Desolation Crossing (25 page)

Now, in a situation that benefited more the living, all of them felt that they could be more proactive.

The wag needed hosing down, to get rid of the stench of blood, flesh and decay that now filled it. Water was at a premium, so sand blasters were used on the rear doors to scour the outside of the vehicle. The inside was scrubbed. It took a team of six several hours in the rising heat to remove as much of the stench as was possible.

While this was taking place, repairs had to be made to the front of the wag. Ryan and J.B. rigged up a tent-cover construction that kept as much of the increasing heat as was possible off the front of vehicle, enabling the mechanics to work.

There were a few problems to overcome. First, despite the reinforced armoring at the front of the wag, the force with which it had struck the bottom of the pit, driving it into the earth, had caused the front engine cab to crumple. There was no real damage done to the engine, as the strength of the armoring had prevented any impact trauma. But the ventilation ducts that enabled the engine to cool, and maintained a flow of air around the working sections of the wag, had been dented and closed up by the impact. While members of the convoy worked to open these up, and straighten dented armoring that was resistant to the kinds of force they were able to use, those with the greatest
engineering skills both checked and maintained the engine, and paid attention to the interior workings of the wag.

The steering column had maintained some damage. The actual column itself was sturdy enough to remain stable under the impact, but the force with which it had struck the floor of the pit, combined with the force with which Zarir’s chest cavity had struck it before giving way, meant that some of the circuitry and wiring within had sustained minor damage. And the wheel itself had buckled, the bent metal no longer true to the pressures put on it in the course of use.

Ray took this task upon himself. Mildred assisted him, as he insisted that the repair was like a medical operation. It was a conceit that she was prepared to allow him until she saw the delicacy with which he carried out the repairs. Wires and circuits were manipulated, reconnected and replaced with pieces plundered from the old comp boards in other parts of the wag. Ray’s fingers moved with a grace and deftness of touch that she would not have believed possible.

When he had finished, and his face had lit up like the control panel when he tested the steering and dash controls to find them in fully restored order, Mildred was inclined not so much to humor him as to wholeheartedly agree that he had shown a surgeon’s precision in some of his work.

Finally, the armored wag was ready to move on. It looked battered, and LaGuerre complained about the smell as he shuffled in through the rear door, but it was roadworthy and showed, all things considering, little in the way of damage.

By this time, the sun was beginning to lower in the sky.
It had taken them all day to remove the wag from the pit and make it roadworthy again. But finally they were able to continue on the journey. Cody took Zarir’s place at the wheel, easing himself into driver’s position, adjusting the seat until it suited his smaller frame. Then the convoy moved out, heading back toward the road, with all personnel in the positions they had assumed prior to the firefight.

But other things had changed. The atmosphere between the Armorer and Eula was easier, which confused LaGuerre as he sat glowering at them. And J.B.’s attitude to the trader had changed. Before, he had been confused as to whether the man was triple stupe or cunning.

Now, he just had animal wariness. He was waiting.

And he was ready.

Chapter Sixteen

Jenningsville lay roughly eight miles from where they reentered the blacktop. It took them some time to navigate their way back, the tracks left the previous night by the pack and by the convoy having already been almost eradicated by the ever-present, low-level swirling winds of the dustbowl. J.B. directed Cody, taking bearings and guiding them. Cody, for his part, adapted to the controls of the armored wag with ease, and by the time they hit the road once more, it was as though he had been piloting the vehicle since they had originally set out.

The ribbon, broken by time and the environment, was nonetheless consistent enough to present a black line to the horizon that the convoy settled easily into following. The wags were lined up as before, with Jak remaining in the second wag, and Ryan in the rear with Doc, Raven and Ramona. LaGuerre had been too preoccupied—both by his injuries and by the shift in atmosphere between J.B., Eula and himself—to insist that the motorbikes be taken from their secured positions on the rear of the wags and brought back into action.

Despite the fact that it was a battered and bruised convoy, with no sec at the rear, the procession made good time. Cody was less inclined to put pedal to the metal than Zarir
had been, but considering where that had got them previously, no one was going to complain about that.

Except LaGuerre. He grumbled that his bonus would be cut because the convoy would be a day later than his estimated completion time. J.B. questioned him about the estimated time, and the time usually taken, and found for the first time that LaGuerre had pushed them to a schedule four days ahead of the usual run time.

“So you lose a quarter of the bonus?” he concluded. “You’re sitting there giving us shit about losing part of the jack when you’re still alive and collecting three-quarters? Selfish bastard. You could have bought the farm because you weren’t straight with me. We could all have bought the farm.”

LaGuerre was incensed. This was his convoy, and the outsider was giving him shit? He was about to say that the jack would be split among the convoy so they were all losing out, but that was only partly true, as he would keep the majority, and J.B. would know that. He was about to say that he had hired them to stop this kind of shit happening, to stop them being attacked, but he knew J.B. would only point out—rightly and possibly forcefully—that they were still alive and on the road, with a minimum of casualties and a whole lot of chilling behind them.

Frankly, LaGuerre felt that he was only tenuously in command of his convoy now, and that if he said too much then he would join those whose blood had been spilled. So he didn’t make any of the answers that sprang readily to his lips, settling instead into a sulky silence as the ribbon of the road unfurled in front of them, taking them—thankfully, as far as he was concerned—to their destina
tion. He just wanted this to be done. He wished he had never set eyes on J. B. Dix and the people who traveled with him.

If the Armorer had known that those thoughts were running through the trader’s head, he would have been on triple red. As it was, he put the lapse into silence as nothing more than sulking, and returned to his task of ensuring that the remainder of the convoy’s journey was smooth.

DOC AND R YAN WERE using the respite of the uneven journey to try to discover a little more about the ville to which they were headed. It was a fruitless task, as it seemed that their traveling companions were as much in ignorance as they were themselves.

“Hon, we ain’t never really headed out this far before,” Ramona murmured distractedly as she kept her eyes on the road ahead and the rear of the refrigerated wag that rose above them through the cloud of dust it raised. “The only thing I could tell you is what I heard from others. And we all know how reliable that kinda talk is, right?”

Doc smiled wryly. “Careless talk costs lives, and loose lips sink ships, I assume you mean by that.”

“Uh, sure,” Ramona replied, resisting the temptation to cast a bemused glance over her shoulder.

Raven looked at Ryan from her position on the bunk and raised an eyebrow, gesturing to her temple with a forefinger. Ryan grinned and shrugged. He knew Doc had seen her, but knew equally that the old man didn’t care. For Ryan had heard Doc use the expressions before, and knew
that they were phrases he had picked up on his travels through time. They had once had meaning, and from the context in which Doc always used them, Ryan had worked out what they meant. But to explain this to Raven and Ramona would only make them look at him in the same way they regarded Doc.

“So you are saying, in effect, that we know little about the place we are about to visit?” Doc continued. “Your glorious leader, having struck a deal with people he has never dealt with before, expects them to pay up without any problems? Or is that, perhaps, why he wanted ourselves along for the ride?”

“Y’know, you could be right about that last bit,” Raven mused. “After all, Armand and Eula were together on wanting you with us ’cause of what they’d heard. And you ain’t proved them wrong so far.”

“Very gracious of you to say so,” Doc demurred, “but on the other hand, you have not exactly seemed to be helpless when trouble has arisen. Which suggests to me—and I don’t know what it says to you, Ryan, dear boy—that LaGuerre does not, how shall we say, trust his buyers.”

“I wouldn’t if I was him,” Ryan mused. “When we rode with Trader, we never did a deal as big as this with a ville we hadn’t dealt with in a smaller way before. Trader would always sound out anyone he could find on what the setup of a ville was, and would only deal small-time the first time around. It’s the only really safe way to get a measure of who you’re dealing with…at least, as much of a measure as you can.”

“Makes sense to me,” Raven said, yawning. She lay back on the bunk. “And I gotta say, Armand usually gives
us a better briefing at the start of a run than he did this time around. Mind, we didn’t exactly get this the usual way.”

Ryan and Doc exchanged glances. That was something that they had suspected for a long while.

“Raven, hon, I think you’re letting that mouth of yours run away with you, now that you can’t fill it any other way,” Ramona cautioned. “These are good folks, but we don’t need to tell them all our business, right?”

“I do not think you have to, dear lady,” Doc said kindly. “It does not take much imagination to put two and two together and come up with the square. Your resourceful leader hijacked another convoy, who may perhaps have dealt with this ville before. Presumably his intel told him of the fee and the bonuses, and so he now plans to collect a fee agreed with someone else. Tell me, is this a common practice for you?”

Ramona sighed. “Not exactly. He does this when times are hard, and just lately—”

“So we’re carrying someone else’s goods to someone else’s buyer, and we’re supposed to just collect like nothing’s going to happen?” Ryan sighed. “Shit’s gonna hit just like the sun always rises, and we’re supposed to be ready for it when no one’s thought to mention this?”

“Armand does things his own way, and when you travel with him, you just kinda…get used to it, I guess.” Ramona shrugged.

Ryan felt an anger build within him. His people were being put into a dangerous situation. That was nothing new. But this time they were being put in a dangerous place that they couldn’t possibly have known was dangerous. As with the attack from the pack, Ryan felt that his
people were being forced to do their job with blasters on safety and one arm tied behind.

“Okay, so I’m not going to blame any of you for this, although I’d like to rip LaGuerre’s throat out right now. Listen, and listen good—if we’re going to be of any use, we need to know anything that you do. And soon. Just tell me and Doc, and we can fill the others in as and when.”

Both Ramona and Raven were silent for a moment. Then Raven spoke up hesitantly. “I dunno. Armand wouldn’t like it if he knew we’d told you that he stole someone else’s load, and hadn’t dealt directly with Jenningsville.”

“He doesn’t have to know. We’ll talk to our people without drawing attention to it. Hell, we wouldn’t want to do that, anyway, especially as we won’t be able to talk privately until we’re in the middle of the pesthole.”

“I still dunno,” Raven mumbled. “Ramona…”

“I know what you’re saying, hon,” the driver replied without looking around, “but you gotta figure Ryan’s right on this. Listen, sweetie,” she said in a slightly different tone, signaling that she was now addressing Ryan, “all we know about Jenningsville is what we’ve been told ourselves. The place is a pesthole, all right, but one that has jack and shit to trade. They ain’t got food or clothes, or anything that can actually keep people alive. And around these parts there ain’t much they can do about that. But they have got something that’s as good if they can get some crazy trader to cross this desert shit they live in.

“They got weapons—blasters, plas ex, grens, you name it, honey. Armand heard all about it from one of his sup
pliers, who used to sell to the convoy we blasted. We took ’em, but that’s how we lost so many of ours. It was a close-run thing, babes, and I’m sure as shit glad I’m still here, now.

“Anyways, they got this shit, and they seem to have been living off it since skydark. So they pay, and they pay well ’cause they have to. And that’s what he wants. The pay-off. And Armand’ll do anything for a big pay-off.”

Doc and Ryan exchanged a look that spoke volumes. A big pay-off was one thing, but this was more than just that. Both men—along with their traveling companions—knew that a consistent supply of one kind of trade, particularly of this type, could only mean one thing. The people of Jenningsville had long ago found a redoubt or base of some kind in the vicinity, and they had been using this to buy in the goods they so badly needed to survive.

Of necessity, they had kept tight-lipped about the source of their supply, but Ryan knew from his experience with Trader that a stockpile like this, while it could not last indefinitely, could make you rich beyond your dreams. This community needed it to survive and so had been careful. LaGuerre was one greedy man, and so would use it for indulgence.

And make no mistake. Both men knew that LaGuerre had but one aim in mind. Even if his crew had not tumbled to it; even if those who had gone before had not, or had tried and failed; it made no difference.

LaGuerre was after more than a pay-off and a bonus. He was after a dream that could make him one of the richest men in these rad-ravaged lands.

And he was taking Ryan, Doc and the others along for the ride.

WHILE J.B. SUSPECTED LaGuerre for different reasons to those known to Ryan and Doc, their companions were oblivious to that. In their own wag spaces, with no need to use the comm system and no way in which they could have communicated openly if there had been such a chance, Jak, Mildred and Krysty were almost hermetically sealed from the suspicions of their compatriots.

Jak rode with Jed and Raf. Even though Cody moving on to drive the armored wag should have created more space, it felt in many ways as though there was less air within the confines of the second wag. Raf was driving, his shift in the seat meaning that the dreadlocked warrior’s attention was focused wholly on the road and the wag directly in front of him. Raf was one hell of a fighter, but had never felt confident behind a wheel. Of course, he could never let this sign of weakness show through, so he sat tight-lipped, his whole being concentrated on the road in front of him, not daring to speak.

Which was a pity, as he respected Jak as a fighter after witnessing what had happened in the shanty ville. He would have been prepared to be open and friendly. This was a relative term, of course, as neither the dreadlocked warrior nor Jak Lauren could be said to be loquacious. But at least the atmosphere in the rear of the wag would have risen a couple of degrees from the ambivalent frost that settled over it.

Jed was on the bunk, Jak seated opposite. The large, shaved-headed and scarred warrior had surprisingly small eyes for such a huge man. They seemed to be further obscured in folds of fat as they bore into Jak with something that could only be called hostility. It couldn’t be suspicion,
as the fat man had seen Jak fight side by side with his fellow convoy members. But why the hostility?

Jak ignored it as much as he could. Long hours spent in wait while hunting prey both human and animal had taught him a thing or two about being able to filter anything around him that may be a distraction. But he was too close to the man on the bunk, seated as he was just a few feet away. Jak didn’t care why the man seemed to dislike him. He only knew that it was stirring an equal resentment within him that could soon spill over into violence. The sooner they reached this pesthole ville, the better.

Jak could not know that Jed hated muties with a vengeance, as one of them had taken his balls in a knife fight some years before. This was why he never spoke. His voice was high and squeaky, ill-befitting such a large, scarred man. It was also the reason for his beginning to run to fat, as no matter how much he tried to work off the weight, the hormone imbalance always gained the upper hand.

Jed knew that both Cody and Raf had told him that Jak was not a mutie. He trusted them…usually. But this time the feelings that boiled within him were threatening to overrule his respect for their opinions. He, too, was on the edge of violence.

Jenningsville couldn’t come quick enough.