked.

  “Sternzon,” the baron replied.

  “I’m Ryan Cawdor, commander of this convoy.”

  Baron Sternzon took in the convoy. The iron wags were giving him serious pause. “Never heard of you.”

  “I am an ally of Baron Luc Toulalan of Val-d’Or.”

  “Heard of him. He’s a long ways east.” Sternzon leaned on his saddle horn casually. “Saw your signal. What do you want?”

  Ryan shrugged. “Horses.”

  Sternzon rolled his eyes in amusement. “Got those. How many you want?”

  “Eight.”

  “Eight?” Baron Sternzon sighed. The convoy was rich beyond the dreams of avarice in goods. Eight horses was going to get Baron Sternzon precious little of it.

  “Eight.”

  J.B. spoke from the turret. “And blasters.”

  Baron Sternzon stared at the convoy bristling with out-of-the-box Diefenbunker specials. “You want blasters? From me?”

  “Eight.” J.B. nodded. He pointed at the baron’s banner man and his home-rolled bison blaster. “Like his .54 caliber. Or bigger.”

  Sternzon warmed to haggling. “Now my brother Todd has counted on that old horse-leg for some serious killing.”

  J.B. held up a C-8 carbine with the bayonet attached. “Count more with this.”

  Todd just about jumped out of his saddle. “Good trade!”

  “Two for eight,” J.B. insisted. “Spare mag each, all mags filled.”

  It was still a ridiculous trade. Todd passed his open hand over his fist in the age-old gesture. “Done!”

  Baron Sternzon shifted in his saddle. This was too good to be true. “Horses?”

  Ryan nodded. “Two for eight, spare mag each, all mags filled.”

  Sternzon passed his hand over his fist warily. “Done.”

  “You pick out the horses, best you got that no one’s riding.”

  Sternzon nodded slowly. It was a compliment and a dare to cheat them. “Done.” He struggled to keep his poker face. It was clear to him that these people were insane. They also happened to be insanely wealthy, and if they let primo blasters flow through their hands like water, they might as well flow to him and his band. “Good trade.”

  Ryan cocked his head judiciously. “Now you got some men blasterless.”

  Sternzon snorted. “We’ll manage.”

  “Want more
?”

  Sternzon stopped just short of drooling. “Might.”

  “Got Mace Henning after us.”

  “Heard of him.” Sternzon’s face went flat. “And?”

  “Want you to wait a day, meet up with him right here, same way you met with us. Tell him we went south.”

  “Don’t think Mace is gonna thank me for that.”

  Cyrielle raised her little chin imperiously. “You will have the thanks of Baron Luc Toulalan.”

  “You know, lady, I respect you,” Sternzon said, “but I just don’t get across the Ottawa much.”

  Hunk thumped his chest. “You’ll have the thanks of Baron Poncet of Manitoulin.”

  Sternzon peered down his nose at Hunk. “We get to Hawberry Island even less.”

  His men laughed. Hunk flushed. Ryan put a restraining hand on Hunk’s shoulder. Boo Blacktree took a step forward. “You’ll have the thanks of Jon Hard-knife and the First Nations.”

  Baron Sternzon chewed that one over. “Well, now, all this thanks is something, but thanks just don’t fill any mags for me.”

  Cyrielle gestured at the weapon Todd was happily fondling. “Five more just like it.”

  “Ten.”

  “Done.”

  Sternzon scowled the scowl of a horse trader who knew he’d under bid.

  “When you see Mace,” Ryan said, “tell him during the trading one of your men heard something about a bunker and that we were asking about the Rat River.”

  “All right.” Sternzon looked back at his herd. “Tell you what. I’ll send about half south now. That’ll cover any tracks you were supposed to have laid.”

  “Appreciate that. We’ll take four more horses for meat, but tonight I invite you to join us at our fires. We got food like you ain’t ever seen.”

  “You got everything like I ain’t never seen. I’m bringing ten of my best, and your convoy will be surrounded.”

  “Bring twenty,” Ryan said.

  “Well, you’re generous, I give you that.”

  “That’s because I got a favor to ask.”

  Sternzon stiffened. “What kind of favor?”

  Ryan made a dismissive gesture. “I’ll ask after you’ve tried the poutine.”

  DIEFENBUNKER FRIES and cheese curds smothered in gravy had put Baron Sternzon in a very reasonable mood. Ryan mounted up. It had been several weeks since he’d sat on a horse, and he knew he was going to be sore the following day. Sternzon had picked him out an excellent pair of muscular, piebald mares with the creative names of Bullet and Blaster. Part of Ryan was relishing the chance to be on a good horse and let it stretch out in open country. Six and his horse regarded each other with great wariness as he clambered into the saddle. The mare had already thrown him twice, but Six was a “get back on the horse” kind of man. Jak sat astride a dreadlocked pinto gelding like he didn’t have a care in the world. Tamara was feeding her roan a steady diet of baby talk and dried fruit slices, and the love affair between them was growing deeper by the second. Ryan clicked at his horse and the war party trotted over to the fighting LAV.

  J.B. sat with his bound leg lying along the loading ramp as he examined what he had wrought. Ryan glanced at the weapons J.B. had traded for. They were all of a type, muzzle-loading, fairly short-barreled percussion cap rifles firing black powder. J.B. raised a .60-caliber weapon and checked the action a last time. “What’re you thinking, J.B.?”

  “Mace is burning alcohol. Doubt he has a semi like ours dragging it. I’m thinking he’ll have two or three small trucks. Diesel doesn’t burn or explode easy. Alcohol burns just fine. Figure mebbe it’d be easier to put a few holes in those tanks at range rather than trying to sneak up and fix a bomb to them.”

  “Range is good.”

  “Took some red phosphorous from one of the LAV grens. Wanted to add a little burn to the bullets. You each got two shots. Each blaster is sighted in for approximately two hundred yards.”

  Mildred handed up a pair of longblasters to each party member and they stuck them in the saddle scabbards. Ryan leaned down as she paused by him. “Yeah?”

  Mildred spoke low. “Get back quick.”

  “I will.”

  “Listen, Yoann still can’t stand up for more than ten seconds without fainting and J.B.’s got a bum leg. Half the people in the convoy are back to believing that Jak is a mutie, and they don’t like it. You and Six are the two civilizing authority figures around here. I’ve heard grumbling while I’ve been tending wounds. Some around here might just take it in mind to do something stupid. That Sebastien talks real nasty when he’s got some liquor in him and thinks no one important is listening. I’m gonna bunk with Krysty until you get back.”

  Ryan had heard the grumblings, as well. “I spoke to Hunk. He’s going to keep an eye out for you.”

  Mildred smirked. “Well, now, I have love in my heart for that little beanpole, baron-in-the-making.” She grew serious again. “Just get your ass back quick.”

  Jak reached back and checked a pair of bulging, jingling saddlebags on his horse. While J.B. had spent the day hand-loading and gunsmithing, Jak had spent the day with the engineering LAV’s welder. Even the poorest ville’s blacksmith could make a nail, but boxes of ready-made, galvanized nails traded about equal to bullets and the Diefenbunker outfitters had included both for use by staff and as trade goods. Jak had literally bent them to a use the Diefenbunker Table of Organization people had never intended.

  “Thanks, Jak.” Ryan looked at his war party. They were traveling light. Besides blasters and tools of the trade, they were carrying little besides a few cakes of pemmican and a waterskin each. The job at hand would get done quick or it wouldn’t get done at all.

  “Well,” Ryan said. “Let’s go join the horde.”

  RYAN WATCHED as Mace Henning consulted with Baron Sternzon.

  A mob of horsemen confronted a mob of men on motorcycles. Ryan wasn’t worried about being spotted. He was just one more mounted man in the Hunlike horde milling on the plain. Jak and Six were pulled well back out of sight. Ryan hunched beneath his buffalo robe and watched the proceedings. Sternzon and Henning spoke out in the open beneath white pennants of peace with a few sec men by their side. Both barons knew they couldn’t take the other easily in an open fight, so the meeting was fairly cordial. They passed a skin of fermented mare’s milk as they talked. Sternzon point south toward the Rat River, and Ryan watched Mace’s face as he considered this bit of news. Baron Sternzon’s script was simple, and he seemed to be sticking to it. The convoy had gone south. Sternzon was on a tight schedule to get to his winter pasturage and wanted no part of a battle between eastern barons, pirate kings and Deathlanders. He thought the convoy was insane to be so far from home this late in the season but they had too many blasters to argue with, much less attack. Sternzon, himself, would be happy to sell Mace as many horses as he wanted.

  Ryan watched Mace closely but so was every member of Sternzon’s horde who didn’t have something better to do. Tamara sat her horse beside Ryan. She was wearing skins, her hair was braided and with her face painted she looked nothing at all like the Queen of the Lakes armorer’s mate. “What do ya think?”

  Ryan watched Mace think. “He’s going to have to send reinforced scouting parties both south and west to try and reestablish contact with the convoy, and that suits me just fine.”

  Baron Sternzon had been good enough to send out portions of his heard west, as well, to help cover the convoy’s tracks. The horde on the whole thought this was a very amusing trick. Tamara’s joy was open as she smelled the big, fat kill. “And?”

  “And I think he’s going to stop right here. Probably buy some horses from Sternzon for fresh meat, and feed and rest his men until the scouts come back.”

  “And?”

  Ryan read M
ace’s brutal face. The man looked south and west. He was no fool, and he was looking for the rub, the angle or the trap. That was in Ryan’s favor. All too often in the century they lived in the rub was that things just sucked and there was no getting around it. Mace Henning just wasn’t expecting Mildred’s reverse Road Warrior attack on his tankers.

  “And I think he’s going to pull up his tankers, circle his cycles and ask for it from all eight of our barrels.”

  Tamara grinned delightedly. “You are one sexy, one-eyed son of a gaudy slut, I’ll give you that.”

  The red mist of anger started to fill his mind, but Ryan reined in his temper. “Son of a baron’s lady.”

  “Even better.” Tamara leaned over in the saddle. “You sure you don’t want none of this? It ain’t flame-colored, but it’s wet for you.”

  Ryan half successfully kept a smile off his face. He could forgive a crack blaster-shot almost anything. “You blow me a tanker, we’ll talk.”

  “Blow anything you want, Ryan.”

  Mace and Sternzon nodded at each other respectfully and rode back to their men. Horsemen blew bison horns in long, lowing calls to get the herd moving. Ryan and Tamara slipped into the swirling mass of men and beasts. “We go with the herd, three miles mebbe, then we double back wide from the east. Any luck, and we hit Mace tonight.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Mace stood in the dark and wet. He didn’t like being stationary in what could only be considered enemy territory without a ville’s walls around him. Like most pirates Thorpe and his men got downright skittish being more than a day’s ride from open water. It was raining again. Sternzon’s herd and horde had torn up the ground for klicks in all directions, and now the trail was turning into a morass. Mace looked back at his forces. Except for the pickets, all the men on watch were hunched over fires. The other half off watch hung from the sagging hammock poles like sodden sausages. The pirates slept on their blankets even more miserably in the mud.