Thunder Road (6 page)

This group of people—who seemed to have added and lost a few members over time, but remained with the same core nucleus—had, like himself, been pillars of right. They were the kind of allies he sought.

More…The vision of the red hair floating in a nonexistent breeze stirred something within him. It was something new, something that he had never felt before.

He was determined. When he had completed maintenance and refueling, when he had rested himself, then he had to find them.

He had to find her.

T
HEIR FIRST INDICATION
that all was not well came with the burst of fire that seemed to erupt from nowhere, kicking up the sandy soil a few yards ahead of them. The horses reacted, moving erratically enough to throw off balance those who were in the back of the wag. It was as well that the horses had proved themselves calm to the point of stupidity under fire, otherwise Jak, currently at the reins, would have dropped them with a slug to each head. As it was, he was able to pull them around, giving those in the back the chance to find their feet and grab their weapons.

The burst of fire was followed by silence, the echo on the still air, mocking them. With the wag sideways-on to the direction the burst had come from, they lined up behind the shelter of the vehicle, just as they had when the mystery rider had skirted them. There was no other cover in this barren landscape.

“What do you reckon?” Ryan asked J.B.

The Armorer scanned the land between the wag and the horizon. Only the first few buildings on the edge of Station Browns ville broke the unrelenting flat.

“It didn’t sound like serious ordnance, or rip up much dirt. It had to have come from someplace between here and the buildings, some kind of hide or shelter. No way something that weak got that distance otherwise.”

Jak had been scanning the ground ahead of them, blotting out the conversation beside him. If there was anywhere they could hide, then he was determined to spot it. With no cover, it had to be some kind of dugout. Even the best-made hide would show somewhere against such a featureless surface.

It wasn’t well made, and it didn’t take him long to locate it.

“Ryan, there. Forty degrees,” he whispered, directing the one-eyed man’s gaze along a line prescribed by his bony white finger. Ryan followed and saw it immediately. Once you knew where it was, it was obvious: raised by the side of a cactus, dust-and dirt-covered canvas over a hole with a built-up ledge. Just enough of a slit between dirt and canvas to see out of, to direct a blaster.

Ryan beckoned Mildred and indicated the hide. “Just frighten the fucker out,” he said simply.

Mildred nodded and focused her aim. Her Czech-made ZKR was a specialist target pistol, and she had once been a specialist target shooter. This was simple. She placed three shots around the lip of the hide. One kicked up dust in the center, while the others knocked out the tiny supports that gave the hide its view of the world. With a puff of dust, the hide closed up.

“So we know where you are, you know where we are. We could have taken you out, but we didn’t want to. You come out, we won’t shoot. We aren’t your enemy…but we might know who is. We’re chasing a coldheart with a freaky motorcycle—”

“That fucker. Okay, I’ll trust you ’cause I’m pinned. Don’t let me down.”

The woman was an unlikely sec sniper. Dressed in a dirty camisole top, shorts and combat boots, long blond hair tied back, the large-busted and curvy young woman looked more like a gaudy slut who’d been given a blaster and thrown into the wrong job.

Showing good faith by holstering his SIG-Sauer and walking out into the open, Ryan prompted her to introduce herself.

“Name’s Anita. Long time since I hefted a blaster. More used to handling other kinds of weapons,” she said with a grin, “but I figure that we need all the skills we can get after what happened.”

“Which was?”

“Bastard you described…” Briefly, and with more cursing than even Jak would have thought possible, she outlined a situation similar to the one that went down in the last ville. By the time she had finished, the others had joined Ryan in front of the wag.

“So where the fuck do you fit into it?” Anita asked in what they had discovered to be her usual forthright manner.

Ryan told her briefly about their experiences, and about the pact they had made in the last ville.

“Should be glad we aren’t the only ones,” she said at the conclusion, “but then I wouldn’t wish that asshole on anyone. So I guess you’d better come on back with me, see if mebbe you can find out something else that would help.”

“You think there could be something?”

She shrugged. “Dunno. Can’t hurt to ask. ’Sides which, we’re pretty much on top of clearing up now. Weird fucker thought us girls were all prisoners. Didn’t touch any of us, just chilled all the men and blew up a lot of shit.”

“Where did a gaudy slut learn to shoot like that?” Krysty asked her.

The smile vanished. “My daddy.”

“He was a good shot?” Krysty prompted.

Anita sniffed. “Fucker wanted me to be mommy to my new little sister. Would have been if he’d got his hands on me. Sweetest shot I ever made, right through the bastard’s dick. Now, you gonna give me a ride back, or do I have to walk in front of that wag of yours?”

Doc gathered the horses and drove the wag into the ville, Anita sitting beside him to indicate that all was well. They made the short journey in silence, the friends gleaning what they could from the view out the back of the canvas wag cover.

There was little to see that wasn’t familiar to them. Station Browns ville was almost too small to have a center as such; rather, it had a few buildings that radiated from the hub, which was a cluster of about five buildings. It was difficult to tell, as they hadn’t been well-constructed, and the rider’s ordnance had wreaked more havoc here than the ville they had recently left.

The ville had looked fine from a distance: no smoking wreckage, and now they could see why. Any fires had long ago burned themselves out. The flattened center section of the ville was nothing more than rubble and corpses. Some of the gaudy sluts, incongruously still dressed for trade, were working to clear the corpses.

“How many of you are left, my dear?” Doc whispered.

“No more than fifteen, all women and girls. Every male, young or old, is chilled. Criminacs, or somethin’, that was what he called them.”

“Criminals, my dear. An old word, of no real meaning now.”

Anita sniffed. “Figure it must mean somethin’ if it makes him chill all our menfolk. That what he did where you come from?”

“Almost. A larger population, perhaps not enough time for him. We must find out all we can, I think, and quickly,” he said over his shoulder at Ryan.

The one-eyed man was in agreement. They had another two villes to get to. Chances were, on this evidence, that the coldheart rider had already paid them a visit. It was not a time to stand on ceremony.

Their approach had attracted the attention of those still left alive, and it was no problem for Anita to gather them together to explain who the strangers were and what they wanted. There was no shortage of information. What emerged was that the mystery rider’s visit to Station Browns ville followed the same pattern as the other event: ride in, speak of arcane things in a strange pattern, and when he didn’t get the reaction he wanted, he started firing—except that he refused this time to fire on any women, believing them to be innocents. As employees of the gaudy house, they weren’t allowed to carry blasters. A pity, as his leaving them alone would have given them a clear shot at him, and maybe avoided this destruction…and the destruction where they had come from, as it seemed that this attack had occurred before the one they had stumbled on.

The only other thing of note was that there was no sign of the napalmlike substance in this ville. Had he considered this ville too small to make that necessary, or was he limited by numbers as to how often he could use it? That question would only really be answered if they found the next ville had also been attacked.

There was little they could do to help here. The women had the situation as under control as was possible, and there was little medical help needed. The stark truth was that those who would buy the farm had already done so by this time.

There was little else they could do but leave, with the words of the gaudies ringing in their ears—pleas to wreak revenge.

It was when they were out on the empty expanse of desert once more that Krysty started to get that sense of being watched.

I
T WAS WITH A SINKING HEART
that they made the slow trek across the wastes to their next destination. The ville had been wiped out. No survivors.

But at least one important thing was evident at their last stop: this ville had been attacked in the time between the other two attacks, which meant that the rider wasn’t working his way around an arc, but was more likely to be at some point equidistant to all three villes.

Two down, one to go. They set off with a little more information, but not enough to reach any real conclusions. After a two-day drive across the desert and dustbowl, they found themselves with a ville that had been the first to be visited by the rider. Those that had been chilled had been disposed of. The infrastructure had been restored as much as was possible, and there had been no orange chem here. Again, the people talked of the rider’s strange language and undreamed-of ordnance. Their descriptions were sketchy, as had been those of the other villes, but they were enough to tell J.B. that the man had been using a limited range of weaponry so far. It didn’t mean he didn’t have a wider range available, but it did say much about his thought process.

They left the final ville on their arc with a little more information than when they had started, but not as much as Ryan would have wished.

“Not much good,” Jak commented tersely.

“On the contrary, dear boy, I would say that we have something that John Barrymore could work with,” Doc commented.

J.B. grimaced. “Okay, so if he starts from one point and attacks them, but not in any order of progression, then if we drew a line from the villes, we might get a central point, but only if the four villes form enough of an angle from which—”

“Yeah, okay, I get it—it won’t be accurate. But it would give us an area to start looking,” Ryan pointed out, “and that’s better than where we are now.”

“Mebbe,” J.B. breathed, “but you figured how big that area could be?”

Ryan sighed. “It’s about all we got right now.”

Jak exchanged a look with Krysty. “Ryan, head right direction, figure scum look for us. Knows where are,” the albino said.

“You sure of that?” Ryan questioned, dividing his gaze between them.

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure of that,” Krysty said with a shiver, her hair flicking around her shoulders nervously. “I don’t know where he’s hiding out there, with no cover, but he’s been watching us. All the while. I can feel it.”

Ryan nodded, almost to himself. “Okay. Let him bring it on, then. We plot a rough course, and we start out first thing. If that’s how it’s gonna be, let’s draw the bastard out.”

“I am on a line going thirty-three by seventeen. The fourth quadrant. They are at rest for the evening, operating a watch rotation system. They seem to be very lightly armed, which has surprised me given their reputation. However, I shall still use long-distance search and recover tactics, and take no chances. Further reports after operations commence, which should be at 0400 by my chronometer. Message ends.”

Thunder Rider flipped up the slim mike that came down from his goggles and adjusted the long-range infrared recon scope before lifting the eyepiece to his left eye. The darkness of the surrounding desert now became a relief in grays and greens. The figures and the wagon in the distance, barely visible by the naked eye even in the light, now came into sharp focus. He adjusted the range with the slightest touch of his index finger, and the figures grew larger in the scope. He could see that the small albino and the famed Armorer were on watch. The others were sleeping, clustered around the fire. The red-haired woman was close up against the one-eyed man. For a moment, Rider felt a twinge of something in his chest, and was baffled. He truly had no idea what bothered him, only that something did. No matter, it did not fit in with the plan.

The scope had a long-range directional mike attached. Thunder Rider activated the facility. The receiver was attached to a small speaker in the goggles, relaying directly to his ear all that could be heard from such a distance. Not that there was much. The old man and the black woman were snoring. The albino was silent, and prowled like a wolf ready to spring. He was the most immediate danger. Not relevant now, but a point worth noting. The Armorer was muttering softly to himself, possibly as an aid to concentration. It was almost inaudible, and certainly under his breath. Rider doubted that the others would be able to hear him. It was testament to the power of the recon equipment that he was able to discern this.

So: two on watch, the others sleeping. Reflex times would be reduced. They would, of course, know before the strike hit. In this silence, even the best of stealth weapons would be detected, certainly by the albino. Even with an advanced warning, there would be little they could do against the weaponry he chose to use. However, no one won a war without caution and care. Preparation, thinking ahead, and the ability to be flexible. It was easier to do this when training than out in the field, as he had discovered. There were aspects of his recent activities that needed review and improvement.

Nonetheless, that made him all the more determined to be precise in this operation. To get it right.

The chassis of the bike was made of a polycarbon fiber, surrounded by titanium supports. The polycarbon enabled the frame to be strong and lightweight, the titanium supports forming an exoskeleton over the top to which were attached the pods that contained equipment, and the holstering that held his ordnance.

Thunder Rider crouched over one of the pods, snapping it open. All of the pods were self-contained, ready to be attached and removed to the frame as necessary. Their interior design was specific to whatever they were carrying, enabling him a secure storage system for ordnance and equipment that could be easily changed on the bike at a moment’s notice, back at base. He had thought long and hard before preparation for this mission, and as he inspected the contents of the pod he had just opened, he had no regrets for his decisions.

He had chosen the recon equipment from the stores with care. Knowing the reputation of the people he was about to trail, he wished to ensure that he would not have to engage them in direct combat. He had a twofold purpose in this: the first was that he had no desire to fight those he would wish to make his allies. The second was that he was outnumbered by six-to-one: not odds that would bother him in the usual run of things—had not his missions to those small towns shown this?—but when he was against an adversary with such a reputation as this group, it would bode him well to show some caution.

His basic plan was to take the redheaded woman, show her the base and support systems, and discuss with her the basic philosophy of his mission. He felt sure that if he were to do this, then she would help him convert the others to his cause. There were other, stranger feelings that he could not explain coursing through him. He chose to ignore them for the moment.

He focused his mind on the task in hand. The recon equipment had served him well so far. He was pleased by that as it was the first time that he had been called upon to use this in an operational capacity, and it had proved as effective in the field as he had hoped. The night scope was augmented by a long-distance digital imager for use in daylight. Between them, these two devices had enabled him to keep a close watch on the group without going too close. Similarly, the long-range directional mike had helped him to try to understand what was going on in the dynamics of the group, the better to adapt his tactics to the situation. In truth, there were certain elements of this operation that were completely new to him, and as such he was treating this as an exercise that would make him a better operative in the future.

The recon equipment was one thing: what lay in the pod in front of him, nestled comfortably into its protective fittings, was another matter entirely. It consisted of a series of small polycarbon rods that fitted together to form a barrel of variable length. There were overlapping supporting rods to reinforce the barrel when assembled. A small, electronic sight and laser target finder sat within a soft protective base, ready to be switched on and attached. The battery unit powering the target finder had a half-life of five hundred years. A triggering mechanism was also comfortably fitted into the pod, ready to be attached and deployed.

Most important of all were the small black eggs that sat in a line, snugly arrayed in a rack fitted into soft material. From the computer files back at base, he knew that these had been derived from a prototype that had never been called into commission. The design had been perfect, but the costings had been deemed prohibitive at the time. The report on file had been sidetracked into a rant about the wastage in military spending. The gist of the report had, however, been clear: this was a highly effective weapon, to be used sparingly and with great caution.

Again, he took this to be a good thing. Not only would it achieve its purpose, but he would be learning as he progressed in the mission. Thunder Rider was always looking to be better.

Dismissing such thoughts from his mind, he set to assembling the weapon. Using the range and directional finder on the recon equipment to set the coordinates on the directional and firing unit, he attached it to the long barrel he had constructed. The trigger unit came next, and remembering what the files had advised about caution, he did not deploy it until he had taken one of the small black eggs and inserted it into the chamber that was formed within the now fully assembled weapon.

He turned to the direction of his target. From the files, he knew that the dispersal of the gas was rapid, and that its effect was virtually immediate. That would give them little to no time in which to deal with the attack.

The effects of the gas would last for several hours, which gave him more than enough time to disassemble the weapon, take the bike across the desert surface, check their status and take the redhead. He would have no need to hurry, which was good. Hurry was the mother of panic.

A wireless unit on the recon equipment would feed exact coordinates into the directional unit. One touch, and it was done. A shielded light on the directional unit blinked once, paused, then blinked twice. A signal that the information was received, processed and the weapon was primed for deployment.

All he had to do now was to attach the trigger unit and point the weapon in the right direction. He smiled to himself, thinking of some of the old videos he loved, and the difference between the quality of weaponry used by those heroes and by himself. What they could have achieved if…

He pursed his lips, shook his head firmly. This was not the time to enter into such a reverie. He attached and deployed the trigger unit. Another shielded light, blinking once, pausing, then twice. Ready.

He nestled the weapon into the hollow of his shoulder, setting himself, then put the eyepiece of the directional unit to his goggles. An infrared grid, switching automatically as it read the light levels, showed him the campfire and those gathered around it. On the periphery of the scope’s vision he could see the Armorer and the albino, pursuing their separate circuits. It was surprising how clustered together they were, really. The range of the gas once the egg had burst was such that it would touch them easily.

Flickering figures in one corner of the eyepiece recorded time and distance. Coordinates appeared, and it told him how long it would take for the grenade to reach the target area once fired. He set the crosshairs to one side of the campfire. For want of anything else, it seemed an obvious target point. He squeezed gently and the egg was expelled with a recoil that jolted at his shoulder.

It had taken him by surprise. It was, after all, the first time that he had fired this weapon. With an ordinary piece of ordnance he would be cursing the fact that his shot would now be off target. But he had the satisfaction of knowing that a laser directional beam had locked on to the coordinates and once the egg had been sent along this beam, the smart circuits in it would keep it on target.

He brought the weapon back in line, using the direction unit to see what was occurring. They were momentarily unaware, and then he could see the albino turn, could hear him yell through the mike link.

They had quick reactions, as he had expected. But not quick enough. With a small nod of satisfaction, he turned away and began to disassemble the weapon. Swiftly, but without hurry. He had the time, now.

J
AK WAS STARING
into the dark. He knew that the bastard was out there, it was just a matter of where. He could almost sniff his scent on the cold night air. But it was as if he was just beyond reach. Still, every fiber of his being was screaming triple red.

Red. Something had brought that phrase to mind, something seen from the corner of his eye and registered only on the most subconscious level. He turned and looked toward the fire, which was still burning bright enough to cause him to squint at the contrast in brightness. Not a contrast so great that he could not see what had registered in his mind. A small red dot on the sandy soil, almost invisible in the glow of the fire, just to one side of it. It was steady on the ground. A laser of some kind. A marker?

Every nerve in his body jangled, his stomach flipping as the first wave of adrenaline began to rush through him.

“J.B.! Look! Incoming—everyone…” he yelled, words coming out in a jumbled bark.

On the far side of the circle cast by the fire’s light, J.B. whirled and was heading toward the albino even before his Uzi had come to hand. He didn’t waste time with words. A quizzical glance, answered by Jak’s own gaze, was enough, directing him to the red dot on the ground.

“Pathfinder,” he whispered to himself, knowing as he did that their only chance was to move quickly out of the immediate area, then try to locate where the attack originated. To do anything else except run would be to ask how much jack the farm cost.

Both men, despite having weapons to hand by reflex, showed no concern with following the direction of the beam. That would have been fruitless, anyway. It was little more than a red dot, with no chance of ascertaining direction by the naked eye. No, the only thing to do that would be of any practical use would be to rouse the others, get them out before whatever was heading their way hit.

Jak’s shouts had already awakened them. Ryan and Krysty were bolt awake, on their way to being on their feet before his words had even died away. Mildred was a little slower, having been asleep longer and much deeper into her rest. She was bleary, but under the fog of sleep her reflexes were forcing her to the surface. She was stumbling to her feet even as she felt J.B.’s hand under her arm, lifting her as if she were no more than a feather, his wiry frame lent strength by urgency. She wasn’t too sure where she was, but every fiber of her being yelled danger, her own adrenaline rush forcing her back to full consciousness.

Doc was the only one who did not respond with the necessary urgency. The shouts, the pounding of feet on the soil and sand around the campfire, all of these served to bring him out of his slumbers. But it was a slack-jawed Doc, eyes open but blank and uncomprehending, who greeted the night. His sleep, as ever, had been disturbed by nightmare visions. Sleep was a necessary evil, where pale demons emerged from the recesses of his mind to torment him, to remind him of that which had tortured him, of that which he had lost. On waking, he was never sure if it was still part of a dream or whether it was little more than an extension of the hellish vagaries of his own mind.

“Doc,” Mildred blurted, sleep clearing from her eyes, mind racing, catching sight of the disoriented man. She stumbled toward him, pulling at his arm to try to lever him up. He yelled incoherently, pulling himself away and stumbling from his half-standing position so that he sprawled back on the ground, raising a cloud of dust.

“Jak—” Ryan barked. The albino knew the one-eyed man’s query before he even voiced it, and pointed to the red dot.

“Coming fast,” he added, indicating to his rear.

With a speed far in excess of the time it would take to voice such thoughts, Ryan realized that whatever it was that was coming for them, it would be locked onto the laser dot, and it would be quick. It had to be from a great distance, otherwise they would have seen their tracker—for he had no doubt that whatever it was, the source was the mystery rider—but it was likely to be traveling at great speed.