thinking.
If Arcadian had some motive for sending Toms to Jackson Spire, then they would be wise to be triple red. Maybe the baron was nothing more than a dabbler in trying to expand his empire than K.T. had half suggested. But maybe he had some motive that was as yet unfathomable, involving the convoy as much as—if not more than—the people of the ville.
The eighth wag of the convoy was an old military vehicle that had, at one time, been used as troop transport. Bench seats still filled the first half of its length before giving way to an area that had been cleared at the rear of the vehicle. Here were two mounted Brens, ancient but reliable, that covered both sides of the road. Currently they were manned by two of the wag crew. Ryan and Krysty were due to relieve them in an hour. Meantime, they tried to rest, knowing how uncomfortable the metal bucket seats of the Bren mountings could become. But it was far from easy, as Toms was a great believer in utilizing space to the max: cartons and wooden crates were piled precariously around them, barely contained by webbing. These were crew supplies, and were carried in sec wags to keep them separate from trade cargo. It was a reasonable system, except that it took no account of crew comfort during rest periods.
“Asshole trees,” K.T. cursed, louder than his previous mumblings. “Makes the land hard to read. You don’t read the land, you don’t know what’s gonna jump out at you.”
Which was precisely why Ryan and Krysty were themselves cursing at that moment. They were trying to get rested so that they could stay triple red, yet thinking that the only thing that was going to leap out at them on benches like these were their own kidneys.
It was going to be a long ride, despite the distance.
“DO YOU USUALLY follow this route?” J. B. Dix asked mildly, taking a look through the periscope attachment that had been welded into the roof of the rear wag. It was a fine piece of work, salvaged from who knew where and lovingly maintained. The welder had been a craftsman, the bearing-mounted swivel allowing J.B. to take a full 360-degree look at the territory through which they were passing.
Despite the mildness of his tone, J.B. felt uneasy. He had picked up from overheard murmurs that this wasn’t the usual route taken on leaving Arcady. The scope showed him that the roadsides were dense, impenetrable foliage, almost like a jungle—creeping vines, twisted and gnarled tree trunks with overhanging branches pendant with dark, oily leaves; thick, spiky grasses that poked out of gaps and lined the hillocks on which the trees rose and fell. Dark, ominous rustling from within could be danger, or could be just the movement of the heavy plant life.
This was the territory that had once been known as Missouri. Some of the vegetation he could see would have existed here before skydark, perhaps changed by the mutation of the nukecaust. But most of it was alien—not just to here, but to anywhere that he had ever been. Not least of which was the route they had taken into the ville. There was a sense of foreboding that hung over the old flat-top highway. It may have just been the darkness where the canopy of leaves blocked the sun, or it may have been the way in which the trees seemed to loom, as though waiting for the right moment to pounce.
Someone or something had laid this vegetation along this route. He’d bet on someone, and he also knew who would be his likely suspect. But the question was why? Was it a defense? In which case, why was the convoy being sent to Jackson Spire, which presumably was the only settlement along this old road, and the only place from which Arcady could want protection?
Or had they been sent this way because the foliage was part of an offensive rather than defensive measure? In which case, where was an attack to come from? The why could wait.
J.B.’s question was finally answered. “Not usual to go this way, no. But then, we’ve never been to Jackson Spire before. No reason to, really. As far as we were concerned, it was a dead-and-alive pesthole, with nothing to take us there. Nothing to trade, and no jack to buy.”
The giant Lou stretched himself, his arms rising so that they pushed against the roof of the wag, even from his seated position. He yawned, then pivoted on his swivel-mounted chair so that he faced the Armorer rather than the front of the wag.
“Why? Does it matter?” J.B. shrugged. He thought it might, but there was no need to cause unnecessary panic. “I was just wondering. It’s this weird shit at the sides of the road. Not what I remember when we came in.”
Lou thought about it for a moment, scratching at the stubble on his chin. “That’s true enough,” he said slowly. “Never seen anything like this around these parts before. Then again, Jackson Spire has a reputation for being rad-blasted, which is part of the reason people like us have avoided it before. Guess it’s just rad shit that’s done this.”
J.B. sniffed. “Yeah, guess so,” he agreed.
Of course he didn’t. There was an itch at the base of his neck, a sharp prickle that alerted him to a possible danger. If nothing else, he was going to stay triple red and be ready if it came at them.
Carefully, he stepped back from the scope, took off his spectacles and polished them with the hem of his shirt. As he did, he locked eyes with Mildred Wyeth. The doctor had been checking the med supplies that she always carried with her, separate to those of the convoy. It was the first chance she’d had, given the speed with which they had prepared for departure. But as she had listened to the exchange between the giant sec lieutenant and the Armorer, she had paused in her task. She knew J.B. far too well to take his words at face value, and she knew when he was trying to keep something back. Now, as he shot her a glance that was intended to stay hidden from the other crew members, she understood.
The wag that traveled at the rear of the convoy was longer than any others, and had a larger crew. Six people, besides J.B. and Mildred, were in the vehicle. A radio operator sat at a right angle to the wag jockey. All the vehicles were connected by an old shortwave system that, like the scope, had been salvaged and maintained with care. The whirling, crackling sounds of the rad-scoured ether were an ever-present low-volume background to the business of the wag, occasionally rising above the hum of the engine, sometimes blending with it almost hypnotically, broken now and then by the distorted voices of other wags passing messages.
The wag jockey had a sec man riding shotgun. Currently, an aging and emaciated man named Keef rode there, peering from behind spectacles thicker than those of the Armorer.
Behind these seats were chairs bolted to the floor of the wag. Lou reclined in one of these, and he was joined by another crew member. The final man in the wag crew—unusually, this was an all-male wag—was seated at the rear. A heavy-duty cannon was mounted over the rear axle, its barrel and scope exiting through the space that had once housed doors, but which had been modified to mold steel plate shielding around the blaster.
Around the chairs bolted into the floor were crew supplies, and along the sides of the wag were welded secure cabinets that housed meds and armament. It didn’t leave much room for the crew, cramming them close together. Yet, because of the low level of interior light—the windshield and wire-meshed glass on the side doors being augmented by fluorescent-lighting run off the battery—it was still possible for J.B. to convey all he wished to Mildred without anyone else in the wag being aware of what passed between them.
She moved across the floor of the steadily rolling wag, picking her way around the crates and cartons, so that she could take a look at the roadside. When she did, the sight took her by surprise: while inside the wag, having seen nothing of the outside since the convoy started to roll, she had assumed that they would be passing the kind of landscape that she had seen surrounding Arcady. This, however…
“Wow, that is kind of weird,” she said in the best ingenuous tone that she could muster. “Can I take a better look?” she
