Skylock (28 page)

"Been workin' harder than all us combined, Jimbo. You stay put. I'll tend to it."

With that, the gunman was off.

Top considered Trennt for a time after Baker had left.

"Cap," he finally asked, "what'll you do when this is all over?"

Trennt shrugged. "Haven't thought that far."

"You cats really crossed swords with some big guns."

"Yeah."

"How'd a line grunt like you ever hook up with someone like that Corealis?"

"Real bad planning."

The old Marine grinned approvingly.

"You're a righteous dude, Cap. I dig you and I've been thinking on it. Once this is over, why not throw in with me? Full time. Wagon-mastering isn't so bad a gig. Lead 'em out, bring 'em in. I can teach you the trade routes. Hell, I might even let old Slick come—"

The sudden racket cut short his offer: a handful of rapid and sharp reports followed by a dying echo of deep, vibrating bangs. The clamor seemed to emanate from points all around the valley and the horizon flashed in unison with an eerie, phosphorescent pulse. In seconds the night returned to silence.

Trennt—and Wayne beyond—perked up curiously, but Top sprang to his feet, peering intensely at the horizon.

"What is it, Top? Heat lightning? EM storm?"

The old man didn't answer right off. When he did, his voice was slow and mechanical.

"Yeah. Probably nothing."

As they sat back down, Trennt noticed another whiff of that odd swampiness tainting the air. Across from him, Top said no more, but his eyes came back to the horizon time and again for a long while afterward.

Alone on her walk, Geri also paused at the strange pulses of noise and light. Soon, though, the night settled back and she strolled on through the icy blue moonlight; lost in private thoughts and unaware of just how far she'd wandered from camp.

Oddly, even among the cluttered ruin, there was a feeling here akin to what she'd known at the research station—freedom. It relaxed her.

Geri still longed for things other women had known: one man to love and one to truly love her. Family. But all that now seemed as possessions removed by too many business miles on designer sheets.

With her father chewed up by the Corealis juggernaut and history teachers in low demand, a "hostess" slot was all a pretty girl could find in the new order. It seemed innocent enough at the start—smile, talk, be nice. Then came the roaming hands . . . and threats from management.

"Hey there, Sugar Britches."

She flinched at the nearness of Baker's voice. A moment later he stepped from the shadow of a tipped truck.

"Dangerous walkin' 'round these wrecks unescorted. Good thing I happened by."

Geri regained her composure and started off again, but Baker stayed close.

"Yah know," he declared, "a gal could get herse'f into real deep trouble—mebbe even shot—for committin' acts o' sabotage."

Geri squinted tediously. "What're you talking about?"

Baker paused and grinned.

"All those breakdown coincidences we been havin' lately is what I'm talkin' 'bout. Loose fittin's, wire connections, and rims might've just happened, sure"—he reached into a pocket and let the empty medkit packets sift through his fingers—"but plugged fuel filters from sugar in the gas is somethin' that don't just come along."

The quiet shock in Geri's eyes sharpened his smile.

"Not very smart, jammin' them under a tire, like ya did. Better to just've tossed 'em in the fire. But mebbe you didn't have enough time or chance, huh?"

Baker's smile turned hard.

"Now, I personally don't much care how this posse makes out—findin' the plane or not—but you truly do. So the way I see it, we got two ways to handle this: 'A,' we find some nice quiet spot to get acquainted. Or 'B,' Jimbo gets told and you get shot."

Geri tossed her head indignantly and tried to turn away, but Baker clamped her by a wrist. His eyes were suddenly fierce and predatory.

"Don't cold-shoulder me, girlie. I ain't askin' no permission. There's lots o' places a body could just plum disappear out here, too, ya know."

His grip held tight as a short, wide, push dagger popped out from his western belt buckle. Its stout blade touched under her chin, then levered persuasively against the hollow of her throat.

"I see us a nice little spot up yonder. That delivery truck'll do just fine."

Geri's belly flooded with ice. Ushered to the truck's clammy, weed-littered floor, she plopped backwards. Baker was on her in an instant. His hot searing lips dragged across her soft throat and below. His hips ground urgently against hers.

"Off with that top," he ordered in a cruel whisper.

She obeyed slowly, mechanically undoing the buttons. But it wasn't fast enough and he grabbed the collar of the khaki shirt, tearing out all the fasteners in one yank.

His blade left her throat. It came up between her breastbone and soiled bra, drawing a few beads of blood in his haste. A quick twist parted the tired garment and he eagerly sank his face in her warm, salty flesh.

A hand wedged between them, yanking at her belt. Geri choked off a resigned breath as her cargo pants were roughly peeled away. She tried conjuring up that old protective shell, but somehow she just couldn't manage anymore. Instead, she clenched her teeth and eyes, waiting for the inevitable.

"Baker!"

The gunman spun fiercely off the woman. Like a tiger rousted from its hard-earned prey, he was lost in a quiver of mindless animal rage, one which saw Trennt's unexpected presence only as that of a competitor.

Baker hovered, wide-eyed and tight-skinned, ready to lunge. Cold starlight rattled off his poised blade.

But the next instant the beast was gone and the man returned. His savagery flaked away, leaving the shooter grinning with the innocent shine of a schoolboy prank.

"Caught us a saboteur, Jimbo," he announced proudly.

"So I see," Trennt replied. "Why don't you head back? I can handle the matter from here."

"Yeah, sure, Pard. Sure."

Baker gathered himself up and hopped down from the truck.

Inside the van, Trennt found yet another version of the troublesome woman. This one was drowned in a miserable silence, eyes glistening with the pain of someone made tragically vulnerable.

But his eyes couldn't avoid the obvious, either. And in the dim light her skin shone smooth and unblemished—just the right shading to illustrate fine muscle tone as she strove for breath.

Trennt was startled at his own surprise. Embarrassed and at a loss, he suddenly wanted to scream at her; call her all the filthy names he could think of, slap her senseless and take a turn between her thighs, just to teach her a lesson.

But a different door opened in him and, instead, he helped her up. Setting his own shirt about her bare shoulders, Trennt had only one question as they started back through the sharp settling chill.

"Why?"

She spoke through sniffles.

"Because everything that happened at the research station and since has somehow all been caused by Corealis. I hate him for the way he uses people up then throws them aside.

"My own father was a prominent administrator in the Crop Research Division, an honest man who wouldn't bend to Corealis' style of bookkeeping and whose presence was somehow threatening. So he was reduced in rank, demoted, and shuffled about in more and more demeaning roles until it finally cost his sanity and life.

"And because of him and Martin, I'd do anything to stop Corealis from getting whatever it was they discovered at that station—no matter what it might cost me."

Trennt stooped to retrieve the discarded sugar packs.

"You know," he confided, "Baker would've told me, anyway."

She dismissed it with a shrug. "I'd still have paid his price."

"So why the tears?"

Geri looked away. "You wouldn't understand."

They stood anxiously below as Top leaned forward. High in the tree's dead branches with binoculars screwed tight to his eyes, the old-timer was quiet. A few more seconds and the specs came away. He soberly climbed back down.

"We're being followed, all right. There's dust in the air."

Trennt looked to the trailing horizon. "How far?"

"Not close. Mile or two, at least. Keeping their distance, but on our trail for sure."

"Tribes?" asked Wayne.

Top shook his head. "Still too far outside their country. Besides, gooners'd be on foot or using trucks. I'd guess these to be GEVs."

"Ground effects vehicles?" Trennt thought back to Freeville. "The Reds?"

"I'd say."

"Why haven't we heard them?"

"Newest stuff. High velocity, low pressure fans. Very quiet. But still dusty."

Baker looked on with his usual skepticism. "You sure, Whiskers?"

Top pragmatically offered the tree.

"Climb up there and wait, Slick. You can ask when they come by."

"How'd you know?" asked Geri.

"Just been having some bad vibes the last few days."

"What could they want?"

"Maybe nothing in particular," reasoned Top. "Like I said back in town, they're one nosy bunch. Too much time on their hands and way too much fire power. Bullies with guns and no one to keep them in line. And bet your stripes, if they followed us this far out, it's not to rap."

"What do we do? Turn back?"

Baker guffawed. "Heck no, darlin'. We find a good ambush site and put the hurt to 'em, X-style."

The old Marine chortled. "The quick answer to everything for you, huh, Slick? Pop 'em; drop 'em; smoke 'em; grease 'em."

The shooter stroked a rough hand over his autoloader. "That's right. Any grunt worth his salt would set up ah trap and waylay 'em from the corners, pop, pop, pop!"

Top smirked. "Sure, dude. Easy money." He considered Trennt and Baker. "I can believe you trying something like that alone, too. But in our case, figure on just a Vee-style ambush. Against a couple of squads, that leaves a big-time open door for counterattack."

"Besides them, though," he added, "we might have bigger problems put us in the hurt locker."

The old-timer looked at each face. "Guess none of you were up close and personal for any of the quakes, huh? New Madrid, Wabash Valley, Carolinas. Or the super shake out here. Well, those of us that were learned a lot about your basic seismic event, ricky-tick. See this nice little gully we've been following the last few days? Anyone notice how fresh-cut the side walls look? All the new-dead brush around it? The ground leading straight toward your bird is a fault line, Cap. Not long ago it shifted and I bet it will again."

Their nervous eyes flashed about in sudden awareness.

"I first noticed it when the truck last went down. Wanted to be sure before I said anything. But that on-and-off rotten egg smell is a good indicator. It's sulfur gas from way down deep, like the stuff in oil wells. Only comes up if you drill into it or a big crack lets it free.

"Those nighttime bangs and light flashes back at the gas station wasn't any heat lightning. It's what they call, 'brontides.' Noises of ground moving, way inside. Like a clockspring slipping.

"Sometime, maybe soon, there's gonna be a shake. Might be a mondo load or a bunch of tee-tee small timers. Hard to say. But if we stay tracking your bird on this line, we'll be walking the edge, straight into the Wilds. And if it lets loose, the Reds or any gooners might be the least of our worries."

Trennt surrendered to Baker's reasoning from back at the church. "Maybe we should do just what you said the other night. Throw in the towel, cut our losses, and head back to Freeville."

Top pulled out his map and spread it across the truck's hood.

"There's one big time shortcut," he declared. "Guaranteed to save travel time. But it is a ball-buster."

The team crowded silently about as he swiped a grimy finger across the chart. It came down amid a wavy hourglass shape marked, poison flats.

Baker frowned sarcastically. "You forget the sick tribesman? If you think we'd do any better, you're crazier'n I thought."

The old-timer offered upturned hands while Trennt gauged all the miles to be saved.

"Explain," Trennt demanded.

"The stuff in there is a mix of chemicals from old-time electronics and plastic manufacturing. The Quake slopped it all together and pooled it like one bad-ass cocktail. It runs another thirty or so klicks north-south and five or six east-west. But it necks down to only a mile or so not far ahead of here. The truck's too heavy to get over, so a crossing would have to be done on foot. Rickety-tick and after dark."

Baker laughed scornfully. "On foot and at night, huh? You happen to pack chem/rad suits for everybody? And boats?"

Top shook his head. "Don't need 'em, Slick. It's what they call photochemical. Boils like Old Faithful in daylight and will kill you a hundred yards off. But it calms down with sunset. Or cold, or rain. Mellows out to form these kind of . . . sandbars along the shallows, almost like a crusty ice. They're hard enough to walk on.

"We'd smear our clothes and skin with axle grease, burn jelly, anything we can find that'll stick. Rig up some snowshoes and dust masks. After dark, when the fumes settle, we tie everyone to a safety line and guide-stake our way across."

Baker continued his disbelief. "A mile of that crap on foot, in the dark? Why not just blow our brains out now 'n' save the agony?"

Unconvinced himself, Trennt swung aboard the truck. "Top, show me."

They were still a couple of miles upwind when the first scent reached them. It was deceiving. A faint touch of brimstone was carried in the air, almost like a Fourth of July perfuminess. But it gained, steadily mounting into a cheesy stench.

Still closer, the ground itself warmed, gathering in new and truly hostile odors. Hints of creosote and asphalt, chlorinated solvents, and heavy oils added their lot to the distant, poisonous stew.

Soon the air reeked with the noxious stink of a midsummer railyard. Even a half mile off the stench was eye watering. They broke out goggles and tied damp bandannas over their faces before proceeding.