Desolation Crossing (20 page)

Similarly, the notion of turning in the opposite direction had been dismissed by the Armorer for the simple reason that to try to turn the big rigs on treacherous ground and then outrun the pack would, in all probability, make a bad situation infinitely worse. Better to conserve energy and ammo until they reached whatever their destination may be. That was when they would need to be on triple red.

IT WAS MILDRED, seated high in the cab of the first refrigerated container wag, who saw it before anyone else. They had been driving into the night for more than half an hour, with nothing but the dirt and a few patches of mutated cacti to mark their path. The land was curving, the movement beneath the surface in the upheaval of nuclear winter having left this part of the land not only arid, but undulating in bizarre twists that made the curve of the earth lose its plane and become subject to an almost random law.

Maybe this was why it seemed to loom out of nowhere. Maybe it was that the lights of the shanty ville that appeared as if from another dimension had all been extinguished, dormant until the noise of the approaching pack and convoy had alerted the residents to the new arrivals. For whatever reason, lights flickered on to reveal a settlement of a dozen huts. The flicker may have been oil lamps, or it may have been an erratically firing generator. Whatever, it now revealed that there was life where there had been none before.

And the pack was nudging them straight into the arms of whoever was waiting in those buildings.

“John, can you see that up ahead?” she almost whispered into the open comm mic. “Maybe it’s just me, but I can’t help think that they’ve been waiting for us.”

“Figuring on that myself, Millie,” the Armorer replied. “It sure as hell would account for why the pack is able to keep up its numbers.”

“Farmed and trained to bring home prey,” Mildred stated flatly.

Ryan’s voice joined them on the comm. “Been wondering how come there could be so many of them when there seems to be so little out here…Is this how these coldhearts keep themselves alive? Plunder convoys using the animals they farm?”

J.B. turned to LaGuerre. “You knew this could happen.” It wasn’t a question. LaGuerre didn’t answer. Eula did.

“There are rumors. Nothing more than that. How could there be? Anyone that gets taken isn’t likely to get out alive.”

“So why didn’t you tell us?” J.B. demanded. “How the fuck can we be prepared for something like this if we don’t know it could happen?”

Eula raised an eyebrow. As ever, she was calm, so frustratingly that J.B. could gladly have taken out his mini-Uzi and dropped her in his fury. But that would achieve nothing, even if her next words made his anger all the more acute.

“Face it,” she said simply, “would you have wanted to join us so readily if you knew this was likely? Even being stuck where you were could have seemed a better prospect than this. Besides, why tell you? Your reputation suggests you can cope with anything—mebbe even better when it hits you without warning.”

“Yeah, well, that ain’t one of those things you want to put to the test too much,” he said, turning away to look at the approaching ville. What he saw caused him to frown.

It didn’t make sense.

Through the windshield of the armored wag he could see that, instead of keeping to the course they had previously maintained—one that would take them into the heart of the shanty ville—they were drifting toward the east, away from the ville itself. The deviation had been slight to begin with, but as with their previous direction changes, the angle had become incremental. As before, it was as if the pack had nudged them, the desire to keep safe distance unconsciously pushing the wag drivers onto a different course.

But why would the pack be directing them around the ville, and not into it? Had their assumption been wrong? Was the ville just a clutch of shanty huts that stood in the way of the pack, a happenstance and inconvenience? Or was it that—

“Dark night! Stop, stop the fucking wag now,” the Ar
morer yelled at Zarir. At the same time, he whirled to the open comm mic, and repeated, “Stop! Stop all wags now. Chill those bastard engines.”

“Why—” Cody’s voice began.

“Ask later—just do it,” J.B. barked.

Even as he spoke, he was aware that the armored wag had not decreased its speed. He turned back to the impassive and seemingly unresponsive wag jockey.

“Chill the engine, stupe. Stop the wag—”

But it was too late. The wag jockey was so wired on jolt, so focused on his primary task, and so responsive only to the voice of LaGuerre that it was doubtful J.B.’s words had even impressed themselves on what passed for his consciousness. Zarir had not slowed the wag by a single mile.

Which was why they sped across the dustbowl surface at such a speed that it took a hundred yards before the crumbling earth beneath them gave lie to the trap beneath. By then it was too late for the wag to be thrown into Reverse. Even if Zarir had been quick enough or reactive enough to do so, the weight of that portion of the wag that was now overhanging an empty space was enough to pull it forward and down.

A bastard simple trap, and one he should have seen coming. A pit, nothing more: carefully covered, and aided by the darkness of night. The pack had been not just a means to drive them there, but also a distraction—keep your eye on them, and you miss that which is right in front of you.

Dark night, J.B. thought, he’d been a stupe. The lead wag would crash into the pit, and the others would either follow, or career into one another in their haste to stop in
time. Either way, it made it easier for the coldhearts of the shanty to come out and pillage.

The fact that his barked orders may have stopped those behind from repeating his mistake was little consolation as the steep incline of the wag threw him forward and into the dash with a force that knocked the breath from his body. Eula and LaGuerre followed, slamming into the dash and windshield, the trader screaming in agony as he hit the driver’s seat on the way.

The interior lights of the wag went dark as the electrics cut out on impact, and J.B.’s brain followed suit as his head cracked against the reinforced glass of the windshield.

Even the pain was lost in the blackness.

Chapter Thirteen

The Past

Careless. Reckless. Just plain stupe. These were not words that Hunn thought she would ever have to use when she was talking about J. B. Dix. But all of them fitted him right now—all these and more. Not that she could talk about it. She could only think it and keep the anger bottled up inside. That was chilling her slowly. Hunnaker was not the sort of woman who could contain her anger, as a litter of the maimed and chilled that stretched across the Deathlands could attest.

But right now, she had little option. If she uttered a word of what she knew to Trader, it would be J.B.’s balls dragged across hot coals. Baron Emmerton prized his man Luke, and anything that upset the taciturn and moody bastard would bounce right back to the convoy.

She had tried to broach the subject with J.B., but the Armorer had proved oblivious to subtlety. Hunn and subtlety: another concept that was alien, but which she had been straining her tits off to achieve. And, in truth, the strain was getting too much. She didn’t know what was going on between Emmerton and Trader that it was taking them so long to get the hell out of the ville, but it had better
be resolved before too long. Because if Luke didn’t catch on, and J.B. didn’t make it even more obvious, then she sure as hell was going to explode.

J.B. CONTINUED TO HANG around at Luke’s workshop, but he was starting to get the feeling that he wasn’t wanted. When the two men weren’t discussing the ins and outs of ordnance maintenance, then they had maintained a companionable silence while they worked, or watched each other at work. But over the last day or two, the Armorer had felt that the silences were a little strained, as though Luke didn’t want him there. Of course, Luke wouldn’t say anything. And J.B. was loathe to broach anything that went deeper than ordnance details. So they sat in silence, prickly and awkward, until J.B.—puzzled—could stand it no longer.

“Luke, I get the feeling that there’s something that’s bothering you,” he said tentatively.

The taciturn man turned his head to look at J.B., pushed his backward baseball cap back and scratched his hairline. At length, he said quietly, “You reckon?”

J.B. furrowed his brow. “Yeah. I’d say so.”

“And you’d not be knowing what that is?”

Luke was looking at the Armorer as though it was a question for which he would know the answer. But, J.B. mused, how was he supposed to know what was going on in Luke’s head? Sure, they got on, but he’d only known him for a short time.

“No,” was the only response he could muster, after some time.

Luke studied him carefully. The only time J.B. had seen the big man look like that before was when he was disman
tling an ancient Gatling, trying to pry rust from the mechanism. It was a study that intense.

Why?

The Armorer’s genuine puzzlement had to have been obvious, even to a man who spent more time on the study of machine than of man. Luke shook his head, snorted softly.

“This woman you’ve been spending time with…” He let it hang, waiting for J.B. to speak.

“Yeah, there is a woman. Her name’s Laurel. Says her old man is neglecting her. Never known anyone like her…” As the words tumbled out, J.B. wondered why he was telling Luke this. He hadn’t mentioned her to anyone else, and only Hunn knew that they had even met. Laurel had been adamant that he say nothing, which he hadn’t, up till now. Come to that, why should Luke want to know? Was he in some way envious of losing the Armorer’s company? Of sharing him? J.B. had encountered men who liked other men, but he’d never have put Luke down as one of them. Not that it mattered, it was just that—

His train of thought was interrupted. Luke said, “That’s all you know? That she has some guy who she says is neglecting her? You don’t know who he is, though?”

J.B. shook his head. He was aware that Luke was still staring intently at him. It was, to say the least, unnerving. Incomprehensible.

Luke gave the briefest of nods. “Yeah. That figures.”

“What figures?”

Luke shrugged. “She’d have to be stupe to tell you. That way you can’t think twice.”

J.B. frowned. “Like I should? Is there something that I should know here? Like who this guy is? Like there’s
some kind of deep shitpit that she could land me—or Trader—in?”

Luke laughed, but there was little humor in it. “No, J.B., no. There’s no shitpit as far as I can see. And I guess it serves this guy right.”

“So you know her?”

“Yeah,” Luke said slowly, “I know of her…Mebbe she’s right. Guess it’s not doing any harm as long as she keeps it quiet. But be careful. You never know with people.”

It was Luke’s last word on the subject. He returned to the weapon upon which he had been working, and said little more on anything. The atmosphere had changed. J.B. could feel it. But if anything, it had become more uncomfortable. It was not long before the Armorer had made an excuse to leave.

The feeling of unease lingered no longer than it took him to see Laurel, waiting and beckoning to him from a street corner.

He didn’t see Hunn. He didn’t see Luke follow him out, and watch him go.

“Aw, fuck, this isn’t gonna go away, is it?” Hunn muttered to herself.

“THAT FAT BASTARD is up to something, boss,” Abe said as he and Trader left their latest audience with Emmerton. “He has to be. Why the fuck else would he change overnight like that?”

Trader shook his head. “I dunno. But the greasy ratfuck son of a bitch is starting to piss me off big-time. He carries on like this and I won’t be coming through his shitty little ville again. Fuck the east, Abe, it ain’t worth the bother.”

Abe knew that Emmerton’s attitude had really gotten to Trader. It was unlike a man who had based his entire reputation and accumulation of wealth on thoroughness and a willingness to go where others wouldn’t to simply dismiss a part of the lands that were neglected by other traders for no other reason than the actions of one man.

Over the last few days, the fat man had stopped trying to persuade Trader that it would be good for J. B. Dix to stay in Hollowstar and work with Luke. And, conversely, he was no longer worried about his man Luke wanting to join the convoy. If anything, he was demanding greater tithes from Trader for the dubious pleasure of passing through to the wastes beyond the toll road. Tithes that were getting so large, it would not be too long before Trader would be better off turning back.

That was if Emmerton would let him. For, along with this demand for increased payment, there was an underlying threat that Emmerton would not let the convoy pass. At times, he seemed so angered by their presence that it was almost as if he were trying to taunt Trader into a situation that would lead to combat.

Now, Abe knew that Trader would have every confidence in his people being able to wipe the very floor with anything that Emmerton had to throw at them, even granted that they were in the middle of what would rapidly become enemy territory. But there would be some casualties, and some damage. And that would cost jack, one way or another. There was no way that Trader would willingly put himself in a position where a trip would make a loss. As it was, they stood to be doing this for no profit. And that was biting at Trader. Abe could see this.

“There’s something underlying everything that fat fuck is doing,” Trader said as they made their way back to the convoy. “I don’t know what it is, yet, but I’m gonna find out. Something has got up his fat ass and is burrowing under his skin.”

“Shit, boss, I don’t wanna think about that.” Abe gulped. He was now cursed with a mental picture that made him want to heave.

Trader allowed himself a smile that was rare over the past few days. “Hey, I get these ideas, I don’t want to be the only one to suffer,” he said, his humor—at least temporarily—improved. “We’ve got to find out what’s bugging him.”

“Yeah, and how are we supposed to do that without getting him or his sec suspicious?” Abe asked as they approached the convoy.

Trader tugged at his ear. “Tell you the truth, I figure that it’s too late for that. Something one of us has done, or is doing, has pissed him off. And if he’s already pissed, I don’t see how we can really make it worse. Besides which, if I’m right in figuring that it’s something that one of us has done, then all we have to do is look among ourselves.”

Abe sighed. “Yeah, and we know the first place to look, right?”

Trader nodded. “I know J.B.’s said nothing about her, but those two are tighter than a rat’s ass when a randy dog comes calling.”

Not for the first time, Abe was puzzled about where Trader got these sayings. Were they from the old predark shit he used to read, or did he just make them up?

Back in the bosom of the convoy, a few inquiries re
vealed that neither J.B. nor Hunn had been seen for some time. Trader dispatched those convoy members not engaged on routine maintenance duties to search and find. While they were still out, Hunn appeared in the fenced-in patch of land that was used as a wag park, and where the convoy was based on every trip to Hollowstar. She was alone, and seemed lost in thought.

“Hunn, where the fuck you been?” Abe asked as he approached her.

“Nowhere that’s any of your damn’ business,” she answered, immediately on the defensive.

“Ain’t mine, but it’s Trader’s,” he replied. “Anyways, where’s J.B.? He’s supposed to be your shadow.”

She shook her head. “That right? If only it was that simple.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said dismissively.

“Better let Trader be the judge of that,” Abe mused. “Go see him now. Things are really fucked up, and until he finds out exactly what you and J.B. have been up to—”

“Why would it be us? And what the fuck, exactly, does he think has been going down?”

Abe shrugged. “Don’t ask me. Just go. Can’t remember the last time I saw him like this.”

Hunn left him with a heavy heart, echoed by her dragging feet as she approached War Wag One. It was deserted apart from Trader, who was trying but failing to enjoy a cigar. Given his love for them, and their scarcity, it was a sign of how angered and annoyed he was. This impression was only confirmed by his tone, and the gleam in his eye, as he greeted her.

“So, what the fuck you been doing now?”

“Ah, nothing…I mean, it’s not me, is it…But…”

Trader looked at her, confusion written large on his face. “What the hell are you babbling on about? Shit, woman, all the time you’ve ridden with us, I’ve never known you to be like this.”

She sighed, rubbed the heel of her hand over her cropped head. “Look, it’s not like he knows. He wouldn’t have fucked up like this if he’d had any idea. Besides, he likes the guy, so it’s not like he’s gonna—”

Trader sat forward. He spoke softly, but with a tone that emphasized his firmness and his barely contained anger.

“Hunn, what has J.B. been doing that he’s so unaware of? Tell me. Our getting out of here in one piece could depend on it.”

So Hunn began, hesitantly at first and then warming to her theme, to tell Trader about what she had observed—from the first encounter in the bar, to the last time she had seen J.B. walk out of Luke’s shop and into Laurel’s waiting embrace.

When she had finished, Trader sat back and whistled. “Shit, that explains why Emmerton is so pissed. If Luke stops being the armament genius he is, then that’s a lot of Hollowstar’s prestige and jack down the shitter. And what’s gonna piss a man off more than his wife being screwed senseless by the man he calls friend?”

“Yeah, but J.B. really doesn’t know.”

Trader looked at her. “How can you be sure?”

Hunn sighed. “C’mon, boss, you know J.B. like I do. He ain’t that sort of man. Hell, he’s hardly interested in women at all, let alone the kind of pussyhound who chases
other men’s women. And he’s a loyal friend. No—” she shook her head again “—you can bet your ass that the bitch hasn’t told him who her old man is. And if Luke’s anything like J.B., he’s gonna suffer in silence until we go. He ain’t gonna blame J.B., but it’s all gonna go off big-time once we’re out of here.”

“Or before, if Emmerton’s temper doesn’t hold,” Trader mused. “I can’t work out what he wants. Why didn’t he say something, if he knows this is going on?”

“Mebbe he thinks you know, and it’s shit on your shoes that you have to clean up,” Hunn offered.

Trader winced. “That’s not what I wanted to hear. You’re right. But it’s not what I wanted to hear at all. So I’m figuring that you know where J.B. is right now?” She nodded. “And you’re here because he’s going to be some time, yeah?” She nodded again. Trader breathed in heavily, rubbing his hand across his brow as though trying to alleviate a headache; which, in many senses, was exactly what he was doing.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Let’s get this over and done with.”

He was out of War Wag One and crossing the fenced-in compound before Hunn had a chance to draw breath and follow him. She had to run to catch up as he reached the gates, looking over his shoulder. He waited for her to catch up, allowing her to overtake him and lead the way.

They walked in silence through the bustle of late-afternoon Hollowstar. Around them, the inhabitants of the ville went about their everyday business as though nothing of any import was about to happen. Which, in truth, was true. It was only for Trader and his people that events about to unfurl would have any impact, either positive or negative.