There Will Always Be a Max (3 page)

“Dune buggy coming up!” she answered.

“Poppers for shite! Won't but crack their glass!”

King watched the buggy. “Go for the tires.”

The Skull Boys leaned out his window and fired another crossbow bolt.

Sarah cried out. Rearview told King she'd taken it in the shoulder, several inches in from the joint, right at the top of where her lungs might be.

“Sarah!” Bo said, her gun forgotten.

“Keep firing,” King said. “Best way to help her is to end the fight.”'

Sarah slumped in the back seat, the shotgun forgotten. King grabbed the pistol. But he wasn't half the driver he'd need to be to drive and fire a sidearm backwards. His shoulders were too broad, arms too short. Some people had gorilla arms, incredible reach, like Roman. King was not one of them. He could look over his shoulder and fire inside the car, but that'd deafen them right quick.

Which meant Bo was their only shooter remaining.

“Keep firing, Bo. Nearly there, ken?”

Bo's gaze was locked on Sarah, the older woman bleeding out on the leather seats.

Crossbow bolts kept flying. They kept Bo pinned down, firing every other time she did, spoiling her shots and keeping her afraid.

They came up to another switchback, and King had to brake in order to take it without losing the cargo. As it was, the cart slammed into the wall, several smaller pieces falling loose of the crossbars of the trailer's cage.

“Almost to the top. Keep firing, Bo. You can do this. Your mother would be proud. But you have to be the fighter now. You have to protect us.”

Bo shook in her seat, holding the rifle close. She was flailing, looking for something, anything to hold onto. To lose your mother, to see such violence all at once, right when she thought she was ready, when she thought she wanted to step into the role.

It was one thing to want to be a fighter, to train.

It was something else to walk the path, to pull the trigger.

But Maxes weren't just guardians; they were inspiration. They called people to their better natures. “You can do this, Bo. I need your help. We're none of us getting home unless we do it together.”

King put the car through one more turn and pulled up onto the plateau. Ahead was a narrow stone bridge, no more than twenty feet wide. And it looked like it got narrower at the top.

“Heading for the bridge now. We need to keep them behind or get them dead,” King said. “Whatever you think of me, know that I need you to step up. You come from a line of heroes. Their blood runs in you. It's fuel; use it.”

Bo straightened, her posture set, relaxed. She'd found her grit. She leaned out the window and started firing, even as the crossbow bolts clanged inches from her face.

King pushed the car to its limits, thumping growing louder as the outer tire continued to shear, threatening to take the inner tire with it.

On the straightaway, the dune buggy revved and started to catch up.

“Stop them, Bo. They're coming up on my side!”

It was smart. Put the shooter on the far side of their own car, come up on King's side where they could attack him directly.

The car thumped up onto the bridge, racing for the apex, where the bridge narrowed to ten, maybe fifteen feet. Not nearly enough for two cars abreast.

Bo fired off one more shot and then cursed as the buggy passed out of her range. King fired out the window, the pistol rounds doing a whole lot of nothing. Everything shook too much for him to land a good shot through the window.

Then, out of nowhere, a bike came roaring up onto the plateau behind them, moving at top speed.

But the rider wasn't a Skull Boy. It was Xiao. The left side of his face was covered in blood, but even from a hundred feet away, he had determination in his eyes.

“Xiao's alive!” King said. “We can do this!” he shouted, as much to himself as his passengers.

Xiao and his bike closed the distance, the bike undamaged, unlike the hobbled Runner and battered buggy. But rather than harrying the buggy from behind or shooting up the middle to try to force the buggy off, he took the wide way, sliding in on the buggy's left, bike riding the razor's edge.

King tried to signal the biker, to make a plan.

But Xiao already had a plan. The cars closed on one another, the passenger Skull Boy slashing at King with a knife. King leaned inside the car, raising the windshield. The Skull Boy grabbed the raising windshield and shoved it down, leaning on it with arms thick with muscle, the wrists of a road veteran.

A signal.

Xiao gave the signal to break, then counted down. Three fingers. Two. One.

He jumped out off of his bike and grabbed the wheel of the dune buggy, pulling the car left.

King hit the brakes, dropping behind the dune buggy. The Skull Boy driver slashed Xiao's arms with a jagged bone knife, hauling the wheel the other way.

Too far. Without the Force Runner to stop its movement, the dune buggy, going seventy miles an hour, chewed up the width of the narrow bridge before the Skull Boy could even out the wheel. The dune buggy shot right off, Xiao holding on even though he was plummeting to a doom of his own design, watching as King and the Runner drove on unimpeded.

The bridge was already too narrow for repairs, so King hit the throttle again.

They were safe. They were through. Xiao had seen to it. The Max had inspired another champion, borne witness to their deeds, and he would see them home.

King hit the throttle, and guided the Force on the last leg of the journey to the Enclave.

*   *   *

The car was beat to hell and running on fumes by the time they made it to the enclave. He'd lost probably a unit of blood down his front, jacket and pants soaked, seat too. The car's fuel line had been shredded; it'd need patching. But they'd made it.

They passed a watchtower ahead of a gate drawn across the narrow path leading up to a plateau inset on a butte. Naturally defensible, a good spot, dug into the cliff. It had the marks of an engineer's work—Sarah.

The group was greeted by a half-dozen tired and scared survivors.

King carried Sarah up to them—not many people would slit your throat when you were carrying wounded, even if you were a half-deaf stranger whose hands wouldn't stop shaking, whose heart kept pounding.

Roman was an adrenaline junkie, a natural-born Max.

King was just playing the part.

“What happened?” an older survivor said, leaning on a hand-carved cane as King approached.

Bo ran up to the group, talking a mile a minute.

A pair of younger men took Sarah from King and laid her out on a flat, clean rock. Another woman ran up with a bag, gauze and tubing and supplies. They had a proper doctor, or close enough.

Bo relayed their trip, the ambush, King's arrival, and their escape. She didn't stop moving, one hand touching the rifle at all times, like a talisman she was afraid would disappear if she let it go.

“Max,” the leader said, turning to King. “Thank you. You've saved us.”

“Couldn't save everyone.”

“You did plenty, Max,” Bo said. “Just like you said.”

The leader nodded. “Please, stay. I can fix you up. We have food, water, and gasoline to see you off.”

The group grew closer, watching him like he was an elephant in a zoo. Children peeked out from behind their parents' tattered clothes, hair wild, eyes wide.

“We ain't seen someone like you in years. Just Skull Boys,” said a dust-covered girl with 4c hair and umber skin.

“Thought maybe there weren't nobody brave enough to be a Max left.” A boy, East Asian heritage, his hair clipped short.

A taller boy with fair skin, wrapped in cloths but still sunburned. “Or they'd all died out.”

King walked back to his car, unlatched the trunk. His cargo was still there.

“Did what I could. And I'd be honored to eat with you all. But first, we oughta bury the victorious dead.”

King stayed the night. He shared stories of his exploits—mostly Roman's exploits, and the survivors shared their few stories of other heroes, none of them newer than three years. Were the Genrenauts the only ones willing to be Maxes anymore? Something to put in his report. Or maybe their interference had colonized the archetype, edged out the region's ability to generate its own heroes.

Worry about that later
, he told himself.

The next morning, Sarah brought him three jugs of crystal-clear water. He refused two of them—he'd be returning to HQ, and they'd need it more than he did. Bo brought him a hand-carved wooden car that read M
AX
along the top.

They filled his tank and gave him a fresh wheel. The rest of the repairs took until noon.

Once the heat broke, they saw him off with grateful waves and a teary Bo.

That's how it was when you were a Max. Never staying, never settling.

King might never be truly comfortable in the role. But as long as he still breathed, as long as he could still drive and fight?

There would always be a Max.

 

END

About the Author

Michael R. Underwood
has circumnavigated the globe, danced the tango with legends and knows why Thibault cancels out Capo Ferro. He also rolls a mean d20. His novels include
Geekomancy
,
Celebromancy
and
Shield and Crocus
. He lives in Baltimore with his wife and an ever-growing library, and when he's not writing/gaming/living the dream he's the North American Sales and Marketing Manager for Angry Robot Books. He's also part of the Hugo-nominated podcast,
The Skiffy and Fanty Show
. You can sign up for email updates
here
.

    

 

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