David Robbins - Boston Run

Vanlike in shape, the transport was a revolutionary prototype powered by the sun. A pair of solar panels attached to the roof collected the sunlight, which was then converted and stored in special batteries housed in a lead-lined casing underneath the SEAL. The body was constructed of a heat-resistant, shatterproof plastic, fabricated to be nearly indestructible and tinted green. The tint prevented anyone outside from viewing the occupants. Four puncture-proof tires, each four feet high and two feet wide, supported the transport.

Knowing his followers would need protection from the hordes of scavengers, raiders, and worse roaming the countryside, Kurt Carpenter had hired mercenaries to add armaments to the SEAL. They’d done their job well. A flamethrower with an effective range of 20 feet had been mounted in the center of the front fender, surrounded by layers of flame-retardant insulation. Hidden in the front grill was a rocket-launcher, and concealed in recessed compartments under each headlight was a 50-caliber machine gun. A surface-to-air missile, heat-seeking with a range of ten miles, perched on the roof above the driver’s seat. All four weapons were activated by toggle switches on the dash.

Carpenter hadn’t spared any expense on the interior either. Spacious and comfortable to alleviate the strain of extended trips, a pair of bucket seats at the front accommodated the driver and a passenger. Between the seats ran a small console. Behind them, running the width of the vehicle, was another seat for passengers. The rear section served as the storage area for their supplies, spare parts, tools, and whatever other provisions were needed.

From the person sitting in the wide seat came a request. “I’d like to know where we’re at too, Geronimo. Would you check for me?”

“For you, Marcus, yes,” Geronimo replied, and consulted the map spread open on his thighs.

Hickok sighed. “This is going to be a long trip.”

“I can’t believe we’ve gone hundreds of miles and haven’t run into trouble yet,” Marcus commented.

“You sound disappointed,” Geronimo said, tracing his left forefinger on the map, following the route they’d taken.

“I was hoping to see some action,” Marcus stated. “I’ve heard so many stories about how dangerous the Outlands can be, but this run so far has been boring with a capital B.”

“Count your blessings,” Geronimo responded.

“Don’t you want to see action?” Marcus asked, sounding surprised.

“The less I see, the better.”

“But why? We’re Warriors, aren’t we? Fighting is our business, right?”

“Yeah. But I hope to live long enough to enjoy my grandchildren.”

“Not me,” Marcus said. “I don’t care if I live to be thirty. I’m not married, like you guys, and I don’t have any children. All I live for is to do my duty as perfectly as possible. And I can think of no greater honor than to go out in the line of duty, to die in the service of our Family.”

Hickok glanced back at the man in brown. “Listen up, eager beaver. I didn’t bring you along so you could become a martyr. You’re not allowed to kick the bucket without my say-so. Savvy?”

“I’ll do my best to stay alive,” Marcus said. “Don’t get me wrong. I don’t have a death wish.”

“Here we are,” Geronimo declared, leaning over the map. “We’re on Highway Three, or what’s left of it, a few miles west of a tiny town called Strawberry Point.”

“The folks livin’ before the war sure gave their places strange names,” Hickok remarked.

“Maybe they grew a lot of strawberries,” Geronimo guessed.

Marcus sat forward and leaned on the console. “Why are we sticking to the back roads? Wouldn’t we make faster time if we used the major highways?”

Geronimo shook his head. “Blade started the practice of using only the secondary roads and avoiding all the larger towns and cities. From past experience we know that the major highways are patrolled by bands of scavengers who ambush everyone they meet, and the cities are swarming with all kinds of misfits and mutations. We’re better off sticking to the back roads. Hickok knows what he’s doing,” he said, then placed his left hand over his mouth and mumbled, “Oops.”

“I heard that!” Hickok declared. He grinned and looked at Geronimo.

“You finally admitted it.”

“Admitted what?”

“Don’t play innocent with me, pard. You finally admitted I know what I’m doing. And I’ve got a witness.”

“Would you believe it was a slip of the tongue?”

“Nope.”

“Can I plead temporary insanity?”

“Nope. I’ve got you dead to rights. You actually paid me a compliment.”

“I pay you compliments all the time.”

“Oh, yeah? Like when?”

Geronimo winked at Marcus, then gazed at the gunman. “Like the time Sherry claimed you are the most aggravating man on the planet and she couldn’t understand why she loved a dimwit like you.”

“My missus said that?”

Geronimo nodded. “Yep. She also said you were becoming more aggravating every day.”

“So how’d you compliment me?” Hickok asked suspiciously.

“I told her it wasn’t humanly possible for you to become more aggravating than you already were.”

“Gee. Thanks,” Hickok muttered. He stared at the vegetation lining both sides of the road, then gazed out the windshield as the SEAL crested a low hill. The sight he saw made him tramp on the brake, sending the transport into a slide, slewing the front end at an angle. With an abrupt jerk the vehicle lurched to a stop.

“What the—!” Geronimo exclaimed, both his hands on the dashboard.

“See what I mean about your driving.”

Hickok nodded straight ahead. “Looks like Marcus will get his wish.”

Geronimo faced front and scowled.

Forty yards from the SEAL, stacked ten feet high and arranged in a pile stretching from the woods on the north side to the woods on the south, completely blocking Highway Three, was a stack of recently failed trees, the leaves still green and healthy.

“Blast!” Hickok snapped. “There’s no way around unless we cut through the forest, and that’d slow us down.”

“Is this an ambush?” Marcus inquired excitedly.

“This is an ambush,” Hickok confirmed.

“All right!”

“Try not to get too broken up about it,” Hickok quipped, studying the layout, his right hand tapping on the steering wheel.

“How will we handle this?” Marcus questioned.

“I’m thinkin,” Hickok said.

Geronimo sniffed loudly. “I thought I smelled something burning.”

“Pass out the long guns,” Hickok directed Marcus.

The man in brown twisted and reached into the rear section, where two automatic weapons and a rifle lay on top of the supplies. He grabbed the rifle first, a Navy Arms Henry Carbine in 44-40 caliber, and passed the weapon to Hickok.

“Thanks,” the gunman said.

Next Marcus gave an FNC Auto Rifle to Geronimo. Then he seized the Heckler and Koch Model KH 94 he’d selected from the many automatics available in the armory, and cradled it in his arms. Once a semiautomatic, the HK 94 had been converted to full-auto capability by the Family Gunsmiths, whose job it was to insure every weapon in the armory worked properly.

“We could use a rocket or the flamethrower on the barricade,” Geronimo suggested.

“I want to save the rockets and the incendiary fuel for later. We might need ’em,” Hickok said.

“How about if we ram it?” Marcus proposed.

Both Hickok and Geronimo glanced at the man in brown and slowly shook their heads.

“Why not?” Marcus asked.

“For all we know, there could be explosives planted in there,” Hickok noted. “If we ram it, we might be blown to kingdom come. It’s not likely, I’ll admit, but we can’t take the chance. The SEAL is tough, but dynamite or a grenade would damage it.”