Salvation Road Page 7

  "Jak," the old man said in a low, warning voice.

  Emerson flailed and fell forward as the momentum of his blow took him past Dean. The boy was having similar problems, however, as the momentum of his initial swing, combined with the effort to avoid Emerson's attack, had left him off balance and open to an attack from Rysh.

  The blond workman had a bloodthirsty twinkle in his eye and was smiling savagely as he raised the trowel he had been using for smoothing the mortar Dean laid bricks upon. Dean was falling toward him and was unable to defend himself in time as Rysh drew back his arm to land a blow.

  But the smile was wiped from his face and replaced by a surprised and puzzled frown as an iron grip stayed his arm, steel-tight fingers gripping his forearm and making his fingers tingle and go numb as the blood supply was cut off. He turned to find that Jak had hold of him. Despite the fact that the albino stood several inches shorter than the blonde and was looking up at him, he seemed to swell in Rysh's vision and fill the room.

  Jak's scarred face was impassive, his eyes glittering hard but saying nothing. For a fraction of a second the two men were still, but before the blonde had a chance to act, he felt rather than saw the heel of Jak's other hand as it drove into his face, angled upward and catching him beneath his nostrils, pushing the flesh and bone of his nose up into his head, the pressure forcing his head backward.

  His head snapped back in agony, and he lost his balance, falling backward and dropping the trowel from bloodless fingers as Jak released his grip.

  Dean was still regaining his balance as Emerson swung back toward him. He felt sure he could balance before the big man came for him, but it was unnecessary as Doc stepped forward, clutching a baton that held together the metal sheeting. That was the real use of the long wooden pole, but Doc drove it into the stomach of the workman, the point hitting home and doubling him over, the air driven from his lungs.

  "Boys, you know I don't want any of this."

  The five men stopped, staring toward what would be the main entrance to the extension, where the impassive Crow stood watching them.

  "Just keep working, and we'll all be happy," he said simply before leaving them.

  "SHIT, I KNOW THAT this is supposed to be easier, and keep us from having to strip off and inflame the passions of these poor boys, but I really wish they could put some shade over this bastard. And it's so damn loud," Mildred complained as she shoveled another spadeful of sand into the cement mixer. The predark relic was turning erratically, but enough to mix the concrete that was needed for the construction. The ancient generator that powered it was coughing and spluttering, an ancient relic that was among the treasures amassed by Baron Silas to fulfill his ambition.

  "I'm not one to complain as a rule," Krysty said breathlessly as she tipped another bucket of water into the drum of the mixer, "but I think you may just have a point. There is one thing, though."

  "What's that?" Mildred said, wiping the sweat from her brow.

  "I'd love to know where this baron got all this stuff."

  She put the bucket down and joined Mildred at the side of the drum. They both watched the mix blend inside until it acquired a smooth texture that was thick and gloopy.

  "Looks done to me," Mildred said.

  Krysty shook her head. "I wouldn't know. This is one thing I can truly say I've never had to do before."

  Mildred grinned. "I must've spent a good part of my childhood doing this. My father was a great one for what we used to call DIY—do it yourself," she explained, seeing Krysty's puzzled expression. "Back before skydark there were a lot of people who liked to build and improve their homes as a hobby, and my father was one. Lord, the house always seemed to be like a building site."

  Krysty shook her head. "You know, sometimes the more I hear, the weirder the world sounds before the nukecaust. It gets too hard to imagine."

  "I guess you just had to be there," Mildred said with a tinge of sadness in her tone. "Guess this looks done," she said to change the subject, switching off the mixer and tilting the drum so that the mix spilled out onto a board laid in front of the mixer. The generator calmed down now that it wasn't called on to power the mixer, and as that machine had now fallen silent, a relative calm fell over the site.

  Hal came across to them, pushing a small cart with a shovel at the side. He joined the two women in shoveling the concrete onto the cart.

  There was a strained silence between them, which Krysty attempted to break.

  "How's the work going?" she asked simply.

  From the way Hal looked at her, she immediately knew that it was a mistake.

  "Going well so far, as long as you don't hold us up by not working quick enough."

  "You got any complaint yet?" Mildred countered hotly.

  "Not yet, but it's only the first day, right?"

  "So what's the problem?" Krysty asked.

  Hal stopped shoveling and looked her up and down. "Ladies, you are. 'Cause that's what you is."

  "Say what?" asked a puzzled Mildred.

  "Ladies…you sure as shit ain't men," he elaborated.

  "Well ten out of ten for observation, dumbass," Mildred hissed. "So what the hell does that have to do with anything?"

  Hal looked at her in amazement. "Shit, girl, does havin' a pussy make you stupe or somethin'? You ain't gonna be able to keep up the pace, are you? And if you keep mixing slower and slower, it takes longer and longer to get the wag stop built. 'Cause you got the crucial task, right?"

  "Yeah, I can see that," Mildred agreed, "but that don't matter shit, does it? We didn't ask for it."

  Hal was dismissive. "That don't matter none. We're on good shit bonuses to get this stop built real quick, and we was on target for a real big bonus. Y'see, we's all been out here a long time now, and we ain't had no pussy. That's all there is to think about out here, 'specially when there ain't none. So the thing we all want is to get the hell back and get us some from a gaudy house."

  Krysty looked long and hard at Hal. She could feel her hair creep around the base of her neck, but had to push him to find out exactly what he meant. "What's that got to do with us?" she asked.

  The man grinned, showing a row of rotten, stained teeth with a couple missing. "Shit, I shoulda thought that was obvious. Gaudies cost big jack. We don't get the jack for it 'cause you don't get the work done, then I figure we got the right to take out what we're owed in trade."

  And before either woman had a chance to react, his hand had snaked out to between Mildred's legs, grasping and rubbing at her crotch.

  "Jesus fucking shit," she yelled, leaping back more in surprise than shock. Her arm shot out in a straight-arm punch that hit Hal full in the mouth, breaking a few more of his teeth.

  Despite the force of the blow, the workman wasn't put off. He was stronger than he looked, and although his head jerked back, it made him tighten his grip, causing a jolt of pain to shoot up Mildred's groin. She yelped in agony and fell to the ground. Hal was on her before she had a chance to react, and she could feel his groin hard against her, his foul breath on her ear.

  "Aw, don't play hard to get, babe. I'm real hot, y'know."

  "You'd be hotter if you fried in hell, asshole," Krysty yelled at him, driving the silvered tip of her boot into his ribs, the upward thrust of her foot sending him sprawling off of Mildred and into the remains of the cement.

  While this occurred, a group of men had run from their stations working on the outside of the building. Ryan and J.B. were in the lead, acutely aware of what could happen if the other workers reached Hal's aid first, and the women were outnumbered.

  All were pulled up short by a short burst of Uzi fire. Sitting up and rubbing her aching groin, Mildred saw Petey and Crow walking over to them. The sec man stayed silent and impassive while the foreman spoke.

  "Now, cut that out. As long as they're here, they're not women. And definitely not gaudy house sluts. We all work, we all get what we want. The more trouble we have, the more we fall behind. And that wou
ld be bad. Right, Petey?"

  The sec man looked as uncomfortable as the others at the sudden steel that had entered the Native American's voice. But he still answered, "You call the shots, Crow."

  "Believe it," the giant said softly.

  Turning to the workers, including Ryan and J.B., he said simply, "Get back to work. Now."

  Then, turning to Hal, he spit at the ground by the dazed workman's head. "Fool. Get your ass up and get out of my sight."

  Finally, he said to Mildred and Krysty, "Accept my apologies for this idiot. It won't happen again. And until we finish, it hasn't happened. Are we clear?"

  Before either woman had the chance to confirm or deny they understood his meaning, he turned and walked away, while Petey helped Hal to his feet and hustled him away, pushing the cart loaded with concrete that had sparked the incident.

  "Him I trust," Krysty said, indicating Crow. "But the rest of them?"

  And she shuddered with apprehension.

  FOR THE REST of their time working on the wag stop, there was a palpable air of tension. It was obvious to the companions that the workmen felt resentment toward them fueled by the manner in which the women had treated Hal when he tried to assault Mildred. For their part, they all kept their simmering resentment under control.

  Ryan spoke with them on the evening of the attack, taking them away from the shelter to discuss the matter privately.

  "I know what you all want," he said. "In any other position, I'd agree with you. But we haven't got our blasters, and we're outnumbered, while they're still armed."

  "Beat bigger odds before," Jak muttered. "Mebbe best chill, get out."

  "Our albino friend could have a point," Doc offered. "They will be out to get us now."

  "But we have Crow and the sec men on our side," Ryan argued. "And I really feel that getting to Salvation will be good. If we chill them and get out, then we could have the whole of Baron Silas's sec force on our tail. There's too much time and jack invested here for him to let us go if we stall his plans. Besides where would we go?"

  "Much as I hate to admit it, the man has a point," Mildred said. "Lord alone knows I should be the first to blow them away, but it wouldn't do us much good."

  Ryan nodded. "So it's heads down, people. I reckon as we've got a couple of days' work left here, then we get a ride back to Salvation. I figure we can keep it frosty that long."

  "Mebbe," J.B. mused. "As long as they see it that way."

  THE ARMORER'S WORDS of caution were justified, as the next morning would prove.

  The companions found themselves ignored, cold-shouldered by the workforce when not actually involved in the act of construction. And when they were working on the extension, they were addressed only if necessary.

  And then the accidents happened.

  The first was on the outside of the building, where J.B. and Ryan were working on the outer walls. Those were now in place, and using ladders to scale the twenty-five-foot exterior, the workmen from Salvation were placing roof joists and timbers to take the asphalt tiles that would be laid on top. J.B. and Ryan were shifting the timbers from where they had been stored on delivery, carrying the heavy wood across the short distance to where they were handed up the ladders to Mikey and Molloy, who were placing and securing them across the roof space, flinging boards across the gaps between the tops of the interior and exterior walls, running across to place the joists and poles.

  The two workmen had been talking to each other, and also to Tilson and Hal, who were also catwalking across the open space. But all had been pointedly ignoring Ryan and J.B.

  The one-eyed warrior planted his foot firmly on the first rung of the ladder, shouldering the weight of the joist that J.B. balanced from the rear.

  "Okay," the Armorer said, affirming that he had the joist steady.

  Ryan then began to climb the ladder, swiftly and surely ascending. He gripped the joist with a hooked arm, knowing that J.B. would be lifting the heavy piece of wood by its bottom end and following him up the ladder.

  Sweat pouring down his forehead, plastering his dark curls to his forehead and making his good eye sting with salt, Ryan looked up to see the silent Molloy standing on the edge of the wall, ready to take the joist as Ryan and J.B. pushed it upward, taking the weight until Molloy had rebalanced it for positioning on the roof.

  Molloy watched Ryan impassively, and the one-eyed warrior wasn't surprised that the workman was making him do the maximum amount with the minimum help. That was in line with their behavior all morning, and it wasn't surprising bearing in mind their attitude to the previous day's events.

  "Okay," Ryan granted, partly as a signal to J.B. that they were to push the joist upward, and partly to let Molloy know it was coming.

  As the heavy piece of wood was propelled upward, Ryan felt some of the weight taken by the workman, and the passage of the joist became smoother.

  Both the Armorer and Ryan began to descend the ladder as the joist left their grasp. At the bottom, J.B. paused for his friend.

  "I'll be glad when they've got them all in place. Guess we drew the short straw in this one."

  Ryan grinned wryly. "Is that any surprise?" Then he noticed that the flicker of light on J.B.'s spectacles had disappeared.

  The one-eyed warrior threw himself backward, rolling in the dust as he hit the ground. Without looking, he knew that J.B. had also noticed the sudden change of light and had acted accordingly, particularly as he heard the Armorer curse as he, too, hit the ground.

  But this was drowned by the thud of the joist as it hit the ground at the spot where the two men had been standing a fraction of a second before. The indent it made on the earth revealed that it would have been fatal had it landed directly on the two companions.

  "Dark night," J.B. cursed. "What the hell did you think you were doing?" he yelled at Mikey and Malloy as they stood on the lip of the roof, looking down. But even as he uttered the words, he knew they were rhetorical and pointless.

  "That's careless," Mikey said to Molloy in bland tones. "They'll have to carry that up again."

  INSIDE THE BUILDING, where Emerson and Rysh were still working alongside Doc, Dean and Jak, there were other accidents waiting to happen.

  The walls were now in place, and, wearing improvised masks against the dust, Emerson and Dean were insulating the fuel store while the others were fitting shelves and doors.

  The rolls of insulation were tied together by nylon cords that were knotted in several places, showing how many times the pieces of old rope had been used and recycled. Emerson had a bowie knife, which he had honed on both edges in order to speed his rate of work, and with it he was slicing through the cords at a rapid rate as they unrolled the insulation rolls. They were old asbestos and fiberglass insulation taken from predark factories, and spilled poisonous dust into the enclosed space.

  Dean watched Emerson, distrusting the man with the knife when he was unarmed. Some of the knots on the rope were doubled over, and even with such a finely honed blade the workman was having trouble cutting through the ropes. Dean wondered why Emerson didn't just cut the rope in areas where there were no knots.

  It never occurred to him that it was a piece of low cunning.

  "Check that roll," Emerson barked, his voice muffled by the mask. Dean started, as it was the first time the workman had spoken to him that day. Emerson glared at Dean and repeated, "Check it—asbestos or fiber?" he yelled.

  Dean turned to the roll, thinking nothing of the request. After all, the varying thicknesses of the rolls had been determining their positions on the walls of the room.

  But this roll was difficult. It was wrapped in a layer of cotton cloth, suggesting that there was a greater degree of disintegration than on other rolls. Dean bent to examine the roll through a tear in the cotton cloth.

  As he lowered his head, he felt a rush of air by his ear and a sound like a stone in water by the side of his head.

  "Hot pipe!" he exclaimed, falling to his side. He looked at the
roll and saw Emerson's bowie knife embedded into the roll, the shaft still quivering from the force of the impact. He looked at Emerson, who shrugged his shoulders, eyes cold and impassive above the improvised mask.

  "Guess it slipped out of my hand on a awkward knot," the workman said blandly.

  BEYOND THE FUEL STORE, a similar fate was to befall Jak.

  In one of the rooms, he and Rysh were putting shelving into what would be the food store. They had screws and bracketing for the shelves, but there was only the one screwdriver between the two of them. The only other screwdriver on site being used by Hay, who was in another room installing doors with the help of Doc.

  Rysh pushed a shelf plank toward Jak. "Pick up some brackets and put it on that wall," he snapped.

  A gleam of fire showed in the albino's eyes, but he kept calm in the face of provocation and turned to the wall Rysh had indicated. Placing the plank against the wall, he took some brackets from the pile in the middle of the room and sufficient screws from a large earthenware jar.

  "Screwdriver," he said evenly, indicating his need.

  Jak spoke as he turned, and it was only his incredible reflexes that saved him. For Rysh had decided to pass him the screwdriver by the simple expedient of throwing it at him like a knife.

  The mutie albino saw the sharply pointed instrument speed across the room, and his hunting and survival instincts took over. For Jak, time seemed to slow almost to a halt as the screwdriver hung in midair, his instincts racing fast enough to make the progress of the object in flight seem almost stationary.

  Jak's red eyes focused on the screwdriver, and he brought up his left arm, tight to his body and moving at the elbow. The fingers of his left hand opened and splayed, like wraiths of white mist.

  To Rysh, it seemed like the screwdriver had vanished from the very air itself as Jak plucked it from its flight, the metal shaft grasped between his second and third fingers, his arm whiplashed downward to dispel the momentum of the flight.

  Rysh couldn't help it. His mouth hung open as he gaped at Jak.

  "Next time just pass it," Jak said softly, displaying the screwdriver to Rysh as he lifted his arm. Without waiting to see the workman's reaction, Jak turned his back and began to fit the first bracket.