Game Slaves (18 page)

While the security vans had big rubber and the tow truck had even larger, what I saw next made me shake my head.

These
new
tracks were enormous. Three times as wide as the ones from the tow truck. Spaced so far apart my team could lie end to end and barely touch either track.

“Holy . . . What made
these?
” York's eyes went wide.

The rubber prints were really something, lugged for heavy terrain but also ridged down the center for high speed.

I had an idea. I also knew that following those tracks right now would be pointless.

I wanted to find that tow truck. I wanted to ask about all that blood dripping in its cab.

I told Mi, “I think the old guy I was working with was doing it for more than just chits.”

“What do you mean?”

We talked about the horde in the desert. “I get the feeling everyone trying to seal off the city is working for their right to stay inside once the job is done.”

She weighed that, then asked, “Like there's some really big pestilence out there on its way to wipe them all out?”

“It wouldn't be a bad move by BlackStar. To make them think a horrifying threat is always looming. It'd keep them in line. Keep them from revolting.”

Mi and I were up front, just like the old days, leading the team, with Dakota about ten paces back. York and Reno were on our six, watching out for the BlackStar troops.

Mi said, “The whole time I was hauling rivets, I kept wondering how this'll work out for us out here.”

“How did you expect it to?” I tried to smile at her. “Long days of labor? A family? Living in a scraped-out building like everyone else?”

“At least we're together.” She grinned, but I knew we were both just putting a good face on it.

“Right, if we have nothing else . . .”

“And trust me”—she put her arm in mine; it felt great—“we have absolutely
nothing
else.”

“No food.” I went along.

“No money.”

“No home.”

“No identity.”

I pointed. “The area around my skull port is getting infected.”

She pointed too. “I keep getting stabbing pains in my chest.”

“Our kids have stopped doing everything we order them to do.”

She chuckled at that, then added, “I never thought the day would come, my mighty Phoenix, when you and I didn't have one single, solitary bullet between us.”

My hand clasped hers. Wow. On those terms, I sure had let her down. I had let them all down.

But these were different terms now, right? Out here, combat rating didn't mean a thing. Just surviving day to day, that was the true test. I guess maybe Hal, that old-timer, was actually one of Earth's real winners. He was still alive.

“Where did we come from?” Mi asked suddenly. “I mean, am I all the way from Florida? Kidnapped off a street, away from my family?”

“I think Dakota suspects she got here like that. From up north. Some kind of slave trade. Like they take the best, apple-core their brains, slide in the cable port, and drown them for the rest of their lives.”

“Maybe. But it doesn't completely add up.”

I realized how easy it had become for the world to control a population. Especially if that population had no transportation. “Seems like there's really just one way in or out or around these days: through the unfinished wall. And then we go until we get somewhere. Or run out of fuel.”

“But the
monster
tires. Those tracks. What could have made those?”

I nodded. “They push a big machine.”

“No planes, though? I find that odd.”

“If they can barely come by a few gallons of regular gas, jet fuel can't even be a consideration. Helicopters are too short on range, no good for the long haul.”

Up ahead, I believed, we'd get a few more answers. The street opened into a square, every side of it walled off by concrete. At the far end, a set of gates stood closed, guarded by a pair of the company troops. Those guys, from what I'd seen at the wall, were exactly what foot soldiers would have been back in medieval times: the ruling class, going from village to village, or in this case, building to building, drafting any male child with good size or strength.

That way, the lower class was always weak. And the soldiers themselves? Why
wouldn't
they work in enforcement? It got them better food and better living conditions, and they wouldn't spend their whole lives doing hard manual labor.

In front of the troops was a platform, and we watched the tow truck drag its loaded trailer onto the scales. The whole thing shimmied as it settled. Armed guards centered their weapons on the cab.

A door swung open. Pools of blood dripped out, then down the running board.

A man with no face shield in a BlackStar tunic waved to one of the guards, who quickly ran over and began sopping up the puddles.

“I guess they don't want the scrapper to cheat and get paid for too much weight,” York reasoned, now standing near Mi and me.

And as the driver climbed out, we could see what kind of work he'd chosen. His right arm was covered with bite marks, and his left sleeve was torn in a dozen places. One leg was also wounded, but he was still able to hobble off the skid and stand proud near the booty he'd hauled back in.

The guns, however, stayed pointed right at his head.

“One point seven tons,” the clerk in the tunic announced, reading a small dial.

“More like one point nine,” the driver argued.

“One point seven. The bottom one has a stripped engine.”

“Yeah, but the whole block in the top one is grade ore.”

“I already calculated,” the clerk sneered.

I admired how the driver put up an argument, but even he didn't seem to think it was one he would win.

“Minus truck rental, fuel”—the clerk punched numbers into a small plastic calculator—“burned engine oil, rations, and mileage. Minus rubber, tool rental, ammunition, fluids, and cleanup.”

The driver nodded again. It looked like he'd heard the swindle before.

“Six thousand two hundred four chits,” announced the clerk. “Pay the man.”

“Good haul,” I heard one of the troops mutter as he slid a stack of large chit plates over to the driver. “Better get that to the store before you get robbed.”

I saw the man snort. Then, slowly, he lifted a sawed-off shotgun out of his belt. As the guards with the machine guns watched, he handed the weapon over. It was quickly tagged and placed in a small locker near the feet of the clerk.

Now, I believed, he was unarmed. Sure, he was big and scarred and looked like he could crawl through a cactus thicket and come out the other side without a whimper, but he was also just one man.

And there were five of us.

“Are we going to rob him?” York asked eagerly. “Before he can stash his loot?”

I just smiled and turned. When the tow truck, trailer, and scrap were driven away through the guarded gate, I stood in the driver's path.

“How ya doing?” I said to him, looking over his heavy leather gear. The years of marks and cuts on a face that was instantly suspicious. A busted-up hand reaching toward the small of his back.

I think, at that moment, my entire team figured I was going to try to jack this guy.

But I said, “Looks to me, sir, like you might be needing a new crew.”

A smile came across his face.

I went on, “Two of us. You need two new scrappers, right?” My hand waved toward Mi.

Still suspicious, he nodded slowly.

“What's the cut, when we come back?” I asked him.

“Can you shoot?” His gruff voice made me think of a guy who'd been breathing road dust far too long.

“Yeah,” I promised, “I can. But my friend here”—another wave at Mi—“she can
really
shoot.”

“How'd you know
two?
That I lost both my men today?” he asked.

“Best strategy,” I replied, glancing at the retreating tow truck. “One to drive, one to strap cargo, and one to keep the animals away. Any extra weight would just cut into the fuel consumption.”

I saw his eyes squint, kind of twinkle. “You get twenty percent of whatever we haul,” he announced. “I keep the rest 'cuz it's my show.”

“Done,” I said, and put out a hand to shake.

When he took it, I noticed something right off. Old, dirty, almost faded from view, but there it was: the man had a tattoo wrapped around his big, callused palm.

First day of work, you never know who to trust or what to believe.

The guy told me his name was Screw when we showed up the next morning. The tow truck had been rinsed off, most of the blood was gone, and the trailer had been unloaded. All that remained on the bed was a small hoist crane and several heavy cargo straps.

“You sure the little girl can shoot?” he asked abruptly.

“Like no one on the planet,” I replied.

He handed her an old company-issue single-shot rifle and a handful of bullets.

“That's not much ammo,” Mi grumbled, climbing into a shooting turret dead center in the back of the truck.

“Gunpowder don't grow on trees,” Screw spat. “You waste a single bullet and it comes straight out of your cut.”

“What do
I
do?” But I had a good guess.

“Drive,” he replied. “An' where did you shrimps learn any of this, anyway?”

I hopped into the cab and fired the motor. It coughed, it chugged, and I realized auto parts were probably as scarce as full vehicles. If we broke down out there, it was going to be a one-way trip.

I tried to avoid the question. Indeed, how
would
two working-class citizens, fresh off the city wall, have a clue how to drive or to shoot? Those are rare skills. Military skills.

But in a way, we'd already given an answer. Screw's eyes focused on the tape around my palm. And around Mi's. He grunted again, and I steered the clumsy, slow-accelerating rig toward the exit from the square.

“Where we headed?” I asked, watching the half-built wall approach and the safety of the pavement leave my tires.

“Honey hole,” Screw muttered. “I know a spot. Been good to me.”

“Same place you went last time?” I remembered that he'd suffered losses. I was sure he remembered too.

“Not my fault those boys couldn't cut it. Go south. And stay off anything that looks like a road. Those are bad places to get stuck. Too many hole-traps.”

I knew he'd had enough talking, so I did what I was hired to do. I drove.

 

I knew the instant we rolled under the wooden sign that it was a trap. It'd been over nine hours of driving, I was as stiff and sore as I could ever remember, and my senses were likely dulled.

Still, we were not dealing with a race of supreme tacticians out here. Whatever these rabid humanoids had become, it was not grandmaster chess players.

I could see how Screw had been picking the abandoned junkyard. Most of the yard was covered with sand, but a storm had blown clear a short stack of ancient cars. How old were they? Thirty years? A hundred? In this dry air, with the heat and no rain, they might have been even older.

But c'mon, Screw. Couldn't he see what was up? Over time, one after the next, he'd lifted the vehicles closest to the entrance. That section was clear. Now he was having to venture farther toward the back row to get at what was left.

On the left of that row, a bleached wooden slab was now leaning against some large rocks. How could that have gotten there? It made a perfect shield for someone to crouch behind. On the right, three or four fresh mounds bordered one of the rusty heaps. We'd already seen the way these savages dug holes and hid in the dirt.

The problem was—and I knew Mi was thinking exactly this—we had no communication system. I couldn't radio her and point out what I'd spotted. I was sure she'd pick it up too, but what would she do? Waste bullets on the mounds? Blast a hole in the wood plank? Or wait for me to just run them over?

“You know it's a trap, right?” I said to Screw, shoving my right boot into the brakes.

“There's always a trap,” he grumbled, pulling his shotgun from his belt.

“Let's be efficient about this,” I recommended. For one thing, I didn't want one wave of the cannibals occupying Mi while another climbed up from the back and had her for lunch.

The man barked, “We need the metal. Usually if you shoot a big'n and then back off, the rest'll gnaw on him while we get the load on the trailer.”

“Usually?”

“Four times out of five.”

“Your odds are weak.”

“Yeah.” He smiled through broken teeth. “But I'm still scrappin', and almost no one else'll even come out this far. I'm gonna retire after I clean out this lot.”

“So.” I was still thinking about finding a better way. “Where do these guys live? They must be breeding.”

A snort. “Oh, yeah, they breed. Most times they don't eat a woman right off. That girlie of yours is sweeeeet tail. Thanks for not knowing about that and volunteerin' her to sit up there where they can all smell our bait.”

OK, he was playing it
that
way?

“So they've got a camp nearby?”

“I dunno, man.” He was getting impatient. “They can live in dirt for weeks.” But maybe he was right. Against a mindless enemy, sometimes the best thing to do is just wade in and keep shooting until your barrels turn red-hot.

“They got nothin',” he said. “Nothing but the scent of that little baby oven up top.”

I was getting other ideas about how to handle this, but Screw was chattering, his voice starting to sound panicky as we saw some of the piles on the right begin to shift. “There's never been enough food for everyone. Some had to get pushed out a long time ago. Same as they're gonna do again when the wall gets built. Our food allocation will only support so many. Same as it's always been.”