Eden’s Twilight Page 29

  “Mebbe we can do something about that,” Ryan said, unlimbering the rapidfire. “J.B. and Mildred, go left, find some more LAW rockets in the other kiosks. Doc and Krysty with me! The last thing either Roberto or Pete will expect is help from the sec men of Cascade.”

  “Let us away!” Doc shouted as a war cry, and everybody took off at a full run.

  Staying off the dirt path and safely in the field of corn, the convoy of wags crushed a wide path through the plants until reaching the paved road, then they paused, and headed in different directions, the UCV and Big Joe going left, War Wag One heading to the right.

  Glancing across the ville, Ryan wondered if Pete was doing the same thing, then dismissed the matter and concentrated on finding some rocket launchers. There was movement in the first kiosk they came to, so the three companions used the M-16 rapidfires through the small blasterports. Men cried out from inside, and kicking down the door Ryan found only dying norms and a crate of grens. Both of those were useless at the moment. There was a radio near a blasterport, but it was soaked and only gave off sputtering crackles.

  Inside their first kiosk, J.B. and Mildred came upon a.50-caliber machine gun and some twitching corpses. The Fifty was too heavy for just two people to carry, so they left it behind and kept going.

  Down in the cornfield, the UCV and the Big Joe turned the corner of the wall and instantly launched missiles at the distant headlights of the huffing Thunder. The steam truck promptly responded in kind, and fiery warbirds lanced through the darkness, machine-gun fire chattering nonstop from all of the wags. The missiles detonated harmlessly in the air, and now the wags turned off their headlights and revved their engines to race across the cropland, heading toward the enemy.

  Unexpectedly, a group of Cascade outriders stood in the corn carrying the lumpy canvas bag of a U.S. Army satchel charge, a sizzling fuse dangling from the side. As the UCV headed directly for the people to run them over, Big Joe unleashed a flamethrower and the deputies were engulfed in the arching spray of burning fuel. Swiftly, the urban combat vehicle darted away from them, and the satchel charge violently detonated, throwing arms and legs toward the stars and flattening the rows of cornstalks for a dozen yards.

  On the other side of Cascade, the door to the next kiosk was suspiciously ajar, and Ryan had the others stop outside. He tossed in a gren with the safety tape and arming pin still securely in place. There came a startled cry, and then the sound of running boots. Hosing the interior of the kiosk with their rapidfires, the three companions cleared out the ambush, then checked for any LAWS. They found two lying near the blasterports, the plastic tubes riddled with ricochets.

  Continuing along the wall, Ryan and the others reached the corner just in time to see an outrider astride a horse launch a LAW rocket at War Wag One. Instantly, Roberto responded with a dozen machine guns. The rocket exploded in midair, then the outrider and her horse were torn apart by the hammering streams of copper-jacketed lead.

  Just then, Roadhog came into view from around the distant corner. There was barely a tick of the clock before both war wags cut loose with everything they had—missiles, rockets, blasters and flamethrowers. The cornfield erupted into violent warfare.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  With the radar still down, Roberto had to aim by sight alone. Again and again, the shimmering laser stabbed out, but each time it missed Roadhog, and only burned a deep groove along the granite wall.

  The driver turned off its headlights, and dark smoke began to gush from the squat machine attached to the rear of the LVTP-7. Forty millimeter gren launchers started pumping out fat canisters that landed among the rustling plants only to issue volumes of additional smoke in a variety of colors.

  Once more, War Wag One tried the laser, but if it hit anything it was impossible to say. In only moments, the cornfield was a roiling cloud bank, the thick chemical fumes merging with the West Virginia night until it was impossible to see anything more than a few feet away.

  Farther down the wall, a powerful searchlight began to sweep the field, the beam dimly piercing the cloud bank and highlighting War Wag One. Promptly, Roadhog launched a salvo of homemade rockets, and Roberto lurched his wag into reverse, moving deeper into the swirling smoke. Firing in unison, Ryan, Krysty and Doc aimed their weapons at the searchlight until there was the sound of shattering glass and the darkness returned.

  Briefly the machine guns of both war wags chattered away, the stuttering flames strobing the misty gloom. Then the traders stopped shooting, and there was only the sound of cornstalks snapping and crunching under the armored transports as they blindly searched for the reclusive enemy.

  Ducking inside a brick guard kiosk, J.B. and Mildred found several moaning deputies lying on the wet floor, their hands and faces covered with pulsating blisters. While J.B. grabbed a bandolier of 40 mm shells off a particularly large deputy, Mildred paused for only a moment to look down at the wounded men. She placed a bottle of soothing calamine lotion taken from the sheriff’s office into the groping hand of one, forced herself to step past them to check the closet and was rewarded with a brace of LAW rocket launchers.

  Rushing outside, the man and woman unleashed their weapons at the colossal Thunder. But both the 40 mm grenades and the 66 mm rockets failed completely to penetrate the massive armor of the lumbering steam truck.

  Unexpectedly, there was a rebel yell from the loudspeakers on top of the urban combat vehicle, and Jak revved the tandem engines to charge toward a delivery van. The civilian wag tried to escape, the people inside firing a variety of predark and homemade blasters, but it accomplished nothing. The steel fork of the UCV slammed into the sheet-metal chassis, skewering it like a fish. Still in motion, Jak cycled the fork upward and behind until the crumpled van full of screaming men fell off, landed with a crash and rolled through the cornfield gushing blood.

  Sounding their whistle, the crew of Thunder headed straight for the UCV, grimly intent on a fast chill, their machine guns chattering nonstop. However, the rounds only ricocheted off the composite armor of the predark fighting vehicle. Easily outdistancing the steam truck, Jak destroyed the second delivery van and chased the third directly into the guns of Big Joe. Freed from the distraction of the vans, the UCV and the Big Joe started circling Thunder, raking the sides with machine-gun fire. The huge steam truck fired two more rockets, but then stopped, its small stockpile depleted.

  “Dark night, they were trying to do that!” J.B. cried. “Most of the space in a locomotive is taken up by cords of wood to fuel the engine. The damn thing is finally out of rockets!”

  “They still have plenty of brass,” Mildred said, tracking the big machine with the LAW. “And if all else fails it can simply ram the UCV and smash it like an empty can.”

  “The bastards gotta catch him first!” J.B. replied, firing a long burst from the M-16 at the steam-powered monster, then pumping a 40 mm gren at the smoking flue. Amazingly it hit the small opening perfectly, but bounced off, the flue well protected by a wire screen.

  Deciding to try for the wheels, Mildred aimed the LAW, but heard shuffling boots from behind and looked backward to see the horribly blistered deputies lurching out of the kiosk, their faces smeared with the pinkish lotion and shaking hands holding blasters and knives. Grimly the physician turned the aft end of the LAW toward the men and pressed the launch button.

  In a loud exhalation, the military rocket streaked away into the night, heading for the distant Blue Ridge Mountains, but from the aft the fiery exhaust tore off arms and legs and sent the tattered bodies sailing away into the ville below, tumbling and turning like broken ragdolls. Only a single deputy somehow managed to stay on the wall, his blaster gone, his hair on fire, bones showing through his burning uniform, a broken leg caught in the doorway of the kiosk.

  Casting away the spent tube, Mildred drew her ZKR target revolver and mercifully dispatched the poor bastard as J.B. turned away from the slaughter to begin firing the M-16 combo again at the apparently unstoppable
Thunder. On a hunch, J.B. blew up a water pump, sending a frothy column of cool water shooting into the air. But if the cold deluge affected the hot engine of Thunder in any way, it wasn’t readily apparent.

  Lowering the fork until it was nearly touching the ground, Jak spun the UCV crazily, then charged for the steam truck.

  “What in blazes is he doing!” J.B. demanded over the chattering rapidfire. “Jak can’t dent that steam truck, it must weight a hundred times more than the UCV!”

  “That’s not the plan!” Mildred growled, firing steadily at Thunder’s viewports. Briefly, she remembered her elementary-school Archimedes and wished the young man luck. He was going to need it.

  Machine guns rattled at the urban combat vehicle and shotguns boomed, a 12-gauge deer slug slamming so deep into the Lexan windshield that Jak could actually see the metal tip. Crouching low, the teenager fishtailed away from the blazing guns and slammed into the side of Thunder. Only skimming the ground, the fork went under the thick armor and stabbed three of the military tires, deflating them instantly. Twisting the steering wheel and braking sharply, Jak managed to rip the tires completely off, the spinning steel rims now several feet off the cropland.

  Charging back into the night, Jak cycled the fork behind the UCV to rub the tires off the fork, then lowered it to the former position and hit the massive steam truck again, this time taking away only two tires. However, the overweight Thunder was starting to list and it slowed considerably.

  Encouraged, Scott swung Big Joe far around the two combatants, then charged in from the right, just as Jak successfully stole one more tire. Moving at its maximum speed, the armored Mack truck hit the locomotive in a deafening crash of metal on metal, headlights shattering, Plexiglas cracking and men screaming.

  The vehicle tilting dangerously to the side, the driver tried desperately to correct the angle, the steam engine hammering to full power. As stubborn as a bulldog, the big Mack truck stubbornly clung to the job, loose dirt and cornstalks flying out from under the spinning tires. Then from out of the darkness, the UCV also rammed into the steam truck right alongside Big Joe, the fork raised as high as it could go. The tine bent against the thick armor, but the impact proved to be the final straw. In slow majesty, the colossal Thunder leaned over to crash onto the corn, inertia forcing the huffing engine onward, plowing up a mountain of dirt as steam began erupting from a hundred cracked and distorted pipes.

  Speeding away from the toppled giant, Jak raced for cover as Big Joe swung around fast and launched its last missile straight down the smoking flue. The warbird busted through the protective screen as if it were gossamer and disappeared down the fiery gullet of the steam truck. A split second later, Thunder violently exploded from within, steam, fire, smoke and engine parts spraying across the bedraggled cornfield in a deafening display of destruction.

  But even before the concussion faded, the UCV and Big Joe reached the paved road and were racing around the ville, with J.B. and Mildred dashing along the wall in hot pursuit. Four down left only one to go. Specifically, Broke-Neck Pete in his unstoppable juggernaut, Roadhog.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Endlessly racing around each other in the thick smoke, War Wag One and Roadhog charged through the dark cornfield, smashing aside the green stalks, their machine guns chattering constantly and gren launchers thumping steadily. Explosions filled the night, but the laser stayed mute and no missiles or rockets were launched. Those big punch weapons were wisely being saved for a clear target.

  Pelting into the next kiosk, Ryan, Krysty and Doc found only dying people and a flamethrower, the butane pre-burner softly hissing below the main barrel. It was a top-notch weapon against people, but utterly useless against a war wag. However, the closet yielded the unusual prize of a Stinger missile. Designed to destroy airplanes, the device had a fantastically long range, and more importantly was a heat-seeker and should be able to zone in on the hot engines of the hidden war wag.

  “Gaia, this damn thing is useless!” Krysty fumed, shaking the Stinger.

  “Indeed, madam,” Doc agreed dourly. “It could just as easily terminate Roberto instead of Pete! It has no way of knowing which wag we want chilled!”

  “Not if we launch it close enough,” Ryan replied, fumbling fingers turning on the old circuits. There was a long pause, and for a moment the man thought the built-in comp was aced, or maybe the batteries, but then the indicators came sluggishly alive, the ready lights flashing brightly.

  Returning to the outside, Ryan, Krysty and Doc stared into the swirling fog, trying to find Roadhog, when a shot rang out from farther down the wall and the Stinger was jerked out of Ryan’s grip to tumble away and detonate harmlessly in the chemical fog.

  Spinning in unison, the three companions triggered their blasters, but the soft lead rounds merely impacted harmlessly on the brick exterior of next kiosk. It was larger than other guardhouses, with no door in front to allow access to the wall, and wide sheets of steel were bolted to the brickwork as additional protection. There were two .50-caliber machine guns jutting from firing slots, along with a flamethrower, and what looked like a missile pod on the roof. Its honeycomb was missing, the torn electrical wires sparking and crackling with power. This was Cascade’s main defense post.

  Just then the disfigured face of MacIntyre briefly appeared in the blasterport, his mottled skin covered with ugly blisters, one eye completely closed from a sagging fold of seared flesh. Instinctively, the companions dived for cover just as a .50-caliber machine gun cut loose, sending out a stream of hot lead and sizzling tracers. The rounds ricocheted off the granite top of the wall, missing them by only inches, then tried to track after them, but apparently the kiosks had been designed to prevent people in one from firing upon the other. A seemingly wise precaution against invaders that had just bitten the locals in the ass.

  Crawling back into the kiosk, Ryan, Krysty and Doc used their M-16 rapidfires to send a hail of 5.56 mm rounds at the sheriff, but the perfectly imbalanced tumblers did even less damage to the armored brickwork than the soft lead rounds from the blasters.

  “We will never ace him from here,” Doc snarled, slapping a spare clip into his M-16. “Krysty and I will keep him busy while you use the stairs and get him from behind!”

  “Got a better idea,” Ryan growled, standing with the flamethrower in his hands. Shoving the fluted muzzle out the blasterport, he squeezed the firing lever and a roaring stream of jellied napalm lanced out to completely engulf the other master kiosk, liquid fire dripping off the brick and entering through every tiny crevice. Screaming horribly, MacIntyre covered his face with both hands and fell from view.

  Waiting a precious minute to make sure the sheriff wasn’t faking, the companions rushed over to the master guardhouse and looked in through a firing slot. The walls were lined with rapidfires and missile launchers, as well as wooden racks filled with grens of all types. A dozen aced men were lying on the ground, their blistered hands and faces showing how they had painfully bought the farm. But there was no sign of Sheriff MacIntyre.

  “Bastard escaped again!” Ryan raged, pounding a fist against the brick wall.

  “The man is a Houdini!” Doc grumbled hatefully.

  Krysty started to reply when she was nearly overwhelmed with an imposing sense of danger. Moving her blaster slowly, she tried to feel the direction of the approaching trouble, but she could barely concentrate from the noise of the blasters, grens and those damn sirens! Gaia, she thought, I wish they would just shut the fuck up! But the howling continued unabated.

  BARELY SLOWING, the rear doors of Roadhog opened and Helga jumped out carrying a CeeGee launcher. Landing in a run, the woman raced away from the war wag, a second launcher bouncing uncomfortably on her back. If the little doomie was right, all she had to do was to stay right there, and when Roberto rolled into view she would put a missile straight through his fragging windshield and end this death dance once for all.

  But as she assumed a firing stance, Helga felt
her animated hair flex wildly as if there was danger nearby, and she swung around to face the murky ville. She could only dimly see the high wall through the dense clouds, but her gut told her that was the source of the real trouble. Without hesitation, Helga aimed the CeeGee and blindly took aim.

  “KRYSTY?” Ryan asked, reaching out a hand.

  Without answering, the scowling redhead fired a long burst from her M-16 into the smoke. As the clip emptied, she dropped the rapidfire and added the five rounds from her S&W revolver.

  Tensed for combat, Doc could see nothing, then something detonated on the ground, creating a fireball that momentarily pushed back the cloud bank to expose the aft end of Roadhog. Instantly, Ryan triggered the flamethrower, and covered the armored war wag from stem to stern in blazing napalm.

  SILHOUETTED IN THE FLAMES, Roadhog became starkly visible, and from out of the fog came a shimmering beam of translucent power that struck the armored prow. Superheated in under a split second, the bolts and welds broke and the armor cracked free, even as the headlights exploded and the Plexiglas viewports fogged into impenetrability.

  Cursing vehemently, Broke-Neck Pete charged for the exit, but the little doomie reached out to cling to the man with a death grip. Savagely, Pete backhanded the child away, and he hit the bulkhead hard, his thin skull audibly cracking from the cowardly blow.

  But even as his eyes closed in death, a smile touched his lips as a single moment later, Roberto fired the laser once more, this time sweeping it across the cornfield, cutting off the tufted tops of the cornstalks and neatly slicing Roadhog in two.

  The massive stores of hoarded ammo and fuel promptly ignited, banishing the night in a hellish explosion that rocked the cropland in a trip-hammer blast, the powerful concussion nearly shaking Ryan and Krysty off the distant wall. Fiery streamers shot high into the sky, grens and land mines detonating in wild pandemonium, spare rockets whizzing out in every direction, creating a staggering display of military firepower unseen since the fall of civilization.