Piers Anthony - Rings of Ice

But something about that plan bothered Zena. She couldn’t pin down the thought, except that it had no connection to her sundry other objections about their proposed lifestyle. Maybe she was merely inventing nebulous disasters.

“I don’t like going to the city any better than you do,” Gus said. “But our last haul was well worth it. If we can do that again, we’ll be set for a long time to come. And if we can grow a decent crop, and raise some animals, we can have a good supply for the next rain. I’ve got the long haul in mind.”

“We could all wind up dead for the short haul, heading into a big city,” Zena said.

But the nearby landscape was so bleak that there didn’t seem to be much of a choice. True, they might find intact pine forest further north—but they couldn’t eat pine needles.

They moved out cautiously. There was only one shovel, and that was needed for almost continuous road repair— or outright road building. Where the concrete and asphalt had resisted the ravages of the rain and run-off, the underlying foundation often had not, so that whole sections of highway bridged gorges. It was easier and certainly safer to drive over straight bedrock wherever feasible.

It took three days to reach the environs of the city. The Chattahoochee River had spread its boundaries enormously and excavated a canyon through the city—a swath of nothingness. Even now, with the rain stopped, a sizable run-off remained, and flooding was bad. Many buildings still stood, and Zena was curious to know what was inside them. Forty days without electricity, or fuel, or food…

“Look there!” Gus cried, pointing.

It was a complex of tremendous fuel storage tanks. “All the gas we’ll ever need!” Floy said excitedly.

“If no one else thought of it before us,” Zena said.

“And if that’s refined gasoline,” Gordon said.

“All right,” Gus said, taking charge. “We’ll strike at night, same as before, it may be guarded. If we can find a tap or something, maybe we can get what we need without anybody knowing the difference. But we’ll plan a good getaway route, just in case.”

At night they moved in as close as they dared with the bus, then parked and made a stealthy approach. Karen and Zena watched the tanks from a reasonable distance. Floy and the cat waited further back, and Gus of course was in the bus. They were to relay signals if anything went wrong.

The two women waited for what seemed an interminable time. There were sounds from various directions, but nothing significant. “Could be stray animals,” Zena whispered, not reassured.

Then something flew through the air. It landed with a pop and burst into flame. The entire area was illuminated—and Thatch and Gordon were shown up plainly beside the nearest tank.

“Raise your hands,” a man’s voice shouted. “We’ve got a machine gun trained on you.”

A machine gun! Zena moved toward the voice, which was only fifty feet ahead of her. She knew Karen would fade back to relay the news. Zena dared not run, as her shoes would make too much noise.

Thatch and Gordon raised their hands. Men came out of the shadows—three, four of them. “So you’re looking for gasoline, eh?” one said. “That means you’ve got a working truck, maybe. Where is it?”

Counter-trap—and they had walked into it Neither Thatch nor Gordon answered. “Well, we’ll make you talk!” the man said grimly. Something glinted in his hand.

Zena threw herself on the shapes by the machine gun. She clubbed one man on the back of the neck with the side of her hand, then wheeled to face the other. “Hey!” he yelled. Then he was rolling on the pavement, stunned by the force of her throw.

“Let them go!” Zena called to the group near the tank.

But even as she spoke, both men nearby rose and came at her. “It’s a girl!” one exclaimed.

Zena dived for the machine gun. She had had a briefing in firing such a weapon once, but that had been a long time ago. She would have to bluff it.

She turned the gun on its tripod to cover the two. “Get back!” she cried.

A scuffle broke out near the tank. She glanced there, and saw in the light of the flare that the four men were piling on the two. This was quickly getting out of hand.

She pulled the trigger. Her hand caught somehow in the mechanism, so that a fold of skin was pinched, but it fired! She whirled the massive thing around to cover the tank group, while the two near men dropped to the ground. She didn’t think she had hit anyone; they were merely getting out of the way—as well they might!

“Someone’s got the gun!” one of the nearby men yelled.

“Charge it!” one of the four by the tank yelled back. “We’ll grab these two as hostages!”

Zena knew they would do it. In moments Thatch and Gordon would be captive and probably dead—and her, too. There could be no honor or mercy, after the devastation of the rain. She saw the men in motion.

She pulled the trigger and held it down. The machine gun vibrated as the bullets poured forth. She swept the muzzle through a wide arc, trying to avoid the area where Thatch and Gordon were. There was a scream.

A shape charged upon her. She spun the gun again and let go another burst. The man crashed down beside her, his body touching her elbow, and she knew he was dead or dying.

“Thatch! Thatch!” she cried. “Get out of there! I’ve got the gun!” She had the sick feeling that she had hit him too.

But a shape got up near the tank. “Right!” Thatch’s voice came. He started to run.

Two more shapes lifted. “Which one’s Gordon?” Zena screamed, not daring to fire.

“Gordon’s gone already!” Thatch called back.

What did that mean? She saw the two figures converge on the one. The gun vibrated again. The two fell.

“Enough! Enough, Zena!” It was Gordon’s voice, from close at hand.

But she couldn’t stop. There was something about that massive, savage weapon with its shuddering death that infused power into her hands and arms and body, locking her grip. The stream of bullets continued to flow, pounding into the metal of the huge tank that acted as a backstop. There was the heady smell of gasoline.

“Stop!” Gordon cried. “You’re holing the tank!” He dropped to his knees and yanked her hands away from the gun.

Too late. A sheet of fire rose from the region of the torch and engulfed the tank. Gasoline was leaking out and burning as it emerged.

“Back! Back!” Gordon cried, hauling her up.

They ran, raggedly. Zena stumbled and felt a pain shooting through her foot. But she had to go on, limping; the foot seemed able to bear weight.

Gordon hauled her around the corner of a building. “God, I hope Thatch gets clear!” he gasped.

Then the big tank ignited. There was a sort of whoosh and a flare of light. Zena had a picture of a human figure silhouetted against the blast. Thatch?

“Come on!” Gordon yelled, pulling at her arm. When she didn’t move, he stopped and put his shoulder under her body and picked her up. He ran with her away from the ballooning heat and noise.

“Thatch! Thatch! Thatch!” she cried, over and over.

“I don’t know! I don’t know!” Gordon yelled back.

The terrible light faded somewhat as they put another building between it and them. Now they were near the bus.

Karen was there, and Floy. “I knew it wasn’t safe to go near you and that machine gun,” Karen explained. “So I brought word back about the trouble. Then we heard the tank go off—”

“Thatch! Thatch!” Zena cried as Gordon set her down. “Ow! My ankle!”

“He told me to move out while he covered the rear,” Gordon said. “I thought he was right behind me.”

“I must have shot him!” Zena said with a sick certainty.