Post-Apocalyptic Nomadic Warriors (21 page)

With a whine, like that of a camera flash charging, the thermal scope came alive and displayed the activity at the rig. Men were replaced with splotches of color. They were scattered everywhere. He pointed the scope towards the rear trailer.

Body heat signatures filled the crosshairs. The rear trailer was filled with a mass of people. The density of the heat signatures lit the entire field of the scope.
 

The murdered people of Vita Nova weren’t dead. They were crammed into the livestock trailer.

He heard the crack of the fiberglass next to him before the crack of the rifle. A second bullet struck even closer.

They had set up their own snipers.

He fired several rounds quickly to force their heads down. He found the tires next. Striking the fuel tank would kill the prisoners. If he couldn’t stop them, he could slow them down.

With each pull of the trigger, a tire erupted. He fired five times and each trailer sank as the air drained from the wheels.

The bullets came at him faster as the entire squad opened up. He scurried backwards and to the side of the roof, trying to get out of their line of sight. He looked through the scope one more time just in time to see the gate on the rear left trailer drop. Several motorcycles burst from the trailer. The riders were armed and they were moving fast.

He dropped the rifle through the skylight and followed it into the coach. Barking orders at the passengers, he forced his way to the cockpit and pulled the coach into gear.
 

“What’s going on?” Alex ran to the passenger seat. Chewy was trying to console Erica.

“They’re on their way. We’ve got to hurry.”

“The truck is coming?”

“Worse. They’ve got bikes.”

“So? What about the Silver Lining?”

“Motorcycles are fast. Coaches aren’t. Plus, it takes a long time to do a three point turn on a post-apocalyptic highway.”

It took more than a minute to turn the Silver Lining and get it up to speed. It took slightly longer for the bikes to arrive.

“Everybody get down!”

The brothers and Erica dropped to the floor. Chewy huddled with them.

Bullets tore through the thin skin of the coach. Cans of food in the pantry exploded. Equipment and supplies fell from the walls.

Jerry swerved left and right as he tried to knock the riders from their bikes. The riders were agile and easily dodged the lumbering coach.

“Erica, take the wheel.”

Huddled on the floor with her hands above her head, she hesitated.
 

He pounded his door. “Erica. It’s bulletproof. You’ll be fine.”

She crawled to his side and they switched places. Her arms shook as she grasped the wheel. He put his hand on her shoulder and leaned in close.

“Just keep it on the road and don’t let off the gas.”

She nodded and gripped the wheel tighter.

Jerry dove to the floor of the cabin, lifted a panel in the floor and slid into the storage area.

Four bikes had surrounded the coach, each armed with a submachine gun. Pulling alongside the door of the coach, a rider on the left sighted Erica behind the wheel. A shot through the shattered window of the cabin door would end the chase immediately. He raised the barrel of the weapon and prepared to fire.

The lower panel on the motor coach flew open and struck the motorcycle. Letting the gun drop to his side, the rider grabbed the handlebar with his left hand and struggled to maintain his balance. The bike wobbled for a few hundred feet and steadied. He grabbed for the weapon again. Then he saw the man inside the storage compartment. The shotgun blast lifted the rider from his bike and dropped him on the concrete.

Jerry fired at the second bike.

The rider slowed and pulled up behind the coach.

Jerry slammed the outer door shut and climbed back into the cabin. He slid into another hole in the floor. Unlike the first hatch, this compartment was full of gear, and it was difficult to maneuver around the boxes. He reached the door and kicked open the panel on the far side of the coach.

The rider saw the panel begin to open and kicked back. The door swung shut and knocked the shotgun from Jerry’s hand to the road below.

Rearing from the pain, he fell back into a box that simply said Chewy on it. Contents spilled everywhere, adding to the clutter in the compartment.
 

Hissing, the hydraulics on the compartment door raised the hatch open.

Kicking the panel had caused the rider to struggle for his balance. He regained it as the panel opened. He drew his weapon and waited for his shot.

Chewy’s old leash was within reach. On the end was a pronged training lead. It was huge. It had to be to fit around the large dog’s neck. It was also heavy.

The rider had to bring his left hand across the bike to fire. Jerry whipped the weighted leash to force him off-balance while trying to catch the training lead on some part of the bike.

The rider leaned away from the coach to escape the grasp of the leash.

Again, Jerry tried to hook the leash on the handlebars or the rider.

Putting himself out of reach of the makeshift flail, the rider pulled the weapon across his chest.

Out of desperation, Jerry threw the collar ahead of the bike. The lead caught in the spokes, the training collar wedged into the fork. Sparks flew and spokes snapped as the wheel ate itself. The bike collapsed, the fork drove itself into the road.

The sudden deceleration threw the rider over the handlebars. He plowed face first into the highway. The bike followed over him a moment later.
 

Jerry closed the panel, crawled back into the cabin and scrambled to the cab. He struck a switch on the dash that didn’t look as if it belonged there.

“Brake!”

“What?” Only the leather wrapping of the steering wheel softened Erica’s grip.

“Brake!”

She stomped on the brake. The coach lurched forward on its frame. The boys in the back grasped for something to hold onto as they slid forward on the floor.

Jerry was thrown into the dash. Chewy, curled beneath the dash, whimpered as her mass shifted.

There was a thud from behind the coach. A rider shot past them on the right.

“Now, go!”

She mashed the gas. “What was that switch?”

“It turns off the brake lights.”

The final rider slammed on his own brakes and turned to race back to the coach. He drew his gun.

“Head straight for him.”

“He’s not going to let me hit him.”

“You don’t need to.” Jerry hit a second switch. There was a whirring deep inside the hood of the Silver Lining. Slowly a steel plate rose to cover the front of the driver’s windshield.

The rider began to fire. Erica ducked. The coach began to veer.

Jerry grabbed the wheel as bullets bounced off the plate. The passenger side windshield shattered. Jerry peered through a slit in the steel plate, and pulled a cable with his right hand.

The Silver Lining’s grill dropped and revealed a solid line of barrels that stretched across the front of the motor home.

The rider saw the threat and tried to swerve.

Jerry yanked a grouping of cables that ran across the triggers of fifty-two shotguns mounted under the hood of his post-apocalyptic motor home.

The rider didn’t explode, but disappeared into a misty cloud of blood. He caught the blast full on and flew backwards off his bike. The bike continued off to the side of the road and bounced harmlessly down the hill.

“Slow down.”

Her foot was glued to the floor.

“Slow down, Erica.”

This time she listened.

“Is everyone okay?”

“What was that?” The boys were bruised from the bumpy ride, but otherwise unharmed.

“Fifty-two shotguns all fired at once. I put them there for barricades or zombies. But it seems to work for this too.”

He hit the switch again and the armor plate retreated back under the hood.

The boys looked at him in awe. Erica stared at him.

“Take this exit. We’re going to have to cut through Dallas.”

She responded slowly, but took the exit. The onramp was, for the most part, intact. She navigated it carefully and they merged on to the Interstate highway that would take them into the jungle city of Dallas.
 

TWENTY-THREE

The wheel wobbled. Bent out of alignment, it shook the rider who struggled to control the bike. He had one hand on the throttle and the other cradled across his chest; a bone protruded below the elbow.

Two men rushed to steady the bike as the rider carefully pulled a tender leg over the frame. Limping, he approached his commander.

Pacing the length of the trailer, the major surveyed the flattened tire and grumbled as he walked from one flat to another.

“What do you have to report?” he wheezed as he knelt to inspect the bullet hole. The phosphorus rounds had not only torn through the rubber, but melted it as well.

“They got away, sir. The others are dead.”

The major didn’t react. He continued to study the tires. Placing a finger through the hole, he found that the tire was still smoking. “They shot my tires.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

The major stood and turned to the rider.

The battered soldier flinched. The major had always been gruesome and intimidating. Now he stared, patch-less, into the eyes of the fallen rider.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, no, sir.” The empty socket was filled with scar tissue deep inside the cavity. The healing wounds across his face puffed around the stitches. The rider backed away. The major’s pale blue eye didn’t waver.

“The patch was aggravating the stitches. Hurt like a sonofabitch. It doesn’t bother you, does it?”

“No, sir.”

“Now,” the major stepped forward and took the rider by his broken arm, “let’s talk about how they got away.” The major dragged the rider down the length of the trailer.

The limping caused him to lose a step to the major. The major responded by pulling harder on the arm.

“Tell me what happened.”

The rider bit back screams of pain, “The, the Winnebago was armored and there were guns everywhere.”

The pair stopped in front of the prison car. The dirty masses inside peered out through the slats of the former livestock hauler.

“I cannot allow failure in my command.” He twisted the rider’s arm at the wrist.