Bloodfire

Nowadays, much of the electronics, radio and comps and other fancy tech were gone, ripped out to make room for additional fuel, water and food. There had even been a set of rudders and propellers as if the damn APC was a boat of some kind! Pure madness to think steel could float. Just more deadweight, Gaza thought, to haul around and waste precious fuel. However, he had kept the winch and 40 mm smoke makers, even though he had no chems for those.

Stripped to the bare essentials of might and flight, the imposing war machine still ruled the wastelands. Thick canvas sheets draped the machine to offer protection from the deadly noon sun, the heavy material soaked with a tacky glue made from boiled bones and then sprinkled with sand to create an effective mask to hide its shape and armament, which were considerable. Where the canvas yawned, there could be seen the original mottle of tans and creams similar to those of an Appaloosa horse, near perfect camou for the desert surroundings.

The ventilated barrel of a .50-cal thrust out of the forward blaster port of the prow so the driver could fire and steer at the same time, and from the turret there dominated the imposing barrel of a 25 mm cannon that could traverse horizontally and vertically to track in every direction to find its prey.

Inside the war wag, the air was warm, reeking of diesel fumes and machine oil, the dangling belts of linked ammo jingling musically as the APC rolled over the warming desert. Crouched in the driver’s seat, Baron Gaza grinned in pleasure at the sound of the dangling ammo. The jury rigging to mount the cannon to the pintel mounting had been a bitch, but now the 25 mm cannon worked perfectly. Hawk had done a good job of cleaning and oiling the big blaster. Now the APC was a proper war wag, armed to the eyeballs, and more than a match for the armed trucks of the Trader.

Moving to the motion of the machine as if they were on a ship at sea, the five women in the rear wall seats leaned toward the small air vents, savoring every breeze that blew in from underneath the canvas sheeting. To endure the oppressing heat, the baron’s wives had stripped down to the bare essentials, their wealth of bare skin shiny with sweat that dripped off their bodies to fall onto the corrugated steel deck. However, strips of cloth were tied around every wrist to keep their hands dry and ready to use the blasters holstered on their bare hips, and the loaded rapidfires lying across their open thighs.

Sticking a cig into his mouth, Gaza kept one hand on the steering yoke while he lit the smoke and pulled the rich, dark smoke deep into his lungs. The damn things were as addictive as jolt, but smoking helped him stay razor. They were deep in Core territory now, and whatever that white nuke cloud had been, the baron was triple damn sure the Core would also be going there to do a recce. Fucking mutie bastards.

Shifting in his sticky chair, the baron stretched out his sore leg and in the gunner’s chair, Kathleen moved out of the way to give him some more space. Gaza grunted at the act of kindness. His bad leg was starting to ache from being in the cramped position for so long, but that was a lot better than being crucified by the rebelling civies of his own ville for lying to them for so many years. Stupid feebs didn’t understand that sacrifices needed to be made in war. They should have been honored that he choose Rockpoint ville as his base to strike at the Trader, and then use his stockpile of preDark weapons to build an empire in the Deathlands. To create a New America that would purge the world of muties and freaks. A world of norms! It was to have been—no, would be—a war of purification. And the blood of the dead would nourish the sand until it would grow crops, and America would be green once more. Alive and safe. With Emperor Gaza as the absolute ruler.

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