Axler, James - Deathlands 63 - Devil Riders Page 22
Eight huge tires supported the APC, the armor a mottle of tans and creams, perfect camou for the desert. The hull was covered with closed blaster ports and hatches, with a big bore .50-cal sitting on top, a glistening link of oiled brass dangling from the breech.
"That's our ride out of here," he said triumphantly.
Gaza looked upon the vehicle with pride. He had found the war wag in a cave stuffed full of supplies, obviously some trader's secret cache. It had taken months of work to get it working again, and then after taking everything he could fit inside the vehicle, Gaza rigged the rest of the supplies to blow so that nobody could use the weaponry against him. He was miles away when the cave detonated, and upon reaching Rockpoint had proclaimed himself baron. The former baron had objected and got blown to hell for his troubles. What did bravery amount to against steel and blasters? Damn fool should have known better.
Going to the rear of the APC, Gaza checked a wax seal on the double doors to make sure nobody had entered the transport. When he was satisfied it hadn't been disturbed, he smashed the seal and shoved aside the doors with the squeal of stubborn metal.
"Inside!" he snapped, clambering into the darkness. "I'm leaving whether you bitches come with me or not!"
Hurriedly, the women scrambled into the APC and figured out how to latch the double doors shut just as there came a roar of power from under the floor and the vehicle lurched forward. Suddenly the interior was filled with white electric lights and they grabbed seats along the metal walls. The blinking lights of electronic equipment winked from racks above them, but the women ignored the display and fumbled to open some blaster ports, shoving through the barrels of their rapidfires.
Throwing the wag into gear, Gaza fed the big diesel engine's fuel and worked the steering levers to angle around the school bus, the sides of the LAV-25 APC squealing as its armored chassis scraped along the rusted pile of wrecks forming the slanted walls. Once past the bus, he stayed in the middle of the tunnel, easily jouncing over the pit and hardly flinching when the engine block slammed into the side of the military war wag, the strident impact making the steel hull loudly ring and rattle the bins of linked ammo.
A curtain of water blocked the end of the tunnel, and Gaza hit the gas as the APC roared from its hidden garage and onto the flooded streets. Water sprayed high behind the LAV-25 from the spinning tires, as Gaza directed the war wag directly into the crowds of people, plowing through the bodies as if they were no more than weeds. Needing both hands to drive, the baron could only laugh as the terrified people tried to splash out of the way and were crushed beneath the thick military tires. Galloping around the side of the temple, a group of sec men on horses charged at the wag, and Gaza surged through the center of the group, fishtailing the APC to smack them aside with crushing force. The sec men still alive fought to control their animals, and that was when the women cut loose with their rapidfires through the blaster ports, the barrage of small caliber rounds finishing the job.
Dripping blood and entrails, the APC rolled through the downpour as the awnings ripped free, cascading down their accumulation of water. For a moment, Gaza was blind, and that was when from out of nowhere a Molotov crashed on top of the APC in an explosion of fire. But the deluge from the geyser quickly quenched the flames, and his wives retaliated with bursts of blasterfire.
Heading for the front gate, Gaza careened off the corner of a building, running down several people, their screams continuing to come from below the war wag but only for a few brief moments. Another Molotov hit the vehicle's front prow, and as the flames licked into the wag through the air vents, Gaza frantically drove into an alleyway to dodge any further firebombs. But unexpectedly, there was no end to the alley, a wide breach going all the way through the thick outer wall.
Suspicious as hell, the baron scowled at the sight. Could this be some sort of a trick? No, there had been no time for the sec men to arrange for such an elaborate trap. This had to be how the outlanders got out of the ville. Excellent.
Revving the big diesel engine, the baron charged down the alleyway and roared through the crumbling gap, the APC riding rough over the irregular chunks of masonry, dead horses and sec men. More blasterfire came from the top of the wall, and then Gaza was outside the ville on flat ground. Throwing the war wag into high gear, the baron raced across the desert sand into the night, and soon even the sporadic sniper fire died away into the distance.
Easing off the bolt on her rapidfire, Delia rose from her chair and awkwardly walked to the front of the APC to touch her husband on the shoulder.
"Yes, I have a plan. There are some ruins to the north," Gaza replied to the unspoken question, then paused for a moment as the badly stitched wound on his throat began to bleed slightly. He mopped away the blood and continued. "We'll hide there for a while and then move on to New Mex. I know of some villes there could use a strong baron."
Holding on to a ceiling stanchion, Delia frowned and made a gesture with a fist.
"Yes, they have contact with the Trader," Gaza answered angrily. "But that homemade war wag of his can't possibly stand against us! Soon I'll be the Trader, and then I'll carve out an empire the likes of which nobody has ever seen before!"
The woman nodded in acceptance and carefully walked back to join the other wives. She had total faith in her husband.
Checking her blaster, Delia stood guard at the rear blaster port, while Kathleen went to the front to ride shotgun, and the remaining women began checking over the hastily gathered supplies, each obviously content to do whatever was needed for the man they loved.
SLUGGISHLY, HAWK awoke into a world of searing pain. For a single chaotic moment, the sec chief thought he was still falling, then abruptly realized he was merely laying in a soft bed, his chest and left arm swaddled in bloody bandages.
"He's alive!" a sec man shouted across the room, and others rushed closer to crowd around the wounded man.
Hawk grunted at their presence and tried to stand, but strong hands forced him back down onto the mattress.
"Easy, sir, don't tear open that stitching," a sergeant said. "We found the dead wrinklie who shot you, and his body has been thrown to the pigs."
The events replayed themselves in Hawk's mind, and he decided to accept the lie. "Where's Gaza?" he croaked weakly.
The faces in the room took on dark expressions.
"The nuking bastard ran away when the temple exploded!" a sec man cursed, tightening a hand on his gun belt. "There was some sort of well underground. We have a flood in the ville!"
Another sec man added, "Most of the buildings are melting."
Hawk understood. Yes, of course, sun dried adobe mud bricks. He should have thought of that event.
"So how bad am I?" he asked with false calm. Death wounds often hurt less than minor scrapes.
The sec man serving as a healer snorted at that. "Merely flesh wounds, sir. The lead went clean through without hitting anything vital."
So the slug had missed anything vital and he would live. Good. Gaza was going to die for that mistake.
"Get me a horse." Hawk groaned as he swung his boots to the floor and painfully sat upright. The barracks spun for a minute, then settled into place once more.
"The ville is dead," he continued. "Raid the armory and take every weapon. We ride tonight!"
"But your wounds…" a sec man said, frowning.
Baring his teeth, Hawk stood by a sheer effort of will. "Fuck them! I want both Gaza and those outlanders chilled by dawn!" he shot back angrily.
Miles away in the desert, Ryan and the rest of the companions steadily rode on into the night. Ahead of them lay endless miles. At the end of their journey, hopefully, they'd encounter the mysterious person who just might be the Trader.