James Axler - Hell Road Warriors

Ryan did a little math with the maps he’d recently seen. “That’s a long haul.”

“Indeed.” Toulalan didn’t seem overly concerned.

Both men knew the other wasn’t revealing all his cards. “And those coldhearts?”

“We have you to thank for bloodying their noses. I suspect they won’t be back. Also, according to traders, the farther west you go, the flatter and more open the land becomes. Also, villes in the center are increasingly farther apart and increasingly more primitive. I believe we will be able to roll past them, using their awe at our trade goods and the offensive power and majesty of our convoy.”

“And if this hard freeze of yours hits before you’re back in Val-d’Or?”

“We have lost a bit of time, that is true, but once we hit the central plains it should be, how do you say, a straight shot.”

“And if we get caught with winter coming on?”

“My friend, I have considered that. You have seen the inside of the Borden Diefenbunker. The one in Val-d’Or also had the same stocks of frozen food. I assume the one in Shilo does, as well. If we reach Shilo, we’ll give the weather a hard appraisal. If we know we won’t make it, we turn back. Either way, should worse comes to worst, we can winter in either bunker, warm, safe and fed until spring. Should you not wish to winter with us, as I say, you can always run south for your warmer Deathlands.”

There were more than a few major “ifs” and question marks involved, but exploration was risk personified. In the end Ryan had to admit it wasn’t a bad plan. He wanted to see more of this land that was new to him.

“And, so?” Toulalan inquired.

Krysty spoke first. Ryan knew her reservations and was glad she did. She stuck out her hand to Toulalan. “We’re in.”

Toulalan ignored the proffered hand, and Krysty’s body stiffened in shock as Toulalan kissed her on both cheeks. Only the fact that he seemed so smiling and pleased, and Ryan had seen that the rest of convoy behaved this way, kept the one-eyed man from challenging the man. To Krysty’s horror Toulalan started to lean in to give her lover the same treatment. Something in Ryan’s single blue eye made Toulalan stop short at the last moment. He shoved out his hand awkwardly between them. “Well…good! Very good! I’ll tell the others. They’ll be most pleased to have you among us.”

Ryan shook the man’s hand, and he and Krysty walked back to tell their friends. Krysty’s cheeks were flushed red and not because she was blushing. “If he does that again I’ll kill him.”

Ryan grinned. “Not if I get to him first.”

THE CONVOY WAS READY to roll. Ryan’s LAV would be positioned roughly in the middle. Except for the big rig it was high enough to shoot over all the other wags. The armored wag’s huge, aggressive off-road tires would allow it to break formation to either side and rush forward or back if need be. The two off-road armed wags formed outriders on the sides. The ancient El Camino sheathed in chicken armor was on point, and the engineering LAV’s armor and machine gun protected the rear.

Cyrielle Toulalan approached the LAV. “Ryan!”

The one-eyed man nodded from the turret. “Yeah?”

“A word, please.”

Ryan hopped down. “Yeah?”

“You have driven a…” Cyrielle’s English wasn’t as good as her brother’s. “Big rig?”

“Yeah?”

“Mmm.” Cyrielle walked over to the semi and Ryan followed her. She pointed at a single bullet hole in the driver’s side of the windshield.

“You lost your driver,” Ryan surmised.

“Oui.” She nodded.

Ryan sighed. Krysty walked over. “What’s up, lover?”

“They need me to drive the semi.”

Krysty’s green eyes narrowed. “We need you in the war wag.”

“We’re part of this convoy now. Big wag like this takes know-how. I got it. Jak can drive the LAV and J.B. can fight it.”

Krysty didn’t blink. “I need you in the war wag. With me.”

“The convoy needs someone who can drive this rig.” Ryan gave Krysty an experimental smile. “And I need someone to ride shotgun with me.”

“I don’t have a shotgun.”

“We’ll find you something.”

Krysty sighed and slid her hand into Ryan’s. “Let’s take a look at her.”

Cyrielle clapped her hands.

Ryan examined his new ride. It was a Kenworth. It had been extensively modified with giant off-road tires and a new suspension. A hatch in the roof over the passenger seat opened onto a ring-mounted machine blaster. Ryan suspected it was a Diefenbunker special, and it was just about cherry, save for the slightly ominous bullet hole in the driver’s-side windshield patched with a piece of scrap metal. Krysty’s hands slid out of his and they climbed into the cab through opposite doors. There were some cracks in the plastic dash, and whatever ancient leather had once upholstered the cab had been replaced with deerskin. The driver’s seat had dried bloodstains on it. There was what looked like a functional hot plate, chem toilet and a bunk in the back.

Krysty ran a finger over the laced leather of her armrest. “Plush wag.”

It had been a while since Ryan had been behind the wheel of a major cargo wag. Toulalan walked up and waved. “You like?”

Ryan hurled a shrug back at the Quebecer. “It’s okay.”

Toulalan kissed his fingertips, popped his lips and walked away.

The biggest problem with wags in the Deathlands was the lack of batteries. That usually meant cartridge or crank ignition. Seriah walked up and pulled the crank handle from the rack above the bumper. She grinned and shoved the crank spoke through the hole in the grille.

Ryan leaned out the driver’s window. “Light it up!”

Seriah hurled her tiny frame against the crank handle and spun it in a huge circle. Ryan tapped the gas pedal lightly at the apogee of the crank. The turbine turned over, whined and trembled on the first attempt. Seriah jumped up and down and clapped her hands. “Très bien!”

Ryan pulled the horn chain and the Kenworth bellowed like a twentieth-century dinosaur into the postapocalyptic Canadian sky. The people of the convoy hit their horns, leaned out of their windows and clapped and whistled in response. “Ryan! Ryan! Ryan!” they called. Their enthusiasm was infectious. Krysty’s full lips twisted in a smile. “I’ll go tell J.B. he’s in command of the LAV.”

Chapter Six

“Hey, Mace! Lars is wormy, eh!”

Baron Mace Henning glowered out of his hammock at his sec man. “Baron to you, Shorty.”

Shorty lived up to his name. He made up for it with an almost artistic appreciation of violence. They had been partners as sec men until Mace had led a coup and made himself baron. Shorty had backed him. Sometimes when Shorty got excited he forgot protocol and flashed back to the old days. “Uh, sorry, Baron. Lars is like, definitely ’fected. Too bad, he’d just earned his loonie.”

Henning rolled out of his sleeping sling and walked over to the campfire. Shorty heeled after him like a faithful dog.

Mace Henning was a huge, sagging bull of man. His short curly red hair and beard were shot through with gray. Green eyes peered out of a nearly permanent squint. Even in his youth no one had ever accused him of being handsome. A badly set broken nose and the dent in the ride side of his face from a fractured cheekbone hadn’t helped matters. Scar tissue beneath his left eyebrow raised it up a tad higher than his right. It made it look like anyone or anything he laid his gaze upon was being weighed, measured and found wanting.

He or she usually was.

He had sixty-eight armed men in the saddle. He’d had seventy-five but the tide of yesterday’s battle had turned into a costly and unpleasant surprise. His best men greeted him as they rolled up hammocks, wolfed their breakfast of jerky and pine tea or prepped their bikes, wags or weapons. A sizable crowd of his new-hire coldhearts was gathered in a circle beyond the campfire, morning maple-liquor ration in hand and watching the entertainment.