Thunder Road (7 page)

So if it was locked onto the dot, then they needed to get as far away from that bastard red mark as possible. He knew that Krysty, Jak, J.B. and himself stood a chance if they set off at a run, but he could also see that Doc was still on the ground, and Mildred was slowed by her efforts to aid him. Run, or go to her assistance. There wasn’t time to think about the choice, just act. He took a step toward Mildred and Doc, could see that J.B. was doing the same.

The gas egg wasn’t visible in the darkness until the last moment. As it entered the ring of light cast by the fire, its dark shape was thrown into relief. Even then, it was hard to track as the speed at which it descended made it little more than a blur. It was audible from farther out, a high, whistling scream in the air as it was propelled at great speed toward its target. In what seemed like time slowed to an almost infinitesimal degree, all who turned their gaze could see the egg fall toward the red dot on the ground, the smart circuit in the gren making it follow the perfect arc to land and impact. It seemed to slow from its great speed until it was almost possible to see the rotation in flight that guided its direction. It fell toward the red dot with an inevitability and slowness that made Ryan feel that he could dive across the sandy soil between his feet and the red dot and pluck the gren out of the air, stopping it from hitting the earth and exploding, letting out whatever lethal load it may carry.

The one-eyed man tried to carry the thought through, forcing his sluggish limbs to move, feeling his muscles tense and wobble as though pushing against quicksand rather than air. In a flash of insight that was faster than real time, he realized that it was only normal air resistance that he felt, that, in truth, his danger-honed mind was trying to make him move faster than was humanly possible.

It had to have been imagination or hallucination, but he was almost sure that he saw the gren take one final wobbling turn in the air before hitting the sand. Felt sure that he saw the puff of dust raised by impact before the gren splintered into a thousand pieces, unleashing the payload. He flinched, squinting his good eye for fear of flying metal.

But it was no frag gren. A puff of smoke—or so it seemed—was all that issued forth, a white that shone incandescent against the red glow of the fire before spreading and dissipating into a mist that seemed to fade and die before it reached Ryan.

He was aware of a numbing that spread from his chest outwards, and a faint smell, sweet but with a bitterness underlying it. The two were connected, he knew, but it was hard to work out how, hard to work out why he should be bothering to ponder this, hard to…

He could breathe still, but everything else was becoming numb. His chest felt empty yet heavy at the same time. His shoulders were reduced to lumps of flesh with no movement, the numbness spread down his arms as though carried in his veins, trickling into his fingers, down to the very tips. He could feel the same happening in his legs, the lack of feeling spreading down to his groin and then down each leg, knees buckling as the muscles supporting them went dead.

Ryan felt himself tumble as his balance was unable to account for the lack of feeling and support from his body. He could not control the fall. He teetered, then pitched forward, landing full-length with a thud on the densely packed, sandy soil with a reverberation that seemed to resonate through his frame. He could sense this, and yet not feel it, almost as though he was detached from himself.

He could see nothing. The light from the fire was too slight, the ground in front of him too close to his face. He could hear little else but the crackle of the fire. Then, in the distance, approaching at speed and growing louder with every breath he took, the sound of a motorcycle engine.

Somewhere, deep in the recesses of a momentarily clouded mind, he knew that the gren had contained some kind of nerve gas. He had heard of such predark relics, had on occasion witnessed examples of them that had chilled on contact.

He hated being at the mercy of whoever—the mystery rider, he guessed—had fired the gren. The coldheart bastard could do anything he wanted to them, and they could not fight back.

Although Ryan could see nothing, falling as he had, there were others who had a better view of what was about to occur. Doc had fallen onto his back, staring up at the night sky, uncomprehending. No sooner had he managed to focus in some manner and realize where he was than the paralysis had hit him. It bewildered him as he had still been too befuddled to notice the gren. He was only aware of the numbness, the inability to raise himself up as he fell backward, and of the fact that he was flat to the ground without feeling it beneath him. As though he were floating above it, just hovering, and yet unable to move through any direction. In this state of disconnection, he heard the engine’s roar as the sound of his own approaching doom. Tears prickled at his eyes.

The vagaries of Doc’s imagination were as far away from what went through the head of Mildred Wyeth as it was possible to get. Caught trying to help the old man to his feet, Mildred had seen the gren impact from the periphery of her vision, and the first scent that hit her had told her that it was some kind of nerve gas. She tried to hold her breath for a second, then realized that it would probably be able to absorb through the skin, and so holding her breath was useless. She exhaled heavily as the first wave of numbness began to spread. For some reason that she could not explain, it seemed to take hold on her left side first, dragging her in that direction so that she toppled on her side. Her vision was partly obscured by the plaits that fell across her face, but in the far distance she could see a shape move across the landscape in sync with the sound of an engine. It was just beyond the circle of light cast by the fire, but as she lay immobile, wondering if she was going to be conscious and helpless at the moment of her death, she saw that it was the mystery rider. Something told her that their chilling was not on his mind…which led her to question what, then, his purpose could be in doing this.

J.B. and Jak were, in their own ways, cold and dark with impotent rage at what had happened. It was their watch, and they had failed. More than that, they were both now on the ground, twisted at odd angles because of the speed with which the gas had taken effect while they tried to rally the group, both struck down within yards of each other. J.B. could see Jak’s legs, above his head now that he was horizontal. Both could see the bike approach, and cursed the mystery rider. Coldheart bastard could do what the hell he liked with them and they would be unable to take revenge or even put up a fight.

The motorcycle ate up the distance. Thunder Rider had carefully dismantled the grenade launcher, packing it away in the pod and securing it. The surveillance equipment he had also packed away. The nerve gas was such that he knew there would be no further need for it. As he’d mounted the bike and kicked the starter, feeling the powerful engine rev up beneath him, he’d known that he had turned a corner in his fight for justice. He would have one ally before the night was through. He would take her back to base, show her the extent of his operation, persuade her that his fight was her fight.

How could she not be won over by his persuasive arguments? She would obviously want to join in his fight, and stay by his side.

Strange. He had not really considered that before. Not seriously. But the more he considered it, the more obvious it became. Of course she would persuade her companions that it would be in their best interests to form an alliance with Thunder Rider, and to use their knowledge and ability along with his technology in the fight to bring justice back to the land. But why, then, would she want to rejoin them when she could be at his side, his partner…He felt the surge of the engine between his thighs and a tingle of excitement ran through him. The beginnings of a dynasty of crime fighters, perhaps?

No. It was too soon to think of that. To think of anything at all, other than the matter in hand, was inadvisable. If there was one thing that he had learned in the short time since his mission began, it was that his ability to stay focused was in need of honing.

No. It was too soon.

He shook his head to clear his mind, looked ahead of him. Through the infrared of the goggles he could see that the nerve gas had taken effect. The six members of the group were arrayed around the fire, twisted into contorted positions, trapped by the gas in the attitudes in which they had fallen. As he neared them, he could see that the albino and the Armorer were closest. Their eyes were open, and even at this distance he felt sure he could see the hostility in their glares.

He couldn’t blame them. In their position he would have felt exactly the same. The only thing he could do was to hope that when they saw the complete picture, they would understand that it had to be this way.

He slowed the bike, steering its thick tired wheels between them. Farther on, he could see the black woman and the old man. The one-eyed man—named Ryan Cawdor if intel reports were correct—was just to one side of them. He was facedown…could be dangerous. Thunder Rider could not let this man perish in such an ignominious manner. He would attend to it shortly.

But first, his eyes sought his prey…

There she was, on her back, staring at the night sky. He walked over to her, leaned over and looked into her eyes, seeing only incomprehension by the light of the campfire, not fear. That he would have expected, in such a situation. Good. It showed her toughness.

Leaving her for a second, he went over to where the one-eyed man lay on his front, face in danger of being buried in the sand by its own weight. Thunder Rider leaned over him, grasped him firmly by the shoulders and heaved him over onto his back. The man was no fool. He should realize that Rider was saving him. Not that he would expect him to be grateful. No, he would still be angry. But perhaps he would wonder why Thunder Rider had done this, and it would give him pause for thought.

Thunder Rider was surprised by the feel of the man’s body as he turned him. The skin of his arms was leathery, the muscle and sinew beneath the clothing was hard and compact. So different to Thunder Rider. He had trained hard, or so he’d thought. Yet compared to this man he was soft and flabby. That was something he would have to attend to, and soon. A bout of more rigorous training in the gym would be in order.

As Ryan Cawdor fell onto his back, his single orb glared up into Thunder Rider’s face. Despite his own righteousness, Thunder Rider was for a moment glad that he was wearing goggles and that Cawdor could not see into his own eyes. For the single orb held such barely contained fury, such malevolence and anger, such desire for revenge, that it sent a shiver down his spine. A small, quavering voice at the back of his mind told him that this man would take much in the way of placating and explanation before he would understand the mission, or even be willing to understand.

He left the one-eyed man staring malevolently up at him. Backing away, wondering if it would be of any use to offer placating words, he opted to deal with the real reason for his actions. She lay, still breathing with a gasping shallowness, a few yards away.

He had to collect her and take her before the others began to recover movement. Without a word, he leaned over and gathered her inert frame in his arms, lifting her effortlessly off the surface of the desert. She was lighter than he had expected, although in part her body was as hard and toned as Ryan Cawdor’s. Other parts of it were softer, and this was a sensation that he found appealing. For a moment, it almost distracted him again.

He looked down into her face as he lifted her, and could see confusion writ large in her expression. Perhaps it was time to offer a few words of comfort. He spoke, keeping his voice low for now.

“There is nothing for you to fear, Krysty Wroth. Yes, I know your name. I know who you are. I know who your companions are. I have a mission for you. One that I think I share with all of you. But I am only just come into this world, and so have no alliances. I want you to be one of those alliances that I seek, but I would understand your mistrust. The weeds of crime and injustice grow rank on the surface of this world. Their fruits are bitter for those who taste them. Together, you and I—and those who are your fellow travelers—could make a difference. But I know that you would not trust me without proof. And I know that you would not give me the chance to prove myself of your own free will. I understand this. So I have been forced to adopt measures that may seem to you to be intrusive and villainous. For this I can only apologize, and hope that you will soon come to understand the reasons for my actions.”

Saying no more, Thunder Rider carried her over to his bike. Her form was inert, but with a slight stiffness and inability to bend, her muscles tautened in paralysis by the effects of the nerve gas. So it was with slightly more difficulty than he had anticipated that he maneuvered her onto the pillion of the bike, using synthetic fiber ropes to secure her in an upright position, using her own inertia and balance against her.

Feeling slightly more awkward than he would have wished, he turned away when he had finished and, raising his voice slightly, addressed the others as they lay motionless. It seemed strange to talk to people who were so apparently unresponsive, even though he knew that they could understand his every word.

“People, I regret the measures that I have had to take. And I apologize for the seeming abduction of your companion. I realize that this may seem to be an act of hostility, but I hope that in the long term you will understand my reasons for acting as I have, and will realize the necessity if my aims and plans are to be implemented swiftly.

“Although you are all currently immobilized, and have been for the past hour or so, the effects will begin to wear off after a maximum of three hours. By this time, I will be too far away for you to trail me. Rest assured that I will contact you when I—and Krysty—are ready. You will experience no ill-effects from the gas, and will be able to move and act normally within a very short while.

“I will leave you now. Krysty is in no danger. Nor are you. I hope, I say again, that you will understand shortly why this was necessary.”

Without pause, feeling that he had said all that he could, Thunder Rider turned and mounted his machine. Tying Krysty’s arms around him, for extra balance, he kicked the engine into life and slowly piloted the machine out of the fire’s glow and into the darkness of the desert night.

He did not look back as he opened the engine and roared across the sandy soil. The feel of the redheaded woman against him was satisfying yet also disturbing and confusing.

It was a feeling that he enjoyed.

A
LTHOUGH SHE WOULD NOT HAVE
cared to share their suffering if she had known the mental torture, at that moment Krysty would have given anything to have been there rather than here. Still paralyzed, her nerve endings feeding her nothing, she was reliant only on what she could see, hear and smell, and on the workings of her own mind.

Where was this triple-crazy stupe taking her? And what did he intend to do with her when they got there?

She felt like she could vomit. The effects of the gas had left her with little strength, and it was only because of the way that the mystery rider had secured her that she could be sure she would not fall off, even if she passed out. And, frankly, consciousness was flickering in and out as she saw the sun rise. The words the man had spoken to her, and then to the others, whirled around her head, and she tried to understand them. This was a person who had a completely different way of looking at the world.

She knew that if she was going to survive, if she was going to bide her time until she was in a position to effect an escape, then she would have to understand that way. It was crucial to her survival.

Survival.

She wondered, with the last thought before she passed out, if the others would survive long enough to try to follow her.

J.B.
FELT IT FIRST, A TINGLING
at the extremities, spreading with a warmth that soon turned to agonizing cramp. It came to rest in the chest cavity, where it felt as though it had gripped his heart and lungs like a vise at full screw.

He gasped, yelled and sat bolt-upright, clutching at his chest. It was only after he had gulped down several lungfuls of air and the pain had started to subside that he realized he was able to move once again.

He tried to get to his feet. It took him falling back down three times before he made it on the fourth. He felt weak and defenseless still, but he was on his feet at the very least. Staggering, he made his way over to Mildred. She was still immobile, but behind him he heard Jak scream as the cramps started to spread through his body.

“Millie…It hurts like fuck, but once…” He could read incomprehension in her eyes. Then she, too, screamed in a high-pitched wail, her torso coming up at an odd angle, her head cracking against his, bright lights going off in his brain. He fell once more, a wave of nausea sweeping over him, bile gagging in his throat. He hawked and spit it out. He was quicker to recover his equilibrium this time. Mildred was on her feet, as unsteady as a newborn foal. She clung to him for support.

By the time they were both able to stand unsupported, Ryan and Doc had also experienced the intense agonies of the gas wearing off. The five friends were now tottering around the dying embers of the fire, not knowing what they were doing; what they should be doing. The pain, the weakness, the disorientation. It felt in some ways as though they were more vulnerable now than they had been when they were paralyzed.

Gradually, it subsided. No one spoke, each wrapped in his or her own thoughts. What to say and where to begin? Come to that, no one yet had the strength to talk. They drank to rehydrate, ate for the salts and sugars they had lost during the paralysis and the rising of the sun. Eventually, after what had seemed like the longest few hours they had ever lived through, Jak finally spoke, quietly but with an unmistakable venom.

“Catch bastard, chill slowly. Enjoy it. Not want hurt us. Lucky night critters not interested.”

No one had any real argument with that. A lengthy silence ensued before Mildred spoke.

“What did that half-wit think he was talking about? Why the hell did he take Krysty away?”

Ryan shook his head. “Figure you’d know better than me. He was using language like I’ve only heard in predark vids. Tell you something, though. He’d better not harm Krysty.”

“She can look after herself,” J.B. commented.

“Mebbe normally, but not if she’s as fucked as we are,” Ryan muttered.

“I suspect that she may be all right, at least for the time being,” Doc said with some reflection. “If I understood our enemy correctly, he thinks that we are his friends—or at least, could be. I surmised that his intention is to convert Krysty to his cause, and use her to persuade us of the rightness of his.”

“But why, for God’s sake?” Mildred exploded.

Doc gave a sad smile. “Because, my dear Doctor, I fear that like so many of us, he may not be exactly of sound mind.”

“Crazy. Great.” Jak snorted.

Doc’s smile broadened. “I think you may have missed my point, dear boy. If he has this one aim in mind—that Krysty become converted to his cause in order to convert us—then he will do all within his power to keep her alive and well. It is in his best interests. And, of course, he is unwittingly buying us time to find and destroy him.”

Ryan nodded. “I think you might be right, Doc. The question is, how long have we got, and are we in any fit state to fight?”

“Maybe not now, but we’ve no injuries to recover. Just the remains of that damn gas to get out of our systems,” Mildred mused. “And that can be happening while we’re on his trail.”

“Besides, he’s going to be looking for us sooner or later, right?” J.B. pointed out.

“Exactly, my dear John Barrymore,” Doc agreed. “The irony is that he has mistaken our pragmatism for a sense of spurious justice, and faith in a law that no longer exists. A misunderstanding that will lead him straight back to us. In a sense, we have no need to chase him. He will come to us.”