Downrigger Drift (9 page)

The next morning dawned clear, bright and hot. The sky had turned a darker purple overnight, but the clouds had disappeared, leaving clear, violet emptiness stretching all the way to the horizon. No breeze stirred the grass, promising a hot afternoon inside the war wag.

While J.B. plotted their route, Ryan assigned positions. “Jak, take the front blaster. Krysty, you’re on the back. A two hour shift, then I’ll replace Jak, and, Mildred, you’ll spell Krysty. Doc, I want you to be ready to take over either position if necessary. The blasters are simple enough, we’re running with them loaded and ready, so just point and shoot. No air conditioning, but we got a wide enough field of vision and fire that we should be able to run with the hatches open, so it won’t get too hot.”

Jak turned his head and spit. “Bastard oven inside.”

“Better than walking in this heat.”

The albino nodded, his eyes straying to the black 20 mm cannon mounted in the squat turret.

“Not today, son, that’s J.B.’s post. Mebbe you’ll get a chance at it later.”

Jak crossed his arms. “Who drive?”

“For the first stretch, me. Then we’ll see.”

For a moment, Jak looked as if he was going to push the issue, but then he shrugged, feigning disinterest, and turned back to the armored vehicle.

“All right, everyone got everything?”

“I daresay, Ryan, you have the interior packed so tight a body can scarcely wedge himself inside,” Doc called from the entry hatch.

Ryan had crammed every kind of trade good he could think of, from clothing to ammunition to spices, into every storage space, nook, cranny he could find. “Yeah, it’s tight, but I figure we’ll be better off trading our way along than trying to intimidate our way through.”

The one-eyed man had checked the redoubt door one last time. “Yeah, she’s sealed tight. Time to ride.” He walked past the remains of the giant deer he’d shot a few days earlier, now just large, white bones covered with gnaw marks and dried scraps of meat, bleaching in the sun.

After everyone else had got themselves situated more-or-less comfortably, Ryan swung up and into the already warm, cramped crew compartment, twisting himself around to fit into the driver’s seat. As he did so, he dislodged a small container of pepper, which fell onto the floor and almost skittered under the seat before he stopped it with a boot.

“All this crap better be worth it,” J.B. commented from the gunner’s chair, surrounded by bundles of rolled-up fatigue pants and shirts.

Ryan didn’t bother to reply, but hit the ignition button, the engine’s roar splitting the early morning silence. “All right, where to?”

J.B. bent over a paper map of the region he’d found in one of the redoubt offices. He’d spent much of the previous night carefully laminating it with one of the several hundred rolls of vacuum-sealed clear plastic tape he’d uncovered in a storeroom. “The main gate is about a mile due south, just take something called W.
Thirteenth Avenue, and keep bearing right. It leads to State Highway 21, which, if still intact, will take us to road I-90, which will take us southeast toward what’s left of what was the state capital—Madison—and then farther on to another large city, Mil-wauk-ee.”

“Milwaukee?” Mildred piped up. “Home of the Brewers and Miller Beer. Back in the seventies and eighties people called it the armpit of America—or was that Cincinnati?”

“I doubt we’ll be going there, since we’ll be heading more southeast, but let’s get off this base first before thinkin’ about sightseeing.” Putting the heavy vehicle in gear, Ryan let out the clutch and stepped on the Gas, slowly moving them out. The engine sounded as if it was in fairly good condition, but he proceeded forward slowly, keeping it at a steady thirty-five miles per hour.

As they approached where J.B. said the gate was, they saw more collapsed shells of buildings, picked over by time and scavengers until nothing but metal skeletons remained. Ryan drove down a wide thoroughfare, which could have held another two Commandos side-by-side, until they came to the remains of a large metal gate. Bare metal fence posts stretched into the distance on both sides. Except for the rumbling engine, nothing else nearby made a sound.

Ryan turned the wheel left and shifted, the large tires humming on the ancient pavement as they picked up speed. The wind stirred by their passage blew through the small ob ports, providing much-needed breeze. J.B. kept the turret moving, scanning the horizon ahead for any sign of trouble. Ryan didn’t need to check with Jak or Krysty. He knew they’d sing out at the first sign of anything strange.

“Place called Tomah comin’ up, where we join the highway,” J.B. called out to Ryan. “Couple miles ahead.”

Sure enough, less than ten minutes later the skyline of a small town appeared on the horizon. “Button up,” Ryan called out, hearing the clanks of hatches being closed. “Everyone look sharp.”

“Bridge crossing ahead—it’s manned.” J.B. said right afterward.

“We go in slow and easy, see what kind of reception we get.” Ryan downshifted to first, slowing the vehicle to about twenty miles an hour until he was within a half mile of the bridge, then he slowed to ten miles an hour and drove forward until he was sure they had all of the guards’ attention.

Bridges were a common toll point in the Deathlands, with villes often springing up on one side or the other of the natural barrier. An existing crossing was often the only one for dozens or even hundreds of miles in either direction, with hundreds of others having succumbed to the steady ravages of time or men. The communities near a bridge guarded and maintained it in exchange for a barter price, which Ryan and his companions were about to try to negotiate.

About one hundred yards away, Ryan brought the Commando to a stop and scanned their potential enemies. The guards in this case were patchwork militia, any able-bodied man and boy old enough to point a blaster pulling duty, about a dozen in all. They were armed with a bewildering variety of weapons, from battered hunting rifles, shotguns and homemade hand-blasters to melee weapons, including a pitchfork, with one even carrying a gleaming scythe. Everyone looked tense and ready for action—although Ryan knew they
could have just mowed them down with the Commando without a shot, as nothing the guards carried could penetrate the war wag’s armor. That was probably the only reason bullets weren’t spanging off their ride just yet—they hadn’t moved to attack just yet, so the guards were waiting for a more diplomatic approach.

At least, Ryan hoped that’s what they were waiting for.

“J.B., where’s that cannon pointing?”

“I got it aimed off the left and pointing down. Hopefully they’ll think it’s out of order.”

“Good. Jak, you ready?”

“Good field fire. Take half down one burst.”

“Keep your finger near, but not on that trigger unless I say so, you hear?”

“Yeah.”

Ryan pushed up the top hatch and poked his head out, being careful to drop back down at a moment’s notice. “Hello the bridge!”

One man stepped forward, a scoped longblaster held at port arms. “Hello, outlanders!”

“Like to cross. What’s the toll?”

“Trade only, what kin y’offer?”

Ryan took a moment before answering, as if checking. “Got ammo, some tools, clothes, spices.”

The man in front didn’t react, but the line rippled in murmured wonder as the men whispered among themselves. The leader half turned and silenced them with a look. “We can barter. Ya mind comin’ out to talk, mebbe bring a bit o’ what yer carryin’?”

There was the crux of it. If these guards were cold-hearts looking to profit from any outlanders, then Ryan and anyone who came with him were targets to be taken hostage or killed for the wag, which was priceless. If
they were decent men just looking to protect their ville, then there shouldn’t be a problem, but still…

“Yeah, we can talk, but know this—I got more people in here, and we’ll be covered by the wag’s blasters, including this one.”

At Ryan’s words, the 20 mm cannon came to life, the six barrels elevating and swiveling over to point directly at the line. He saw several men ready their weapons, and one teenager even raised his rifle to his shoulder before the leader barked a sharp command. As one, the group set their weapons back to port arms, even those holding the close-combat ones.

“Fair enough, but y’all know this—if’n ya kill us, you’ll never cross the bridge.”

Ryan raised an eyebrow at that, but shrugged. “All right then, you and one other representative come out halfway, and me and one of mine’ll meet you there.” He dropped down through the hatch, locking it behind him. “Krysty, let’s go. Mildred, take the rear blaster. Everyone else, watch for my signals.”

The two women exchanged places without a word, and Ryan popped the side hatch and slid through it, then turned to see if Krysty needed a hand, which she didn’t, slipping outside with her usual limber grace.

Ryan grabbed a selection of goods from the wag and distributed them between himself and Krysty, then they headed out. Being outside was a pleasant change from the already stifling interior of the wag. A breeze had kicked up that ruffled through Ryan’s curly hair, cooling the sweat on the back of his neck as they approached the other pair.

As he came closer, Ryan saw the ville speaker appeared relatively clean-cut, with a neatly trimmed brown beard and hair, rather than the often-bushy growth many
men favored. The man, who looked to be approaching the near side of middle age, carried the longblaster as if he knew how to use it, but although Ryan’s hands were full, he was pretty sure he could drop the stuff he was carrying, draw and shoot the guy before he could fire.

They met in the road, halfway between the two sides. The man nodded in greeting, neither hand leaving his weapon. The other man held a rusty revolver, but it was also out and readied, carried in front of his chest.

As he’d figured, both men’s eyes widened when they saw Krysty. With J.B. manning the cannon, and Jak’s unusual appearance, Doc’s shaky mental state, and Mildred’s often sharp tongue rendering each of them unsuitable for the task at hand, Krysty was the best partner he could ask for at the moment, especially when bargaining with men.

Ryan gave the leader credit, he recovered fast, although he seemed to be staring at Ryan harder than was necessary under the circumstances. “Greetings, outlander. What ya got?”

Nodding to Krysty, they stepped forward and placed the various items on the road, then stepped back, keeping their hands in plain sight the entire time. The leader confirmed that his second was keeping an eye on the two outlanders, before walking forward to examine the goods. Although he tried to hide it, his gaze kept returning to the shells Ryan had set down, although he also showed interest in the small assortment of spices they’d packaged for the trip, including the more exotic ones like black pepper and vacuum-sealed containers of dried basil, oregano and sage, taken from the stores of the redoubt kitchen.

The man finished his review and stepped back. “How much .308 and shotgun ammo you carrying?”

Ryan rubbed his chin. “Mebbe fifty rounds of the ball ammo, and a hundred of the 12-gauge.” He was lowballing—there was five times that amount for the two machine guns inside, but he saw no reason to mention it.

The man’s tongue flicked out to lick dry lips. “We’ll take forty .308 and fifty of the 12-gauge for passage for all of you and the vehicle. Disarm your weapons first, and you’d be welcome into the ville, where you could trade for any other items you may need.”

“Sounds a bit steep—why don’t we say twenty of the .308 and twenty-five of the shotgun? I’ll even throw in a sample of the spices we’re carrying for the womenfolk.”

Ryan saw the second man—more a boy, really, barely out of his teens—wipe his mouth, and figured he had a deal. Only salt could be easily found in the Deathlands, crudely processed from the ocean. Spices like the ones he was carrying were worth their weight in gold—even more sometimes, since a person couldn’t eat gold.

The man spoke up again. “Thirty bullets and forty shotgun shells—that’s my final offer.”

Ryan took his time replying, gazing first up the river, then down. “Could find another place to cross, then you’d have nothing.”

The man smiled for the first time, revealing yellowed teeth. “Nearest bridge is more’n a hundred miles south, and they’d just as soon shoot ya as talk over there.”

“Still, your price seems high. One bullet could get me a night’s lodging and food in most villes.”

“Times are tough,” the second man said. “Caravans don’t come by as often—”

The leader turned his head to stare at his backup. “Quiet, Jabe.”

He turned back to Ryan. “Looks like ya got a destination in mind, and where yer going takes ya right through our ville. Could go around, but that takes a lot of gas. The toll is what it is—you kin pay and pass, or turn around and head back the way you came.”

Ryan had been considering simply paying what had been asked—the bargaining had been tough but fair—but the man’s dismissive tone had gotten his back up. He looked past the man’s shoulder at the bridge in the distance. “Not sure what you’re offering is going to do it. The wag’s kind of heavy. It might bust your bridge right in half.”

The man smirked. “She’ll hold, I guarantee it myself.”

“That’s kind of you, but I’m not sure how I’d hold you to it if we end up at the bottom of the river with the fish nibbling our eyeballs. Nope, I think we’ll find another way across.”

His calm words took both men by surprise. “Like I said, if ya ain’t crossing here, you’re risking a lot more than a few bullets. Come on, be reasonable.”

“We’ll see you on the other side. Come on.” Ryan scooped up the sample of goods, turned and walked back to the war wag, Krysty falling into step beside him.

“What’s going on? The price for crossing wasn’t that bad.”

“Didn’t like his tone, that’s all. Besides, I think we can cross this river and not have to pay them anything.”

“They see that, they might chill us all at being taken.”

Ryan had reached the hatch of the wag by now, and opened it up. “It’d take a hell of a lot more than them to take us out. Let’s go.”