Hell Road Warriors

Huge blast doors dominated the far wall. The most important thing was the vehicle bay off to the side. There were three bays, and two were empty. Ryan could smell gas and see fresh grease in the bays. The last bay was occupied by a Light Armored Vehicle. Ryan took in the 25 mm cannon and the eight giant road wheels.

The armored vehicle was painted a dark military green and looked like it had just rolled off the factory floor. “You remember, Ryan? When we wagged it up to Seattle in one?”

Ryan remembered. “LAV 25.”

“Nah, this is a LAV III.”

Ryan didn’t see much difference other than the red maple leaf painted on the prow.

J.B. was shaking his head, only he wasn’t smiling any more. “Ryan?”

Ryan was shaking his head, too.

It was too much. No one would leave this kind of wealth behind. There were only three explanations. One, it was a grotesquely well-baited trap. Two, something horrible was lurking in this Canadian redoubt that they just hadn’t run into yet. Three, and most likely, there was simply too much loot here for whoever had been visiting to carry or wag away, and they would be back. Though that did beg the question, why didn’t they leave anyone to guard it?

“Ryan?” J.B.’s eyes glittered behind his glasses in pure avarice. “Tell me we’re taking that wag.”

Jak looked around the Diefenbunker meaningfully and said what everyone was thinking. “Stuff it full,” Jak voted. “Run south.”

Ryan knew Doc’s vote but he asked anyway. “Doc?”

Doc sagged with visible relief at the idea of not having to go through the mat-trans. “I believe a cross-country jaunt across Canada might be edifying to both mind and body.”

“Mildred?”

“Doc’s right. We’re all tired of jumping. Last few things we jumped into were bad. In a vehicle at least we can see what’s coming. Plus I’m thinking Canada couldn’t have got hit anywhere near as hard as the States. Maybe clean air, clean water.” Mildred’s eyes got faraway like Doc’s sometimes did when he thought of the past. “I remember Ontario being beautiful.”

Ryan looked to Krysty. “Lover?”

“I’m going whichever way you’re going, jump or drive.” Krysty ran her eyes up and down Ryan’s long, hard, scarred frame and then smiled at the Canadian Land Force LAV III behind him. “But I’ll tell you something. That wag looks good on you.”

One of Ryan’s rare smiles crossed his face. The vote was unanimous.

“J.B., you and me load it and check it. Cannon, coax, top blaster, gren launchers, spare fuel everything. Full war load. Everyone else, food, trade goods and supplies. Blasters, ammo, ration packs.” Ryan nodded at the external cleats and equipment cages. “Load it to the gills. I want to wag out of here within the hour.”

Chapter Two

“Clear!” Krysty called. She tracked the security periscope. All the computers were locked down, including those controlling the sec cameras. The Diefenbunker did have several periscopes strategically placed around the facility. “Got some daylight left!” She let go of the periscope’s handles.

Ryan stood in the commander’s hatch of the LAV behind the pintle-mounted Minimi Squad Automatic Weapon. “Mildred!”

The physician hit a big red button and the blast doors began grinding open. The two women ran and jumped in the back hatch.

“Jak! Button her up and take us out!” The LAV’s rear ramp whined up while red light spilled into the vault of the Diefenbunker’s entry bay from the outside. Gears ground as Jak sent the LAV rumbling out into Ontario. The sun wasn’t quite setting yet, but it was a low red ball in the sky. The sky pulsed with sheets of red and green light as if it were on fire. Ryan had seen the Northern Lights before, but not often while the sun was still shining. In the lurid light Ryan saw a plain of low rolling hills broken up by stands of pines. Ryan also saw a war going on about a mile away.

“Jak! Hold up! J.B., up top!”

The gunner hatch clanged open and J.B. stood from behind the cannon. Ryan pointed. The Armorer took up his binoculars. Almost a mile ahead the land dropped into a shallow depression. Within it a sizable convoy was pulled up into a defensive circle. Outriders besieged it on every side. Ryan ran his Navy longeye over the encircled wags. He counted about a dozen vehicles of all different descriptions with men firing out of, from underneath and between them. Diefenbunker gear and supplies were strapped to the outsides of the vehicles. Most interesting were the convoy’s two LAVs. It explained the empty bays in the bunker. One was like the one Ryan and his companions were in, and it was burning out of control.

“Attackers.” J.B. grimaced. “They got some kind of tank buster.”

Ryan scanned the other LAV. “That one doesn’t have a turret.”

The Armorer’s eyes went wide. “That, is an engineering-recovery vehicle. Check the crane folded down on the back, the dozer blade and the winch.” J.B. sighed. “How many times could we have used one of those when we were with Trader?”

More times than Ryan could count. In the Deathlands a vehicle like that was worth its weight in anything, including human life. Ryan noticed it wasn’t attracting much in the way of fire despite the fact a man in the top hatch was firing a machine blaster like the one Ryan stood behind. The one-eyed man scanned the enemy ringing the convoy. Most of them had off-road bikes, but they had laid their bikes down and were firing prone from behind rocks and folds in the earth. Some of the pits were clearly man-made. They had chosen their ambush site well. They had probably blown the LAV before the convoy knew what was happening. The convoy had been surrounded in plain sight of the sanctuary of the Diefenbunker and cut off. Ryan picked out some 4x4 pickup wags pulled far back from the fight. The attackers were numerous, heavily armed and equipped for cross-country speed. Most had painted their faces with skulls, abstract designs or swathes of color. It wasn’t camouflage. It was war paint and designed to terrorize.

They were coldhearts.

J.B. pointed. “Watch there.”

A coldheart rose up with broad length of pipe over his shoulder. A man behind him touched a flame to the fuse in the back and ducked. A rocket hissed out of the pipe and shot out of the tube. The object arced and twisted in flight and exploded into the ground in a blast of orange fire and gray smoke a dozen yards from one of the caravan’s flatbeds.

J.B. snorted derisively. “Home made. Black powder. Not even spin stabilized. Real close you could take out a wag, even a big one, but nothing like what we’re sitting in. They still got a tank-killer we haven’t seen.”

The driver’s hatch clanged open. Jak’s head popped up. His eyes were the same color as the sinking sun as he surveyed the scene. “Pickin’ sides?”

Ryan was about the closest thing to a decent human being that could survive in the Deathlands. He could see there were women in the convoy, and the attackers looked like they were doing what they liked to do best. Nightcreeping and ambushing.

“Not our fight, and they got something down there that can kill us all.” Ryan shook his head wearily. It was a scene he had seen far too many times in his life. He was reluctant to walk away, but his friends came first. “We’re out of here and— Fireblast!”

Ryan’s hand crushed the top of J.B.’s fedora as he shoved him back into the turret. Three men had crept up out of a fold in the terrain and a rocket hissed straight at the LAV. Jak slammed the driver’s hatch shut. Ryan dropped down the commander’s hatch as a thunderclap backhanded the LAV. Mildred yipped as the armored war wag rocked violently on its chassis. The brimstone stench of black powder filled the air from the open hatches. The coldhearts howled with bloodlust outside. “Die! Die! Die!”

“Jak,” Ryan snarled, “we just picked sides!”

Jak answered by stomping on the gas. The LAV lurched forward. Bullets whanged and spalled off the hull. Ryan rose out of the hatch and leaned into the light machine gun’s stock. He rattled off a 5-round burst into a shrieking, painted face. Dust flew from the chest of a second coldheart as Ryan hammered him down. The last man dropped his rocket tube and turned to run screaming. He was still screaming as he went down beneath the LAV’s wheels.

Ryan knew he was a bullet magnet standing in the turret, but buttoned up it was very hard to see the enemy coming. “Jak, take us about a thousand yards out! Western side. Get us in range of those pickups!” Jak put a low hill between the LAV and the battle and began sneaking west.

“J.B.?”

The Armorer sat in the gunner’s chair. He’d pushed his fedora firmly on his head and tapped his finger against a small comp screen. “Fire control comp is locked, like inside. Going to have to shoot manual. Jak, get me within three hundred yards!”

The LAV rolled across the terrain at speed. Jak suddenly drove up a low gradient and parked on the crest of a low hill looking down on the battle. It would be a matter of seconds before they were spotted.

Ryan called down into the cabin. “Krysty, Mildred, Doc! Out, and keep an eye on our six!”

The back door lowered and they spilled out, blasters at the ready.

The turret whined and the seven-foot, fluted cannon barrel dipped as J.B. picked a target. Sitting in the gunner’s seat and looking through the manual aiming optical gradients, he was calculating more than aiming.

The muzzle of the cannon thudded and spit smoke.

Five coldhearts surrounding a pickup three hundred yards distant just about crapped their homespun coveralls as the high-explosive round detonated uncomfortably close. “Ten wide! Thirty short!” Ryan called. The turret turned a hairbreadth. The barrel tilted up an even tinier increment. The cannon spit. The coldheart pickup’s hood flew up into the air and the windshield shattered. The man behind the wheel disappeared in a haze of blood and smoke.

Coldhearts scattered.

Ryan kept his eye on the big picture as J.B. traversed for targets of opportunity. A coldheart had leaped up from his firing position and was jumping onto his bike. The 25 mm blaster thumped and man and motorcycle burst apart in a cloud of flesh and metal. Ryan nodded as he continued to scan the surroundings. “Nice shot, J.B.”

A pleased noise drifted up from inside the turret.

“J.B.!” Jak pointed excitedly at another pickup. Ryan whipped up his Navy longeye for a moment and smiled. The back of the wag contained a pallet of the homemade rockets.

“Oh yeah!” J.B. enthused.

Ryan thought he might be enjoying this a little too much. “I make it four hundred yards, J.B.!”

“Right!” The turret turned. The muzzle of the cannon elevated a few inches then. The blaster thudded and earth flew up in a geyser.

“Dead on but thirty short!” Ryan called.

The men around the wag didn’t need a second shot. They knew what they were carrying and they ran for their lives. The cannon hammered again and more earth flew.

“Dead on! Ten short!”

The smoking muzzle of the cannon rose almost imperceptibly and thudded.

The wag and its load blew sky-high. Jak whooped. The grass around it rippled and flattened out in a thirty-yard wave. A column of black smoke rose into the bloody sunset. The remaining pickups tore up turf in their haste to escape. Motorcycles fled the scene of the ambush and coalesced into a herd stampeding northward into the low hills. Ryan was interested to notice they took the time to take their dead with them. The pickups streaked after them.

“Moving targets!” J.B. called up. “Hard to hit on manual!”

“Hold fire,” Ryan ordered.

Krysty looked up at Ryan in his perch. “We going down?”

“No. Let them come to us. J.B., stay on station, keep the cannon pointed at anything that comes.”

Ryan watched the convoy. They stayed in defensive formation. A lot of heads stayed turned their way, but the people took care of their dead and wounded and transferred loads from ruined vehicles. A Volkswagen Iltis broke away from the defensive circle and drove slowly toward Ryan’s band. A man stood in the back holding a white flag. Ryan filled his hand with his new Scout longblaster and clambered down from the turret. Jak hopped down after him. The muzzle of J.B.’s cannon watched them like the cold eye of death, making slight adjustments as the wag closed. The 4x4 stopped about twenty yards away. The driver was a gray-hair wrinklie in homespun, and he stayed behind the wheel. The man sitting shotgun and the man in back jumped out. The man in front was clearly in command, but Ryan kept his eye on the other one.

He was black, half a head taller than Ryan and looked to be about half again as heavy, all of it muscle. His head was shaved, and he wore a sheepskin coat someone had tailored to his massive frame. The stainless-steel lever action blaster he carried looked like a toy in his hand. He was obviously a sec man and a damned impressive one.

The leader was a plain-looking man and he stepped straight up to Ryan. He was neither tall nor short. His brown hair was clipped short as was his mustache and beard. The most notable thing about him was his green eyes. They literally twinkled as he smiled at Ryan, and the man radiated a busy, competent sort of energy. His predark parka, cargo pants and boots looked as though they had only recently been put into use. A shiny knew Diefenbunker SIG-Sauer blaster was tucked under his belt. He raised an open right hand in friendship and spent long moments saying something to Ryan that sounded mostly like vowels. It kind of sounded like language Ryan had heard in Cajun country. He looked at Jak. The young man’s snowy brows were bunching mightily. His head cocked slightly as he tried to digest what he had just heard.

Doc took a step forward and made a graceful bow. “Parlez-vous anglais?”

The convoy leader grinned. “But of course.” He nodded at Ryan again. “Hello!”

Ryan nodded noncommittally. “Hi.”

“I am Yoann Toulalan, son of Baron Luc Toulalan, baron of the ville of Val-d’Or.”

Krysty shot Ryan a look, who had caught it, too. Val-d’Or was one of the Diefenbunker locations in Quebec. He nodded at the baron’s son again. “Ryan.”

“Uh…” Toulalan seemed nonplussed at Ryan’s taciturn part in the exchange. He threw up his hands and grinned again. “Well! You are our savior!”

“Glad to help.”

The big man’s face split into a smile as he loomed over Jak. His voice was incredibly deep. “This one is mutant.”

Krysty’s lips tightened but she kept her mouth shut. For the moment.

Ryan’s voice went quiet and cold. “Albino, it’s a condition.”

“Ah.” Toulalan nodded. “We know of such things.”

The big man turned to Ryan and tilted his chin at the LAV and the supplies strapped to the sides. “You stole from us.”

Toulalan made a tsking noise.

Ryan spoke quietly. “You left it. Headed west. With no one to look after it.” The one-eyed man lifted his chin toward the smoking ruins of the coldheart wags. “Except mebbe them.”

The big man slowly straightened in outrage. For a heartbeat Ryan thought it was going to be a fight. Mildred had been in the LAV with J.B. She stepped out angrily. “Why don’t you back off, brother-man!”

The man’s rage fell away. He was clearly startled at the sight of Mildred. His mouth opened and closed again.

Toulalan took the opportunity to step in. “Monsieur Ryan, may I introduce my head security man, Vincent Six. Forgive him. We have taken losses, lost friends. We’re all upset.”

Six tore his eyes off Mildred for a moment. He looked like he didn’t give a spent shell whether Ryan forgave him, but the big man grunted and nodded. Ryan nodded back. Six went back to openly eyeballing Mildred, who put her fists on her hips and glared back.

Toulalan gestured back at his wag. “And allow me to introduce my dear friend Florian Medard, he’s our, how would you say…scholar?”

Florian nodded and touched a pair of fingers to his head in greeting. His eyes ran over each member of the companions and seemed to be cataloging them.

Ryan shrugged. “What do you want?”

Toulalan blinked in surprise. “I believe the question is, what do you want? You have driven off our enemies. For that we are deeply in your debt, but by the same token, you could easily decimate our convoy with your autocannon. I merely ask, what are your intentions?”

“I don’t know.” Ryan shrugged. “Head south mebbe.”

“Well, would you care to join us in our evening meal? Six shot a wild boar just this morning.”

“We just had pizza.”

“We had pizza for lunch!”

“We noticed.”

Toulalan gave Ryan a very shrewd look. “We have more beer.”

One corner of Ryan’s mouth quirked against his will. “Bastard.”

Toulalan threw back his head and laughed. “Florian, go tell Cyrielle we have guests for dinner tonight.”

Chapter Three

Ryan gnawed contentedly on a rib of barbecued wild boar. Little more than reconstituted Diefenbunker olive oil, salt and fresh-picked herbs had worked glory over the fire spit. The convoy had broken out predark folding picnic tables, lit fires, candles and storm lanterns, and it was a full-on feast. A woman played a mandolin, accompanied by flute, and several people were dancing. Toulalan’s sister pressed a fresh can of Diefenbunker beer into Ryan’s hand. She was nothing like her brother. She was small and dark with black hair, olive skin and huge dark eyes. However the twinkle in her eyes, the penchant for smiling and similar mannerisms made their kinship unmistakable. Ryan chewed the arc of bone more out of habit and for pleasure than anything else. In the Deathlands one often never knew where the next meal was coming from. Gorging was a reflex. The pig had been accompanied by green beans and something called potatoes au gratin that had sent Mildred to sighing with joy. The convoy had spent several days resuscitating large quantities of the Diefenbunker’s cryo-frozen fresh food. Six’s pig had also been accompanied by beer.

The convoy was celebrating survival. They celebrated Ryan and his friends as conquering heroes. They had moved the convoy to a little hill surrounded by flat plain. The convoy formed a loose defensive ring around the hill. Sentries had been sent out, and Ryan’s LAV sat on crest with a 360° view of the landscape, ready to rain doom on anyone who approached. Jak was taking the first watch in the turret.

Krysty leaned her head against Ryan’s shoulder. “You think they’re fattening us up for the kill?”

Ryan spoke quietly into her titian tresses. “No, they lost their fighting LAV because they barely know how to operate it. If we hadn’t shown up, they’d be dead. They’re laying out the spread because they want us to join up.”

“And?”

“I haven’t made up my mind,” Ryan whispered. “And Toulalan looks like he’s about to get down to recruiting.”

Yoann Toulalan raised an ancient piece of plastic picnic stemware full of wine in Ryan’s direction. “Salut, mon ami!”

Ryan raised his can along with everyone else at the table and sipped the brew.

“So,” Toulalan began, “you’ve been in the bunker, no?”

Ryan looked up at the LAV on the hill and back at Toulalan.

The man shrugged sheepishly. “Yes, but of course. But we have access codes. May I ask how you gained entrance?”

“You can ask,” the one-eyed man replied.

The irony wasn’t lost on the Canadian. “Yes, I see.”

“Let me ask you a question,” Ryan said.

“Anything,” Toulalan replied.

“That bunker is still loaded with food, blasters and goods, and you’re driving away from it.” Ryan lifted his chin and pointed. “Quebec is that way. Why aren’t you loaded to capacity and running for home?”

Toulalan shrugged. Ryan was beginning to believe the man’s shoulders, hands and eyebrows were connected to his mouth. “Well, my friend, there’s more to life than bullets and beans.”

That struck a sympathetic chord with Ryan. “And so?”

“I’m an explorer.” He shot Ryan a very shrewd look. “Like yourself.”

Ryan kept his poker face. More times than he could count he and his friends had found places as decent as the Deathlands got to settle down in. But in the end Ryan always kept moving on, always exploring. He was more than an explorer, knew in his heart he was a searcher. Many people, even some of his companions had accused him of searching for something he would never find; and that he really didn’t even know what he was searching for anymore. Nevertheless, his friends followed him, willingly.

Toulalan pursed his lips in thought. “Would you care to hear some Canadian history?”

There was nothing at the moment Ryan wanted to hear more. He took a sip of beer and idly considered the can. “If you want to tell it.”

“Well, skydark came. This we all know. But Canada, we had no nukes and far fewer—how do you say…high-value targets? Oh, we got hit, but for the most part surgically. Capitals, military bases. It wasn’t like the horrific exchange that created the Deathlands. We have been south. We know. Few earth-shaker bombs, tailored viruses or, as we say, orgy weapons like the United States and its prime enemies flung at one another.” Toulalan sipped wine. “Nevertheless, the weather changed, the Earth changed. Tailored viruses will spread, and fallout and chem storms, well, they know no boundaries. When the big freeze happened, well…” Toulalan shrugged. “This is Canada.”

“And?”

“And so. In the Deathlands, people left the cities because they were radioactive. In Canada, the cities were abandoned because in the nuclear winter they were freezing and there was nothing to eat. You have thousands of ruins. We have thousands of ghost towns. Winters were always long in the north and summers short. Now the winters are longer and the summers shorter. Spring and fall? Beautiful respites, but I warn you, do not blink. They are ephemeral. And come Father Snow, we have, what we call, the hard freeze. You can literally see it come toward you, like an avalanche across the horizon. Pray you never see it, except from behind thick stone walls with a roaring fire at your back.”

“Speaking of that, isn’t it getting a little late in the season,” Ryan questioned, “to wag it cross country?”

“Indeed.” Toulalan leaned forward. “We’re behind schedule. We must push hard.”

“Where are you headed?”

“West.”

Ryan ran his eye over the collection of wags. “I noticed you don’t have a tanker. You got tanks and cans loaded on every wag, but not enough fuel to cross country.” Ryan crushed the empty can in his hand. “You’re going from bunker to bunker.”

Toulalan tossed off a postapocalyptic French-Canadian shrug and considered the one-hundred-year-old wine in his glass by candlelight. “Will you tell me how you got into the bunker?”

Ryan was starting to believe that Yoann Toulalan had no idea what the mat-trans chamber was. “Codes can be broken.”

“The computers are locked.”

“Trade secret.”

“Ah.”

Ryan threw his cards on the table. It might be for an ephemeral moment, but Ontario was green. His rad counter told him this was the cleanest land in North America he’d seen in a while. His friends didn’t want to jump again, and despite his every effort he found himself liking Yoann Toulalan. “What are you proposing?”

“You and your friends can drive and fight a LAV. That’s worth its weight in gold.” Toulalan set his glass on the table. “I’m tempted to offer you a place here in the convoy.”

“But?”

“But I beg of you, tell me something of you and your friends.”

Ryan kept it short and to the point. “I’ve led convoys, guarded convoys and drove convoys. I can drive any wag you got, and I can wrench a little.”

“Very useful.” Toulalan looked up toward the LAV guarding the convoy. “And your pale friend?”

“Jak’s the best fighter I know, and he’s a tracker.”

“Excellent.” Toulalan looked over at J.B. The Armorer was getting deep into his beer. “And your cannoneer?”