Desolation Crossing (21 page)

Hunn knew exactly where she was going. As Trader followed her, he wondered how long she had been letting this go on. Stupe bitch should have known it would lead to trouble, he thought. And the funniest thing was, although she was loyal to the convoy, he had never known her carry a personal loyalty like she did with J. B. Dix. Hunn never stopped surprising him; but in truth she was nothing next to the bundle of shock the Armorer had turned out to be.

By this time, they were on the edge of the ville, moving out toward where the cinder-block buildings around the tollbooth were the delineating feature. There were a few dwellings scattered around these parts, but they were moving away from the main bulk of the population. Which, Trader guessed, was the point of the woman bringing J.B. here. They wouldn’t be easily disturbed. It couldn’t have been caution, as she didn’t sound as though she’d been too careful about snaring him.

“You should have told me sooner,” Trader said in an undertone as they approached a one-story house with a wood porch.

“Why? I didn’t know that porky creep Emmerton knew. Shit, I still don’t know how he tumbled to it. I haven’t seen any of his sec.”

“He doesn’t need sec for this. Everyone in this pesthole pulls together. Always have done. A word here, a word there, and—”

Trader was stayed by a raised hand. With a gesture, Hunn indicated that they move forward in silence. Fair enough, Trader figured. Hunn was the hunter, the fighter. And if they wanted to catch J.B. and the bitch unawares…

He could hear them talking as he approached the win
dow. J.B.’s voice, low and soft. He couldn’t make out what the Armorer said. Then her voice in reply, higher and clearer, but with a honeyed tone that—before he even saw her—made him realize why J.B. had been so easily led.

“You know I can’t, hon. There are just reasons that mean I can’t leave. It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just—”

More low mumbling from J.B. Then Laurel replied, “I can’t tell you. Not yet. mebbe not ever. But there are things that keep me here, and there’s nothing that can change that. No matter what I do or don’t want.”

Trader looked at Hunn. She mimed putting two fingers down her throat and gagging, leaving him in no doubt as to her opinion.

He shook his head. Now was not the time. He gestured to her to go ahead. He wanted to take the Armorer by surprise, but knew that even in such moments, J.B. would never have a blaster too far from reach; more, J.B.’s reflexes were such that he wouldn’t want to test them. Especially not with himself or Hunn in the front line.

Hunn approached the door, making no attempt to disguise or deaden her footsteps. Trader allowed himself a wry grin: Hunn had obviously had the same thought. Even as he smiled, he heard a muffled exclamation from the woman, and a silence that was unnatural compared to what had gone before.

Hunn banged on the door. “J.B., it’s me. Stop dicking around and open the fucking door before I lose my temper and blow the fucker off its hinges.” She was met with silence, and turned to Trader with an expression that was part anger, part exasperation.

“J.B., do it. She’s not screwing around, and neither am I,” Trader said in a level voice.

There were scuffling sounds from inside, and after a few moments the front door opened, revealing an owlishly blinking J. B. Dix, astoundingly hatless, and still attempting to dress himself. He looked hassled, which was a new one on Trader.

Hunn pushed past J.B. and into the building.

“Where the fuck is she?” she barked.

“Who?” J.B. asked. His tone of voice, however, betrayed that even he didn’t think he was going to get away with that one.

Trader sighed. “Don’t fuck around, son. The woman. Where is she?”

J.B. looked at Trader. Ellipitically, he mouthed, “First Luke, and now you. What is it about Laurel that’s so damned important?”

Trader was about to speak when Hunn reappeared, dragging Laurel behind her. Even half upright and with her hair in Hunn’s fist, Trader could see why she had captivated J.B. That look, with that voice…Hell, he couldn’t blame the boy…

“What the fuck are you doing?” J.B. yelled, on seeing Laurel in Hunn’s grasp. He lunged toward them, but was restrained by Trader’s strong grasp.

“Easy, son, easy,” Trader muttered.

J.B. looked at him, bewildered. “What has she done? Dark night, what have I done that’s making you do this?”

“It’s not so much what she’d done as who she is,” Trader said softly. Seeing J.B.’s look of confusion deepen, he expounded. “You do know who she is, don’t you?”

J.B. shook his head. “You’re acting like she’s important.
She told me that her old man was always too busy, so I figured he must be high up in Emmerton’s command—”

He was stopped by a right from Trader that whipped across his face. The sudden force and impact stunned him, knocking him to one side, sending his glasses skidding across the floor.

J.B.’s immediate reaction was to hit back, but some instinct deep within him stayed his hand. This was Trader. If he attacked him, he knew Hunn would be compelled to fire on him, no matter how she may feel about it. And Trader wouldn’t do this without a good reason.

For a few moments that seemed to stretch to an infinity, J.B. half stood, half crouched, reaching for his glasses and putting them on. As he did, it seemed that the clarity of vision that came with the lenses was echoed by a clarity within his own mind. He looked from Trader, to Hunn and Laurel, and back again.

Suddenly, and with an awful realization, he knew why Emmerton would be leaning on Trader; why Laurel was being “neglected”—as she saw it—by her husband; and why Luke’s attitude to him had changed in a way that he had not been able to previously explain.

“You stupe bitch,” he said softly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You didn’t ask, hon,” she said, mock wide-eyed. “’Sides which, you wouldn’t have fucked me if you’d known, and I wanted you pretty bad.”

“I don’t get it,” Hunn said, with a savage twist on Laurel’s hair, making her squeal. “If Luke’s neglecting you, why the fuck do you want to go for a guy that’s just like him?”

“Aa-ah, mebbe, just mebbe,” Laurel gasped through the pain, “I like guys who are the strong, silent type. Mebbe I just like seeing if I can tempt them away from their little hobbies.”

“Sick little…” Trader shook his head. “You know how much trouble you’ve caused for us? For yourself?”

“Ain’t caused nothing for myself, sugar,” Laurel said softly. “Luke, he loves me. Like some little kid over me. So I’ve had some fun. Ain’t the first time, probably won’t be the last.”

“What happened to the other men?” Hunn asked, her voice cold.

Laurel shrugged—as much as she could in her awkward position. “Emmerton don’t like Luke being upset. Don’t much like anyone that causes that…Figure that he’d have me chilled if he thought it’d solve the problem. ’Scept it wouldn’t. Emmerton needs me because Luke does.”

“And that’s why you wouldn’t leave. Because you put Luke first?” As he spoke, J.B. didn’t know how he wanted her to answer. Part of him wanted to mean more to her than Luke, but another part of him would have felt let down for the taciturn armorer if that were so…As it was, her answer surprised him.

“It ain’t about Luke, not for me. Not just him, anyways. There are other reasons.”

J.B. waited, but it was clear she would not be drawn on the matter.

“If I didn’t think it’d make things worse, I’d chill you myself,” Trader spit.

“You’d have to beat me to it,” Hunn cut in.

Trader shook his head. “You,” he snapped, addressing J.B., “get back to the convoy with Hunn. No stopping, no
nothing on the way. Hunn, tell Abe to meet me at Emmerton’s, and get Poet to ready us to leave. We’re pulling out as soon as…And as for you,” he said, looking at Laurel, “I hope you rot in hell, bitch.”

J.B. said nothing to Hunn as they returned to the compound. He said nothing as they prepared to leave.

In return, nothing was said when Trader returned with Abe to tell them they had safe passage to leave. Except that they were heading west.

J.B. never saw Laurel again. Never saw Luke. He didn’t know what it was that kept the woman in Hollowstar.

The matter was never raised after that, not if you wanted to stop Trader exploding in anger. One thing for sure—they never headed east that way again. Not after Ryan joined. Not before the one-eyed man and J.B. went their separate way from War Wag One.

Hollowstar, Luke, Laurel—they became unspoken, buried memories. Forgotten.

But there were things that didn’t want to stay that way, that had a habit of coming back to bite you in the ass.

So it was that it was more than J.B.’s head that ached when he woke up in that dustbowl ditch.

Chapter Fourteen

The Present

Dark night…For real, as well as how J.B. felt. As he swam to the surface of consciousness, breaking the wave with a feeling that he was going to puke, J.B. couldn’t see a thing. The first ripple of panic said that his eyes had been damaged, and that his vision was screwed. Maybe it was because of his glasses, but that was always the first thing that came to mind, and he was quick to squash it. Particularly as his vision became accustomed to the gloom around him.

Think clearly, Dix…Night was closing in when the pack pushed you in this direction. And then there’s the angle at which you lie—a pit. A simple pit trap, and because that rad-blasted wag jockey was so jolt-wired he’d driven straight into it. So that’s most of the reason that it was so black in here…What about the wag’s emergency electrics? In most wags this well-equipped, a backup should at least provide lighting from which the crew could continue to work. Another thing that Eula hadn’t seen to properly, or anyone else in this half-assed crew. How LaGuerre had kept himself afloat so long was becoming more and more of a question for the Armorer.

Thinking of the stupe trader made him suddenly aware of the small sounds of moaning that came from the other side of the wag jockey’s fixed seat.

There was some illumination in the wag, and it emanated from the emergency lighting on the dash, which lit up the array of dials around the wheel. J.B. was blocking some of this illumination himself, and the level of light improved slightly when he raised himself up. He was now able to see that the majority of this feeble lighting was blocked by the inert body of Zarir, who was slumped forward, his face touching the dash, his back bent at an angle that seemed somehow not right, propped in this manner by the opposing forces of the wheel and his seat belt. Most wag drivers didn’t bother with this predark appurtenance; for Zarir, it was almost as if this held the wag jockey into his seat for the long haul.

Not that it had done him much good this time. As J.B. lifted his head, and more light streamed up around him, it was clear that the wag jockey had bought the farm. His chest had been crushed into the wheel, the belt not being tight enough to prevent the impact. Even so, it had been forceful enough for his shoulders to have been pulled from their sockets by the crash.

Zarir’s face was showing expression for the first time since J.B. had stepped into the wag. Yet this was no genuine expression of feeling, but rather the rictus and shock of a sudden chill. His eyes were wide and staring, the lips drawn back from his teeth in a humorless grin. As J.B. lifted his head, the movement caused the jaws to slacken, the teeth to open, and a gout of blood poured from where it had gathered in the chilled man’s mouth, splattering the dash and making the dim illumination temporarily redden.

On the other side, as J.B. let the corpse fall, he could see that LaGuerre was half on the dash, half on the windshield. He was on his back, arms at his sides. He was the source of the small noises of agony. J.B. carefully picked his way around the driver’s seat, finding the odd angle of the wag hard for finding balance, and came to where the trader lay.

“This is gonna hurt, but it’s the only way,” he whispered before starting to check the trader’s body for injury. He could feel that LaGuerre had at least three rib fractures, all on one side, and that his elbow was at an angle that was far from natural. Fracture and dislocation: painful, but it wasn’t going to buy the farm. Not that you’d know it from the way the trader yelled when J.B.’s probing fingers found the weak spots.

“Shut up,” J.B. said simply, “you aren’t going nowhere. I’ll get Mildred to look you over, and you’ll soon be fine.” He stopped abruptly. Mention of his lover made him realize that his reawakening and exploration had not been carried out to a background of silence. It was there, but it was distant. He figured that he had subconsciously known this, and calculated that there was no imminent danger. Priorities: check the wag crew and himself, and assess the situation. But now that he had made himself aware of it, he could hear it in the background.

The sounds of combat: blasterfire, intermittent; yells and screams, both human and animal. There was one hell of a firefight going on out there, and it sounded as though it was turning to hand-to-hand. Given that the wag gave them a degree of soundproofing, the distance still suggested that their wag had fallen down a hell of a steep pit.

“Dix, what are you doing? Why have you stopped?”

Eula’s voice pulled him from his reverie. He became aware that he hadn’t felt her presence while he was examining LaGuerre or Zarir. Her voice was thick, and redolent of someone coming out of sleep or unconsciousness.

How long had she been watching? And why hadn’t she said anything?

J.B. scanned the interior of the wag. There were great pools of darkness where the feeble light had failed to reach, and she had to be in one of these. How come she wasn’t at the front?

“Don’t play stupe games, girl,” J.B. snapped. “Zarir’s bought the farm, LaGuerre’s hurt but not bad, and I’m just fine—” he ignored the raging pain in his temple from impact, and the nausea it churned in his gut “—and it’s going off out there. We should be thinking about how to get out.”

“What d’you think I was doing while you were resting against the windshield,” she bit back. Her voice was still muzzy, but there was no mistaking the venom. “I pulled myself up here and checked to see what was working. Fuck all, as it happens, but I’ll tell you something—we’re a good three yards from the top of this bastard pit, so if we’re gonna get out and join the fight, we’re gonna have to hurry, ’cause—”

“If it comes down to us, we’re cornered,” he finished for her. He glanced over at LaGuerre. “We’ll have to leave him here and hope for the best. If we fight our way out of this, then he can get some attention. If not, he’s fucked anyway.”

“Then it’s you and me, Dix. Time to see what you’re really made of.”

“I could say the same. You better be able to back up that
mouth.” Yet, even as he said it, he knew that the young woman had an inner core that would make her fight to the last. Maybe that was what made him wary of her—that she was like him in that way. Maybe that was why she was both fascinated and scornful of him, because she, too, recognized that.

But this was not the time to try to work out such things. Now, they had to concentrate on getting out before the fight was carried to them and they were trapped.

J.B. made his way to the rear of the wag, his feet slipping on the metal floor at its obtuse angle, grabbing at any handhold he could find. It grew darker toward the rear and top of the wag, and he could only just make out her shape as she loomed from the darkness, hand extended to grip his arm and haul him to where she stood. She was using the side of the fixed armory cabinet to prop herself up and keep from tumbling back. Her grip had been firm, but when J.B. was close enough he could hear that her breathing was shallow and labored.

“Let’s be honest,” he said flatly. “I’ve had a crack on the head that’s given me a mild concussion. I’m not seeing double, but I might puke any moment and I feel like some coldheart bastard is hammering on my head. There’s nothing else broken, or anything other than bruised. But I can’t guarantee my reflexes are a hundred percent.”

“Why are you telling me this? Not gonna make me inclined to carry you, Dix.”

“Cut the crap. I’m telling you because we’ve got to back each other up, and if we’re gonna do that we need to know strengths and weaknesses.”

There was a pause before she answered, reluctantly.
“Okay, guess you’re right. Got a crack on the head, like you. Feel like I’m wading through fog. Not gonna puke though, got stronger guts than you. Also figure that I’ve cracked at least one rib as it hurts when I breathe too hard. Not so bad I can’t fight through it, but it might slow me up. Also feel like I’ve lost most of my blood from that fucking head crack. Seemed like I was wiping it up forever.”

“At least we know.” J.B. shrugged. “We aren’t gonna be up to that much if the others are losing, but if I know them it’s gonna take more than a bunch of inbred fuckers and some mutie livestock to beat them. So mebbe we’ve got a chance…Best way of getting out of here?”

“Straight out the back and up. It’s steep, but ain’t sheer. Figure you can do it? ’Cause if we’re gonna do the honest bit, I wouldn’t send me up first, not with these ribs. I can cover you, but sounds like you’ll be faster. Figure I can scramble up if you’ll cover me from the top, but it won’t be quick.”

“Okay, so you’re saying our way of getting out of here puts me in the front line at each end?”

In the gloom, he could just about see her shrug. “Yep. No other way to put it. No other way up, either—sides are blocked in down there,” she added, indicating the front of the wag, below them.

J.B. sucked in a sharp breath, blew it out. “Dark night, if I knew it was going to be like this…”

“It’s always like this, Dix. There isn’t another way.”

For a moment, the Armorer was taken aback. Maybe without even realizing it, Eula had summed up his life. And maybe—just maybe—he’d miss it if it wasn’t there.

“Okay. Let’s do it,” he said softly.

Eula moved to open the rear doors of the wag, and allow him to scramble up the side of the pit. As she did, something descended into the pit, hitting the rear doors with a resounding thump, causing the back of the wag to shake. Paws scratched at the metal, a snarling sound issuing deep from within the throat of the creature outside. There was little doubt that it was one of the mutie dogs. The shape of its shaggy hide could be seen through the frosted armaglass panes that allowed what little outside light there may be to enter.

“Fuck!” J.B. exclaimed, half in surprise and half in exasperation. Their only exit was now effectively barred by the mutie beast. “Any chance of firing out at it?” he questioned.

“Looks like armaglass, and is,” Eula replied. “All we’d do is get a shitload of shells ricocheting around in here. Might as well put the blaster to our heads as do that.”

J.B. sighed. No one ever said life was going to be easy, but there were some days…

“Okay, wait till the bastard goes to the left door, then push this one up as far as you can and I’ll just try to blast it,” he whispered. But despite his attempts to keep his voice low, the animal still heard him and came sniffing around the door that lay just above their heads.

J.B. looked at Eula. Now that his vision had adjusted to the gloom, he was able to make out her eyes clearly, which meant that she could read his. He took his mini-Uzi, and with as much care as possible, flicked it to rapid fire. Then he rolled his eyes toward the door, signaling her to be ready. She nodded, carefully moving to a position that
would allow her the maximum leverage. When she was in position, J.B. leaned across and tapped at the armaglass on the left-hand door with the barrel of his blaster.

As he had hoped, the beast responded to the stimulus, moving across to the left door to sniff at the area where the noise had emanated.

Taking her cue, Eula hit the lock on the door and heaved upward with all the strength she could muster. The veins popped in her head, her vision blurred with yellow and red lights that flickered, and her ribs seemed to separate and spear her in every organ.

But she got the door open. Her initial push got it to ninety degrees, and momentum carried it back until it slammed against the side of the pit and against the frame of the wag. Not that this sound was audible above the chatter of the mini-Uzi.

J.B. waited that fraction of the second after Eula’s initial push before following the line of the door, arm raised above his head so that the muzzle of the blaster was first out of the trap. He squeezed as he raised his arm, so that the first blast only just cleared the edge of the right-hand door.

As he followed his arm into the open, he was assailed by the smell of cordite and warm blood, his ears filled with the incessant hammer of the blaster and the squeals and yells of the beast.

It didn’t stand a chance. It was chilled from the moment that his finger tightened enough to trigger the rapid blasts. The shells, at such close range, seared into its hide, penetrating the thick clumps of matted fur and the tough, leathery skin that protected it so well under normal circum
stances. Burst arteries spouted blood that hit J.B. as he emerged from the shelter of the wag. He spit out the salty yet bitter liquid as it squirted into his mouth, his glasses blurring but his eyes saved from the stinging, blinding spray. Chunks of the creature were thrown up by the chopping of the shells, and its screams faded as the life ebbed from it. Still he kept firing, until he could be sure. He was halfway out the door, having used the edge of the cabinet to propel himself, now wobbling unsteadily as Eula’s cupped hands supported one foot. There was no way he was going to give the furry bastard the chance to make a last gasp lunge for him.

His ears rang as he let the pressure on the trigger ease. The lump of lifeless meat and fur opposite him, stinking from chilling, was no threat now. It had smelled rank in life, and now in its demise it smelled worse, the metal tang of spilled blood and fresh meat combining with the stench of the creature’s voided bowels and bladder.

There was no time to pause, no time to take stock or to try to recover. All he could do—that they could do—was to keep moving. Ramming the mini-Uzi temporarily into the waistband of his combat pants, finger automatically flicking over the safety, he needed both hands free to get enough of a hold on the blood-and-urine-slicked metal to haul himself up, his knees skidding on the surface as he turned to reach down and help Eula up, out of the wag and onto the door.