Route 666 Anthology Page 8

  Plenty of Renegade vehicles, all carrying the same insignia along the bodywork—the grinning shark mouth with its saw-edged teeth. But nothing that had the distinctive turret the Sand King’s carried.

  The three Ops thundered past the last truck in the graveyard convoy. Only the blank expanse of the interstate lay ahead now. Together they braked and U-turned, tyres screeching on the asphalt.

  “OK,” said Byron. “Second run. And out. Close up this time.”

  “We’ve damn near cleaned ’em out,” Chet protested. “Let’s stay and finish the job. Take out this Boss Shark they got.”

  “This run and out,” Erika Graf said flatly, before Byron could speak, “Chet, you’re outvoted.”

  “Hear you, babe,” said Chet. “Just because it’s you.”

  They roared back down the highway together. Ahead of them, some of the Renegades had made it to their machines. A handful of cars and bikes were already tumbling out onto the highway in front of them. The easy kills were over.

  Halfway back down the line, a ragged stream of bullets zipped air directly in front of the Machete. Through the side-visor, Byron saw a lone Renegade coming straight for him, going to ram.

  Byron hit the brakes. The Renegade hurtled by in front of him, a blur of silver-grey, missing the Machete’s bumper by millimetres. It plunged off the road and kept right on going.

  Byron shifted gears, trying to recover speed. Slow was vulnerable right now. Glance in the rear-view. A second silver-grey shape, emerging from behind the cover of a burnt-out truck and slipping onto his tail. Chet? Where the Enderby was Chet?

  Peripheral vision showed him a rainbow-streaked shape to his right: Chet—chasing the fleeing Renegade out into desert emptiness.

  Autocannon shells whistled past the Machete.

  “Chet,” Byron shouted into the com. “Got one on my tail. Get back here.”

  “Hear you,” Chet said easily. “Momma’ll just be a minute. Be good now.”

  Byron cursed, threw the Machete into a series of tyre-screeching swerves across the full breadth of the highway, close enough to the verge to send sand kicking up into the air.

  The Renegade stayed right there in the rearview, looking as if it was welded to his tail.

  Passive, thought Byron. His thumb hovered over the oil-layer release.

  The Renegade danced across the rearview. Shells punched the air.

  No go, Byron decided. The Shark simply wasn’t going to be drawn into the right position. This Renegade was good. Very damned good.

  All right, thought Byron. Good doesn’t mean good enough. Doesn’t mean as good as me, muchacho. He swung the wheel to the left, taking the Machete off the highway with a jolt that tested the suspension to the limit and sent Byron jouncing against the seat-harness. Sent it straight towards the bullet-chewed wreck of a truck. Sand sprayed up from tyres.

  On the rearview, the Renegade matched the move. The autocannon pulsed again.

  As the truck loomed up, Byron shifted the Machete slightly to the left, putting the flank of the massive vehicle to his right. Then he swung the wheel hard round, bringing the Machete around the truck in a full-throttled hand-brake turn. Wheels churned desert. Thick screen-stinging clouds of sand flew up into the air.

  The Machete juddered as Byron held the turn, keeping it at full burn. It whipped around the truck, as tight as if it had gone into orbit. Monster wheels went by on Byron’s right. He squinted forward into the sudden sandstorm, hand on the trigger, waiting for that fraction of a second when the Renegade would appear directly ahead of him, right in the centre of his sights.

  Out of the haze of sand particles to his left, a blurred shape came up: a biker. Bullets whined along the Machete’s bodywork. Byron shifted the wheel to put the biker squarely in front of his left machine-gun. Fired. The biker and his machine went tumbling away out of sight.

  Then the Renegade was back on the rearview, looming out of the sand-haze. Byron swung the wheel back, piling on the revs, knowing that he wasn’t going to make it, that the Renegade was almost on top of him—and his chance was gone.

  Something behind the Renegade, something barely visible in the cloud of sand they had thrown up. Something dark. A thin line of laser-light shot out from it, towards the Sand Shark.

  The Renegade car blew up in a sudden burst of smoke and flame.

  A mellow voice on the com: Erika’s. “Consider your ass saved, Byron.” Then her night-black Cobra was sweeping past him, swinging back towards the interstate, trailing her own dustcloud of sand behind it like a banner.

  “Thanks, lady.”

  “De nada.”

  Byron followed her back onto the road. They were back at the head of the line of convoy casualties now. Rearview showed the surviving Renegades clustering together further back down the road. Getting organized.

  “Time to head for home,” Erika said on the com.

  “Right. Let’s move,” Byron responded. “Be real glad to see Denver,” he added, for the benefit of any Renegade who might be listening in.

  “Yeah,” agreed Erika. “Denver sounds good.”

  If only they were really bound for Denver. After a month of operating out from sandside Byron was more than ready for the comforts of a PZ. It didn’t have to be Denver. Any one of them would do.

  Chefs G-Mek cut back towards the road, trailing a funnel of sand in its wake. “Hey, Byron. You still on the road, huh?”

  Byron’s hands tightened on the wheel. “Chet,” he said. “Let’s move. We got a lot of road to cover.”

  “Yeah. Denver. Can’t wait to get back to good ol’ Denver.” Then, spoiling the effect entirely, Chet laughed.

  “Ops.” A stranger’s voice on the com. Whispery, dry as sandside itself, full of rage and hate. “I’ll squeeze the life out of you for this. Hear me?”

  Rearview showed a turreted Renegade far back along the road: the Sand King.

  “We hear you,” Chet said.

  “You’ll answer to me,” the breathy voice said. “All three of you. I swear.”

  Byron killed the com, sent the Machete surging into the west.

  Headed west along the interstate. Sandside sunlight glinted off chrome and paintwork. On either side of them, the desert stretched halfway to infinity.

  Fifty miles saw them reach a turning to the right. Once there had been signs beside the highway but now they were gone beneath the sand.

  The three Ops took the turn, one after the other: Erika leading, then Byron, with Chet bringing up the rear. Another mile and they went past a sign that had survived. It said: The City of Morgansburg Welcomes Careful Drivers.

  As they drove on, the ghost town began to rise up out of the desert like somebody’s abandoned dream. Crumbling brickwork buildings, with their windows boarded up. Sidewalks strewn with tumbleweed. Nothing moving except where the breeze stirred the dust.

  A gasoline station came up on the left, all its pumps still upright, like soldiers standing at attention. Byron gave a mock-salute as he went by.

  Driving down Broadway now, the town’s main street. Once it had had another name but Erika had christened it Broadway when they first drove in here a month ago—and then she’d gone on to rename half the town. The names had stuck.

  Side-streets branched off to the right and left; Morgansburg was a series of blocks, laid out in a gridwork pattern. Between runs, Byron had walked these streets, occasionally wondering about the people who had lived here. Nice safe people who had lived nice safe lives. History had buried them, the way the Great Central Desert was slowly burying their city.

  Ahead, Times Square was coming up. The three Ops slowed, cruised on into the heart of old Morgansburg.

  Times Square looked as still and deserted as ever. Four-storey buildings enclosed an extensive rectangular area. At its centre, the statue of some anonymous American hero stood with one arm extended towards them, its stone face holding an expression of second-rate idealism: Erika had called it the Statue of Liberty. To Byron, it looked ev
ery bit as smug as its namesake back in New York PZ.

  Erika led them in a careful circuit of the square. Nothing was moving. Nothing seemed to have changed since they had left this morning. They circled a second time, began a third circuit. Then Erika’s side-visor slid down. “Clear,” she called out.

  In one corner of the square, under a sign that read: Connors Real Estate, a crack appeared in a section of brick wall. The crack widened and then the wall began to open outwards. A figure in oil-streaked coveralls peered out at them, bald head gleaming in the sunlight: Gus Green, their mechanic.

  There was a squeal of tires: Chet, cutting across the square, determined to be first to garage his interceptor, and first to get himself a nice, cool beer.

  Erika followed him through the narrow entrance and into the Hideout that it had taken a team of Transcon engineers a single night of non-stop work to construct.

  The Machete was last into the constricted passageway. Byron reversed it in, taking it slowly, careful of his paintwork. The Hideout was solidly built, and safe from casual observation. But space was at a premium. There was room for Gus and his equipment and the truck, for the three interceptors fitted in bumper to bumper, for the three Ops, and not very much else.

  Through the windshield Byron saw the dummy wall slowly resealing, restoring Morgansburg—outwardly at least—to its well-deserved status of ghost town. Rearview showed him the G-Mek and the Cobra already pulled up, gleaming in the yellow sodium light of the ceiling lamps.

  The Machete slid to a halt, last in the line. He touched the ignition. The engine died.

  Byron clambered out, leaned back against the hatch, and heard it snick shut. The Hideout’s air was cool after the hours spent in the Machete. And it was so damned good to be able to stretch again.

  Erika was already sitting at the main-com, headphones on, trying to raise Transcon Control in Denver. Chet was standing beside her, one arm around her shoulder, tilting a beer can to his mouth with his free hand. He raised the can to Byron, grinned at him.

  What the Enderby did a category-A woman like Erika Graf see in a road-jockey like Chet? Good, but a chance-taker, a regular candidate for the Ops’ Valhalla, and all too likely to suck in innocent bystanders along with him. Byron knew they’d been together for some time—since before Transcon had teamed the three Ops for this operation.

  No use spending skull-time sweating over it, Byron decided. Instead, he turned away and ran a concerned eye over the Machete. Plenty of fresh scratches, where Renegades had come close, but nothing that looked like serious damage. Still, it paid to check things out, to make very damned sure it was one hundred per cent combat-worthy for the next time.

  Gus was already at work on Chet’s G-Mek. Byron shrugged. Last in meant first out, in the cramped confines of the Hideout. And, more important, last in line for Gus’ attentions.

  Byron grabbed a can of beer from the refrigerator, poured half of it straight down, drifted over to the pool table.

  A few of the colours were still on the table, left there from the last game. He picked up a cue, studied the table thoughtfully. After a time, he sent the white spinning across the green baize. It smacked hard against a yellow, sent it on towards the far end of the table. The yellow hit a red that was only a few inches away from the corner pocket. Both balls drifted on towards the pocket. The red dropped in.

  “You gotta do better than that,” said a voice from behind him.

  Byron turned. Chet was standing there, his checked cowboy shirt ringing with sweat, blond hair gleaming. There was another foaming beer can in his hand and a familiar easy grin on his face.

  Chet said: “Hear Erika saved your ass back there?”

  “That’s right.”

  Chet glanced towards her, his expression half admiring, half affectionate. “She’s a real cool lady, ain’t she?”

  “Yeah.” Byron leaned back against the pool table. “Chet, you were the one supposed to be covering me.”

  Chet’s grin came back onto full-beam. “Figured you’d make out okay. You can move that car of yours around pretty good when you have to.”

  Byron’s grip on the cue tightened. “Well, I reckon it’s about time—”

  “Glad to see you two boys are still talking to each other,” Erika said, coming up to them.

  “Sure, babe,” said Chet, turning away from Byron. He threw his free arm around her, pulled her to him.

  Dark hair, cut short. Dark eyes, set in a high-cheekboned face. The only make-up she wore was bright-red lipstick. Beautiful, and she knew it.

  Byron said, “You got through?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “So—when are we pulling out?”

  Erika gave a slight shrug. “Transcon want us to stay around a little longer. Said they’ve got another convoy coming through in a day or so. Figure the Sharks’ll be hitting it. Want us to take them out first.”

  “Hell,” said Chet. “Why not?”

  Byron said carefully, “A month now we’ve been chipping away at the Sharks, slow and steady. But after today’s little clean-up the game has changed. We hit them hard. Now we’re—predictable. Next time they’re going to be ready for us.”

  Erika said, “Triple bonus if we stay for one more run.”

  Chet whistled. “Include me very much in.” He pulled her in closer to him and bent over to kiss the back of her neck.

  Take three Ops and set them down deep in the middle of sandside, with supplies and a reliable mechanic, then let them loose at this new Renegade alliance who were getting a little too good at hitting Transcon convoys.

  A very bright idea, dreamed up by some heavy-duty desk-warrior back in Transcon head-office. The kind of idea any of the big reputable Op agencies would turn down flat. Which left the three of them: Independents. With ability, ambition, and a serious need to make money fast.

  Erika was leaning against Chet, one hand on his arm. She smiled back up at Byron. “That’s two of us. What about you?”

  Byron rested the cue against the table. “I’m going to get me some air.” He opened the side door and stepped out into the back streets of Morgansburg.

  Empty streets. The sun above beating down steadily. Only the sound of his footsteps on the sidewalk. Here and there abandoned autos rested placidly. It was hard to believe that people had ever lived here. Morgansburg had the air of a second-rate film-set, built in a hurry for just one cheap shoot.

  Byron put a shoulder to the boarded-up door of Mason’s Drug Store, heard the sound of splintering wood as it gave. Inside there were cloth-draped tables, chairs piled on top of them. A single dirty coffee cup was gathering dust on the counter.

  In his imagination, Byron peopled this place with the bustling, frenetic, street-smart life of a PZ acid-house. Another world, he thought. Different values, different everything.

  From the doorway, a soft voice said, “Byron.” He turned; Erika was alone. Which was fine by him. He’d seen enough of Chet Kincaid for one day.

  She came slowly towards him, hands thrust down into the pockets of her jeans. “You come to a decision?”

  Byron leaned against the counter, gave her a long thoughtful look. “Chet’s easy to figure. He thinks this—he gestured at the window, to the deserted street outside—is Smallville. Thinks he’s Superboy.” He traced a line in the dust with the toe of his boot. “But you—you’re road-smart, Erika. You know as well as I do that the right move is to move on. Now.”

  She tilted her head to one side, looked directly at him. “Triple bonus. My vote’s in, Byron. What about you?”

  On the other side of the counter was a long mirror, spiderwebbed with cracks. Beside Erika’s reflection, a dark-haired, lean-faced man, badly in need of a shave, stared back at Byron.

  Only the sound of a boot scuffing against the floor broke the stillness.

  Abruptly the face grinned at him from the mirror. “I’ll make the run,” Byron said.

  In the distance, there was a faint noise, from off towards the edge of t
own. Byron swung around, stared out through the dust-smeared window, towards Times Square. “Bikes,” he said. The sound was unmistakable.

  “How many you reckon?” asked Erika.

  Byron stood motionless, straining to hear. The engine sounds were clearer now, getting louder. Closer. “Three. Maybe four,” he said presently.

  “Looking for us?” Erika asked softly.

  “Got to be.” Byron drew his gun, saw Erika’s already in her hand.

  “The Hideout’s secure—”

  “Maybe. But they aren’t tourists out of some goddamned PZ. If they look hard enough, they’ll turn it up.”

  The drone of the bikes flattened out as the bikers reached the wide open space of Times Square and began to circle, once, twice. Began a third circuit.

  Abruptly there came the sound of gunshots, closely followed by the stutter of machine gun fire.

  Byron moved to the door. Erika held his arm. “Could be they’re just having some target practice.”

  In between the chatter of the bullets, they heard shouting, voices calling out to each other angrily. And then, distinctly, another voice: Chet Kincaid.

  “Come on,” Byron said. He flung the door open and ran out onto the sidewalk. Down towards Times Square, he could see the flash of tracer in the air cutting across the Statue of Liberty.

  Byron started running towards the square, heard Erika behind him.

  Three bikers appeared, spread across the street and racing straight towards them, Sand Shark insignia on their machines and on their leather jackets.

  Byron swore, flung himself down onto the sidewalk, just as the bikers opened up. Bullets whistled above his head, sprayed the wall to his left, sending chips of brick flying across the street.

  As the three machines went roaring past, Byron pulled himself around, aimed his pistol and fired.

  The bikers were weaving and dodging around the road. All his shots went wide.

  Ahead of him, Erika was on one knee, gripping her pistol with both hands, as if she were posing for an Op Manual. The three Sand Sharks were at the intersection, already swinging left, about to put solid buildings between them and Op bullets.