“See anyone?” called Ryan.
“No.”
“I can drive it,” said Finnegan. “Let’s get the fuck out of here ‘fore they come back.”
After a moment Ryan nodded his agreement. There was a simple rule you learned in the Deathlands. If you held it, then it was yours. If someone else held it, then it belonged to them.
The swamp buggy was about to belong to Ryan and his comrades.
THE TRADER HAD ESTABLISHED routines for most occasions. Even for stealing someone else’s transport.
“One gets in, slow and easy. Watch for traps. Small landwag, one man can watch. Big one takes two or three.
Don’t start it until the last possible moment. Say again. Don’t start it until the last moment. Once you make a noise, then they’re on you, and you got borrowed time. Once it’s running, get the chill out of there.”
Finnegan sat in the driver’s seat of the buggy. Krysty, Doc and Lori took the other seats, each watching a different section of the land and river around them. Hennings, Ryan and the Armorer moved into the surrounding forest, their eyes and ears ready for the return of the men who owned the vehicle.
Once he felt he could master the controls, Finn gave a low whistle. The three men fell back, ringing the swamp-wag with their backs to it, eyes raking the shifting wall of green all around them.
“Which way?” asked Finn.
“Cross the river. That’s where the old road went. Must lead to a ville of some kind.”
“Ready?”
“Ready, Finn,” replied Ryan.
The starter was a three-inch nail, bent and smoothed from use. Finn grasped it, pushing on the gas pedal a couple of times. His left hand nursing the throttle, he twisted the starter.
There was a spluttering muffled cough, like a sleeping bear waking in a deep cavern. Finn tried it again. A puff of thick blue smoke spurted from the exhaust, but the engine still wouldn’t fire.
“Again!”
“Bastard won’t”
“Come on, Finn. You’re going to bring every citizen for miles.”
On the third go the engine very nearly caught, turning over a dozen times, then dying away. Krysty half stood in her seat, pointing to her right; to the west.
“I hear someone, Ryan. Men running.”
At the fourth attempt the engine of the swampwag fired, filling the small clearing with a deep throaty roar. Smoke rushed from the exhaust in a choking pall. Standing on the ladder, rifle at the ready, Ryan gestured for the others to climb aboard.
“Go. Fast as you can, Finn. Go ‘cross the river. Make for cover.”
“Only blasters they got look like they come from a hundred years ‘fore the nukes,” said J.B.
The massive wheels began to rotate, throwing a spray of mud and brackish water in the air.
“All the tires give power,” shouted Finnegan, kicking at the rudder bar to steer the buggy into the water.
Ryan watched behind them, where Krysty had warned of men coming fast. But there was no sign of them. He suddenly realized that the bottom of the ladder was going to be immersed as the buggy slid fully into the river and he hastily climbed aboard. Clambering up, his eye caught a movement near the bottom of the short ladder the scaly spade-shaped head of a huge water moccasin emerged above the water, and the two deep-set eyes gazed blankly into his.
The utter depth of feeling made the short hairs bristle at the nape of his neck.
“Left, you gaudy bastard bitch!” cursed Finnegan, wrestling with the unfamiliar controls.
“Open her up!” yelled the Armorer, one hand hanging on to his beloved fedora hat.
“She’s open wider than a low-jack whore’s legs already,” replied Finn, sweat streaming from his chubby face.
They were about halfway into the serene brown water when men appeared on the bank.
“Five of no, six. Seven,” amended Hennings, leveling his gray Heckler amp; Koch submachine gun, steadying the drum magazine on the side of the swampwag.
“Hold fire,” warned Ryan. “We already stole their buggy. Let ’em deal the first hand. See what they’re holding.”
Krysty shaded her eyes with her hand, peering toward the men silhouetted against the elusive sun as it broke through the clouds.