James Axler - Perception Fault

Ryan also suggested they each take one of the shirts—not to wear right away, but to use as camouflage in case they ran into more of the green militia first. Everyone had one hidden on their person, ready to pull on if necessary.

The one-eyed man took the lead as they headed out, holding J.B.’s M-4000, the Steyr slung. If he surprised anyone, he wanted the shotgun’s overwhelming firepower to be available at a moment’s notice. Krysty followed, her crimson hair tucked away, then Doc, then Mildred, with J.B. and Jak bringing up the rear.

His plan was simple—head north until they reached the top of the hills, which should give them a better view of what was going on below. Once they had accomplished that, then what came next all depended on who was doing what to whom.

Ryan took a moment to lay down the ground rules. “Everyone keep your eyes wide-open, and remember, it’s not just coldhearts we’re watching out for. Those stickies may be running around, too, so anyone sees anything out of the ordinary, pass the word triple-quick. If we encounter overwhelming force or get split up, circle around to the cache building to regroup. Give any stragglers twelve hours, then head for the redoubt.”

He saw the dark looks that came his way upon hearing the last words, but pretended not to. What they were heading into was too dangerous for a divided group to try to take on. It was better to run away and live to fight another day. Besides, even as he gave the orders, he was pretty sure none of the others would follow them if anyone did get caught.

The first hour was slow going. Ryan had removed the scope from the Remington and used it to scout the terrain ahead—block after block of dilapidated suburbs consisting of crumbling, falling-down houses that could hide a veritable army of coldhearts. He made sure to scan each building along the path they took, watching for any sign of movement. Only when he was sure it was safe did he give the signal to move out, and even then they took it one house at a time, leapfrogging in rotation and covering one another.

The sounds of fighting grew louder as the morning sun ascended into the light purple sky. By the time it was overhead, they’d left the housing neighborhood behind and were climbing up their target hill, which was larger than it had first looked, when they heard the rough roar of ill-maintained engines coming their way. Ryan gave the signal to seek cover wherever they could, but the group was caught in the worst position possible, on an upslope, with the nearest cover at least one hundred yards away. Everyone scattered, hitting the ground and trying to camouflage themselves as best as they could in the knee-high grass covering the hill. Ryan dived to the dirt and rolled left, shotgun out and aimed at where he thought the wag might come over the hill.

But instead of a wag cresting the top, the first thing they saw was a running human, sobbing with fear and exhaustion as he fairly flew over the top and began leaping down the other side of the hill—right toward Ryan. The approaching person wasn’t wearing the green shirt of the force that had ambushed them the previous night, which meant they were probably part of the opposing side.

Only one way to find out, Ryan thought. The runner was now only a few steps away and moving so fast he was one misstep from tripping and falling the rest of the way down the hill. Ryan let him take two more huge leaps, then rose and put out his arm to clothesline the fleeing man, careful to catch him across the chest instead of the neck.

Although he was at least six inches taller and probably fifty pounds heavier, the runner hit Ryan with enough force to nearly bowl him over. They collapsed in a pile, with the one-eyed man scrambling on top of his captive and clamping a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet.

“Stop fighting! We’re not your enemy!” He grunted as the person writhed and bucked underneath him. Sky-blue eyes glared at him from under a mottled green-and-brown cap that fell off as they struggled, revealing long blond hair framing what was undeniably a woman’s face.

“Wait—” was all Ryan got out before feeling her leg tense, and turned his thigh just in time to block a shot to his groin from her knee. “Stop it. We’re not with the green shirts!”

“Then who the fuck are you?”

Ryan didn’t have time to answer, as the racket from the pursuing wag was now ear-shattering as the first of them roared over the hill, sailing through the air to land with a crash on the downslope. The battered Hummer’s paint was faded to a light tan, but what caught Ryan’s eye was the open weapon mount on top, which contained a .50-caliber heavy machine gun, and even worse, a man behind it.

“Fireblast! Get down!” Ryan crushed the woman to the ground as he brought up the M-4000, aiming at the windshield and letting the weapon’s recoil ride the barrel up over the roof to the gunner’s position. The weapon turret began swiveling toward him, but Ryan also heard the stutter of J.B.’s mini-Uzi on his left, and the man behind the big Fifty suddenly slumped over his weapon.

Unfortunately, Ryan’s bold attack had attracted the driver’s attention. He swung the wheel of the armored wag over, sending the heavy vehicle barreling at him and the woman.

“Run!” Ryan rose and triggered the M-4000 again, trying to draw the driver off and give the woman a chance to get away. The fléchettes ricocheted off the windshield as Ryan ran the magazine dry, but as the woman got up and scrambled away across the hill, the mil wag altered course to pursue her instead.

“Fire blast!” Ryan turned to pursue both of them, but saw Jak standing on the hill about twenty yards away, his legs apart, his left hand bracing his right, which held the .357 Colt Python at arm’s length. The wag raced toward the woman, the driver seemingly oblivious to the albino teen with the blaster. The passenger, however, leaned out and aimed an automatic rifle at him just in time to take the first shot from Jak’s blaster in the face, making him drop his weapon and slump over, dangling out the passenger door. The albino youth kept firing, the heavy slugs fragmenting the windshield, then punching through.

The Hummer suddenly slowed and turned down the hill. “Shit! Get it, get it!” Jak shouted as he ran toward the driverless wag. Ryan slung the shotgun and followed, drawing his Sig Sauer on the move. Krysty and Mildred were also pursuing, but Ryan and Jak were the closest.

The mil wag gathered speed as it rolled toward the bottom of the hill, then hit the flat plain and tried to climb up a small hillock, the engine spluttering in protest at not having enough power to finish the job. Jak reached the stopped wag a few steps ahead of Ryan, and paused at the back of the off-roader, waiting for the older man to catch up. The moment Ryan got there, Jak bent over and crept to the driver’s door, slipping around to the other side and grabbing the handle. At Ryan’s nod, he popped the door open, allowing the one-eyed man to cover the driver with his blaster.

Ryan saw a flash of black metal and fired three times, the trio of bullets slamming into the wounded driver’s bloody side, breaking his arm and burrowing into his chest, one lodging in his heart. The black Beretta blaster fell from his grasp into the dust as Ryan grabbed the body and threw it out, then unslung the Steyr and set it behind the driver’s seat.

“Come on!” Ryan jumped into the front seat while Jak clambered onto the hood and headed for the turret, only to be met by J.B., who had climbed up the back and was already hauling the dead man out.

“Not today, Jak. Take the passenger seat.”

“Hey, was—”

“Jak, sit your ass down now!” Ryan’s tone brooked no argument, and the albino teen ripped the dead body out of the passenger window and slid in, fuming silently. Ryan shoved the M-4000 shotgun and a full mag at him. “Reload, and keep your eyes peeled.”