Eden’s Twilight (29 page)

Long before the fires were completely extinguished in the barrier forest, the steam truck
Thunder
crashed into the charred branches, smashing them aside to create a path for the other wags. In tight formation, the LVTP-7
Roadhog
came next, closely followed by the speedy little delivery vans, the halogen headlights throwing out overlapping cones of bright illumination.

Rolling through a wide cornfield, the steam truck reached the city wall without incident and stopped just short of touching the paved road encircling the ville.

“Strange,” Pete muttered, fingering the leather brace supporting his neck. “You would think the sec men would be firing at us by now.”

“Mebbe they're all chilled,” Helga guessed. “That boiling rain must have aced anybody out in the open.”

“Possible, but I strongly dislike coincidences,” Pete said uneasily. He turned to address the doomie, but the child was crooning softly to himself, rocking back and forth, lost in the secret world of his mind. Bah, blasted freak was useless half of the time, and more cryptic than a Chinese VCR manual the other half. He really should have aced him years ago.

“All right, let's circle the place and find the gate,” Pete directed, edging forward in his chair. “Have
Thunder
and the vans go left, we'll go to the right. Whoever finds the gate, radio the others before trying to gain control!” Who knows? Maybe he could take the place intact and use it as his new base, rather
than merely looting the tech and hauling it hundreds of miles to his home outside Saint Louie.

“What about the CeeGee launchers?” Helga asked, trying not to sound disappointed. She had really been looking forward to blasting down the wall. There was a funny sensation inside her mind, almost as if she could see something…somebody around the corner. There was a murky impression of red hair blowing in the wind, but nothing more.

“Keep them ready in case Roberto made it across the Mud Lake,” the little trader commanded with a sneer. “But with any luck, he's in the belly of a kraken by now.”

“Along with the triple-cursed lass!”

As Helga issued the orders into a mike, the five wags quickly separated and took off in different directions.

 

E
XITING FROM THE DRIPPING
brick kiosk, the companions stumbled along the wall, the granite slippery with small puddles, the dense air heavy with moisture and difficult to breathe. Their ears still rang slightly from the stentorian keen of the steam explosion.

The top of the barrier had been cleared of everything: corpses, blasters, brass and blood, and most of the barbed wire along the western side of the wall was gone, the tangled strands ripped free from their insulated moorings. However, the ville below was strewed with bodies, norms, horses and dogs, the sagging trees dripping water, the shiny streets misty with steam. Every torch and oil lantern had been extinguished, only the electric streetlights were still functioning, the stark white glow harshly displaying the stark desolation. Cascade was a city of the dead.

Nothing was moving for as far as the companions could see, aside from rivulets of water flowing into the storm gratings of the street. The scattered fires were extinguished, dark smoke rising upward to merge with the starry sky. Then dozens of doors slammed open in the houses and stores, and
out poured armed townsfolk. They milled around aimlessly at first, unsure of what to do or where to go. Then the mob surged toward the ville square, converging upon the gazebo like iron filings drawn to a powerful magnet. A stocky woman took the wet stage and began to shout orders too faint to hear from atop the wall. But the crowd took heart and rushed to obey. First, the dead were checked for ammo and grens, then every vehicle was started and driven to the massive southern gate to form a curved line in front of the portal. More cars were added, along with Jeeps, trucks and, oddly, bales of hay, until there was a wide span solidly blocking the main street. Then the civies took defensive positions behind the makeshift barricade and waited for the coming invaders.

“That isn't even going to slow down Pete,” Mildred stated with conviction, thumbing fresh rounds into the side port of the Winchester.

“Don't think it'll have to,” Ryan replied, pointing with the M-16 rapidfire. “Look there!”

A large group of people stood at the iron gate of the bunker, the golden hair of Jessica Colt visible even from this great distance.

“Jak must have told them how to find that trick door!” J.B. realized in unabashed delight. “It's nice to have reinforcements, but I'm not really sure how fifty more folks on foot are going to stop war wags.” Squinting, the Armorer rummaged in the munitions bag for the navy telescope. “Are they carrying bazookas?”

“Don't need them,” Ryan said confidently.

Studying the rough granite exterior of the foothills, Jessica spoke into a radio, then directed the others to take cover. A few seconds later the face of the rock violently exploded outward, and War Wag One rolled through the jagged opening, the rocket pod trailing smoke. It was closely followed by the UCV and
Big Joe.

“War Wag Two is still alive?” Mildred gasped. “Excellent!”

“Thought so,” Ryan said, almost grinning. “Option sixteen, my ass. No trader ever gives up without a fight.”

“This will help a lot,” Krysty said tersely. “But without the laser to even the odds Roberto is in for a hell of a fight.”

“No problem there,” J.B. stated, taking a small leather pouch from his bag. “I found this in the safe of the sheriff's office.” He pulled on the drawstrings and opened the pouch. “These are the diamonds that Yates stole.”

“Superlative, John Barrymore!” Doc cried, then scowled. “But however can we get these to him? It's a thirty-foot drop to the ground, and impossible to get through the ville and the gate.”

“We can check the kiosks for some rope,” Mildred said, starting back inside at a run.

“Don't worry about it, Millie!” J.B. stated confidently. “See here on the pouch? It's marked ‘War Wag One.'”

“So what?” Krysty asked with a frown. “Isn't that the pouch taken from War Wag One?”

J.B. smiled. “Yep, sure is!”

“But then…oh.”

“But then why would it be marked that way,” Mildred said slowly, comprehension brightening her face. “Unless there were more diamonds in the other wags!”

“Only a fool keeps all of his brass in one pocket,” Ryan stated, resting the Steyr on a shoulder. “Especially for something as important as a can opener.”

“By Gadfrey, the man said that we would never know all of his secrets,” Doc said in dark admiration. “And it seems that Roberto is a man of infinite resources.”

“Traders are trickier than a bent-dick dog,” J.B. added, tucking away the pouch.

“However, knowing Pete, it's still a long way from a fair fight,” Krysty declared uneasily. There was something in the wind that she didn't like. A disquieting feeling of being watched by unseen eyes.

“Mebbe we can do something about that,” Ryan said, unlimbering the rapidfire. “J.B. and Mildred, go left, find some more LAW rockets in the other kiosks. Doc and Krysty with me! The last thing either Roberto or Pete will expect is help from the sec men of Cascade.”

“Let us away!” Doc shouted as a war cry, and everybody took off at a full run.

Staying off the dirt path and safely in the field of corn, the convoy of wags crushed a wide path through the plants until reaching the paved road, then they paused, and headed in different directions, the UCV and
Big Joe
going left, War Wag One heading to the right.

Glancing across the ville, Ryan wondered if Pete was doing the same thing, then dismissed the matter and concentrated on finding some rocket launchers. There was movement in the first kiosk they came to, so the three companions used the M-16 rapidfires through the small blasterports. Men cried out from inside, and kicking down the door Ryan found only dying norms and a crate of grens. Both of those were useless at the moment. There was a radio near a blasterport, but it was soaked and only gave off sputtering crackles.

Inside their first kiosk, J.B. and Mildred came upon a.50-caliber machine gun and some twitching corpses. The Fifty was too heavy for just two people to carry, so they left it behind and kept going.

Down in the cornfield, the UCV and the
Big Joe
turned the corner of the wall and instantly launched missiles at the distant headlights of the huffing
Thunder.
The steam truck promptly responded in kind, and fiery warbirds lanced through the darkness, machine-gun fire chattering nonstop from all of the wags. The missiles detonated harmlessly in the air, and now the wags turned off their headlights and revved their engines to race across the cropland, heading toward the enemy.

Unexpectedly, a group of Cascade outriders stood in the corn carrying the lumpy canvas bag of a U.S. Army satchel
charge, a sizzling fuse dangling from the side. As the UCV headed directly for the people to run them over,
Big Joe
unleashed a flamethrower and the deputies were engulfed in the arching spray of burning fuel. Swiftly, the urban combat vehicle darted away from them, and the satchel charge violently detonated, throwing arms and legs toward the stars and flattening the rows of cornstalks for a dozen yards.

On the other side of Cascade, the door to the next kiosk was suspiciously ajar, and Ryan had the others stop outside. He tossed in a gren with the safety tape and arming pin still securely in place. There came a startled cry, and then the sound of running boots. Hosing the interior of the kiosk with their rapidfires, the three companions cleared out the ambush, then checked for any LAWS. They found two lying near the blasterports, the plastic tubes riddled with ricochets.

Continuing along the wall, Ryan and the others reached the corner just in time to see an outrider astride a horse launch a LAW rocket at War Wag One. Instantly, Roberto responded with a dozen machine guns. The rocket exploded in midair, then the outrider and her horse were torn apart by the hammering streams of copper-jacketed lead.

Just then,
Roadhog
came into view from around the distant corner. There was barely a tick of the clock before both war wags cut loose with everything they had—missiles, rockets, blasters and flamethrowers. The cornfield erupted into violent warfare.

With the radar still down, Roberto had to aim by sight alone. Again and again, the shimmering laser stabbed out, but each time it missed
Roadhog,
and only burned a deep groove along the granite wall.

The driver turned off its headlights, and dark smoke began to gush from the squat machine attached to the rear of the LVTP-7. Forty millimeter gren launchers started pumping out fat canisters that landed among the rustling plants only to issue volumes of additional smoke in a variety of colors.

Once more, War Wag One tried the laser, but if it hit anything it was impossible to say. In only moments, the cornfield was a roiling cloud bank, the thick chemical fumes merging with the West Virginia night until it was impossible to see anything more than a few feet away.

Farther down the wall, a powerful searchlight began to sweep the field, the beam dimly piercing the cloud bank and highlighting War Wag One. Promptly,
Roadhog
launched a salvo of homemade rockets, and Roberto lurched his wag into reverse, moving deeper into the swirling smoke. Firing in unison, Ryan, Krysty and Doc aimed their weapons at the searchlight until there was the sound of shattering glass and the darkness returned.

Briefly the machine guns of both war wags chattered away, the stuttering flames strobing the misty gloom. Then the traders stopped shooting, and there was only the sound of cornstalks snapping and crunching under the armored transports as they blindly searched for the reclusive enemy.

Ducking inside a brick guard kiosk, J.B. and Mildred found several moaning deputies lying on the wet floor, their hands and faces covered with pulsating blisters. While J.B. grabbed a bandolier of 40 mm shells off a particularly large deputy, Mildred paused for only a moment to look down at the wounded men. She placed a bottle of soothing calamine lotion taken from the sheriff's office into the groping hand of one, forced herself to step past them to check the closet and was rewarded with a brace of LAW rocket launchers.

Rushing outside, the man and woman unleashed their weapons at the colossal
Thunder.
But both the 40 mm grenades and the 66 mm rockets failed completely to penetrate the massive armor of the lumbering steam truck.

Unexpectedly, there was a rebel yell from the loudspeakers on top of the urban combat vehicle, and Jak revved the tandem engines to charge toward a delivery van. The civilian wag tried to escape, the people inside firing a variety of predark and homemade blasters, but it accomplished nothing. The steel fork of the UCV slammed into the sheet-metal chassis, skewering it like a fish. Still in motion, Jak cycled the fork upward and behind until the crumpled van full of screaming men fell off, landed with a crash and rolled through the cornfield gushing blood.

Sounding their whistle, the crew of
Thunder
headed straight for the UCV, grimly intent on a fast chill, their machine guns chattering nonstop. However, the rounds only ricocheted off the composite armor of the predark fighting vehicle. Easily outdistancing the steam truck, Jak destroyed the second delivery van and chased the third directly into the guns of
Big Joe.
Freed from the distraction of the vans, the UCV and the
Big Joe
started circling
Thunder,
raking the sides with machine-gun fire. The huge steam truck fired two more rockets, but then stopped, its small stockpile depleted.

“Dark night, they were trying to do that!” J.B. cried. “Most
of the space in a locomotive is taken up by cords of wood to fuel the engine. The damn thing is finally out of rockets!”

“They still have plenty of brass,” Mildred said, tracking the big machine with the LAW. “And if all else fails it can simply ram the UCV and smash it like an empty can.”

“The bastards gotta catch him first!” J.B. replied, firing a long burst from the M-16 at the steam-powered monster, then pumping a 40 mm gren at the smoking flue. Amazingly it hit the small opening perfectly, but bounced off, the flue well protected by a wire screen.

Deciding to try for the wheels, Mildred aimed the LAW, but heard shuffling boots from behind and looked backward to see the horribly blistered deputies lurching out of the kiosk, their faces smeared with the pinkish lotion and shaking hands holding blasters and knives. Grimly the physician turned the aft end of the LAW toward the men and pressed the launch button.

In a loud exhalation, the military rocket streaked away into the night, heading for the distant Blue Ridge Mountains, but from the aft the fiery exhaust tore off arms and legs and sent the tattered bodies sailing away into the ville below, tumbling and turning like broken ragdolls. Only a single deputy somehow managed to stay on the wall, his blaster gone, his hair on fire, bones showing through his burning uniform, a broken leg caught in the doorway of the kiosk.

Casting away the spent tube, Mildred drew her ZKR target revolver and mercifully dispatched the poor bastard as J.B. turned away from the slaughter to begin firing the M-16 combo again at the apparently unstoppable
Thunder.
On a hunch, J.B. blew up a water pump, sending a frothy column of cool water shooting into the air. But if the cold deluge affected the hot engine of
Thunder
in any way, it wasn't readily apparent.

Lowering the fork until it was nearly touching the ground, Jak spun the UCV crazily, then charged for the steam truck.

“What in blazes is he doing!” J.B. demanded over the chat
tering rapidfire. “Jak can't dent that steam truck, it must weight a hundred times more than the UCV!”

“That's not the plan!” Mildred growled, firing steadily at
Thunder'
s viewports. Briefly, she remembered her elementary-school Archimedes and wished the young man luck. He was going to need it.

Machine guns rattled at the urban combat vehicle and shotguns boomed, a 12-gauge deer slug slamming so deep into the Lexan windshield that Jak could actually see the metal tip. Crouching low, the teenager fishtailed away from the blazing guns and slammed into the side of
Thunder.
Only skimming the ground, the fork went under the thick armor and stabbed three of the military tires, deflating them instantly. Twisting the steering wheel and braking sharply, Jak managed to rip the tires completely off, the spinning steel rims now several feet off the cropland.

Charging back into the night, Jak cycled the fork behind the UCV to rub the tires off the fork, then lowered it to the former position and hit the massive steam truck again, this time taking away only two tires. However, the overweight
Thunder
was starting to list and it slowed considerably.

Encouraged, Scott swung
Big Joe
far around the two combatants, then charged in from the right, just as Jak successfully stole one more tire. Moving at its maximum speed, the armored Mack truck hit the locomotive in a deafening crash of metal on metal, headlights shattering, Plexiglas cracking and men screaming.

The vehicle tilting dangerously to the side, the driver tried desperately to correct the angle, the steam engine hammering to full power. As stubborn as a bulldog, the big Mack truck stubbornly clung to the job, loose dirt and cornstalks flying out from under the spinning tires. Then from out of the darkness, the UCV also rammed into the steam truck right alongside
Big Joe,
the fork raised as high as it could go. The tine bent against the thick armor, but the impact proved to be
the final straw. In slow majesty, the colossal
Thunder
leaned over to crash onto the corn, inertia forcing the huffing engine onward, plowing up a mountain of dirt as steam began erupting from a hundred cracked and distorted pipes.

Speeding away from the toppled giant, Jak raced for cover as
Big Joe
swung around fast and launched its last missile straight down the smoking flue. The warbird busted through the protective screen as if it were gossamer and disappeared down the fiery gullet of the steam truck. A split second later,
Thunder
violently exploded from within, steam, fire, smoke and engine parts spraying across the bedraggled cornfield in a deafening display of destruction.

But even before the concussion faded, the UCV and
Big Joe
reached the paved road and were racing around the ville, with J.B. and Mildred dashing along the wall in hot pursuit. Four down left only one to go. Specifically, Broke-Neck Pete in his unstoppable juggernaut,
Roadhog.