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others-shaped charges of C-4.
A horn beeped and the bikers turned to see a beautiful redhead in the driver's
seat behind the cracked windshield just as the twin 75 mm rifles spoke in
unison. The volcanic hellstorm of AP
shotgun rounds blew the attackers off their bikes. Reduced to mincemeat,
unrecognizable chunks flew everywhere and the riddled two-wheelers spun away
as engines burst into flames, and fuel tanks exploded.
Wary of shrapnel, the friends converged on the sight and did a clean sweep of
the wounded survivors. In seconds it was done. The bikers lay sprawled on the
pound, pumping out their lives into the weeds.
Holstering his 9 mm blaster, Ryan reviewed the battle zone as he reloaded the
empty clip of his Steyr from the loose rounds in his pocket. Four tires on
Leviathan were only rubbery tatters, and the tank was listing to starboard
some, but nothing serious. Spent brass covered the ground, making walking
treacherous. Acrid smoke from the burning bikes was probably the only thing
keeping the stingwings away from the mangled bodies. He could see them
circling overhead, waiting for the first opportunity to begin their feeding
frenzy.
Retrieving the shotgun, Ryan knocked on the side of the hull with the stock.
"Hey, J.B.!
You alive?"
A greasy hand came into view, and the hatless Armorer crawled out. Struggling
to his feet, J.B. dusted himself off with dirty hands. "Well, it's done. We
have a working transmission again."
"What took so damn long?" Ryan asked in concern.
"Where the hell's my hat?" J.B. demanded.
It was found and returned, basically intact. The Armorer straightened the
rumpled brim and pulled his fedora into its accustomed locale. "What took so
long? You ever try a repair job in the dark, upside down, with bullets flying
by?"
"Besides," he added, hitching his belt, "I had to take care of something in
case we got captured by those rad-licking scums."
With a clank, the bolt on the side hatch was released and the hatch slid
aside, revealing
Mildred, med kit in hand. "Anybody hurt?" she asked, exiting carefully.
"Just them," Ryan said, ramming home the clip.
She surveyed the carnage. "Better them than us. But still a waste of life."
Mildred hopped to the ground, then walked over and handed Doc a foil pack
containing a moistened towelette from an MRE pack.
"Clean that cut," she ordered. "Don't want an infection, do you?"
Doc accepted the towelette with a grateful nod.
Busy working the bolt of her Thompson to clear a round jammed in the ejector,
Amanda jerked up her head at those words and openly stared at the stocky black
woman.
A sharp whistle came from the weeds. Ryan answered, and Jak returned with a
stovepipe-
style bazooka in his grip and a canvas sack of bulky rockets slung over a
shoulder. He deposited the booty inside Leviathan.
"How did they find us?" Dean demanded, sitting on the step of the tank. Even
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though it was partially depleted, his ammo vest weighed a ton. He was bone
tired, but had no intention of showing the fact. "Been following us, or what?"
Ryan rested the butt of the longblaster on his hip. "I think they live here,"
Ryan said, studying the bullet-riddled vehicles of the rest stop. The
destruction was widespread.
"Lived," Doc corrected, tossing away the soiled towelette. He winced slightly
as the air hit the alcobol in the scrape. "Past tense, my dear Ryan. Past
tense."
"In ruins?" Jak asked.
"Sure. Fuel in the underground tanks, spare parts by the ton and plenty of
space to hide lots of folks inside the bigger trucks."
Wheeling over her BMW, Amanda said, "That makes sense. That way, they could
safely hide and decide who they'll hit and who can pass."
"Decide?" Dean repeated, reclaiming his Mossberg. A swipe of a cloth removed
some human remains from the barrel. "Why wouldn't they hit everyone who
stopped?"
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"If they ambushed everybody, soon nobody would stop here, and what's the
point?"
"Gotcha."
"Yes, very clever," Amanda stated, kicking down the stand.
"Hey, Ryan. What about those bikes?" Mildred asked, indicating several of the
more intact motorcycles. "Couple of them seem in good shape."
"Might make fine scouting craft," Krysty added, stepping into view, "and good
escape wags."
"We could strap them to the outside of Leviathan," Dean suggested, rising
wearily, ready to do his share of the work, "We have the mounts."
"So we do," Ryan said, running a callused hand over the stands installed by
the coldhearts from the redoubt. "Okay. We'll use the drive chains of the
busted cycles to secure the serviceable bikes."
"Doc, Jak, guard duty," Krysty said. "I'll be on the infrared."
The decision made, two functioning motorcycles were firmly attached to the
hull of the tank. Afterward, the friends rooted among the dead, salvaging
weapons, ammo, an ax, a can opener, a precious set of binocs only slightly
warped and a ring of brass keys.
"Could come in handy," J.B. said, pocketing the keys.
"What for?" Mildred asked. "We don't even know what they unlock."
"Might be something good, might be nothing. But a set of keys always makes
fine bait in a booby trap."
Resting against her BMW, Amanda watched their proceedings with a disinterested
air. Her gaze, though, kept darting to the interior of Leviathan.
Krysty noticed her attraction and moved between the stranger and the dashboard
console.
Curiosity was natural, but she got an odd feeling about the blonde. The woman
had clearly been badly beaten. Purplish bruises were slowly appearing all over
her body, especially the thighs, and there was a prominent tooth missing.
Krysty could guess exactly what kind of trouble Ryan and Dean had rescued her
from. Yet the blonde wasn't angry or humiliated as any normal person should
have been. She almost seemed amused. Even pleased.
"Achilles, don these, for the world knows your plight," Doc said, handing Dean
a pair of leather boots.
The youngster tried them on, delightedly finding the footgear to be a
near-perfect fit.
"Bit large," he commented, standing and stamping his feet.
"You'll grow into them," Ryan said, his expression belying the stern tone.
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"Wait a moment," Amanda said, going to her saddlebags. "I have something here
that might work better than those."
A warning signal flared through every nerve, and Krysty drew the .38 Ruger but
Doc and Jak were between her and the woman. Both of the blonde's hands were
out of sight inside the bags doing something.
"Ryan!" Krysty yelled. "Something's wrong! Stop her!"
But before anybody could react, an intense hissing sound came from the
motorcycle. Nothing was visible, but Doc and Dean toppled limply to the
ground. Scowling, Ryan managed to pull his hand-blaster when he also folded.
"It's gas!" Mildred cried, drawing her .38 blaster. But the weapon fell from [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]