Devil Riders

“Looks good so far,” she announced, bent far over the engine. “Somebody want to check the axles?”

“Hold it. Before we go any further, maybe I should go outside and see where we are,” J.B. offered. “Could be daylight out there. Could be a ville only a few miles away and we don’t need to rebuild a wag. Just walk there.”

Going through the glovebox for a map, Ryan found nothing but transport papers in military code and slammed it shut.

“Nuke that shit. We all go outside together,” he growled. “Open that blast door, and there could be a hundred millipedes waiting to rush in. Best to be mobile when we leave in case of trouble.”

The mental image of a nest of the muties made the Armorer grimace in spite of himself, and he recognized the wisdom of the caution. Rabbits ran fast, but they always ended up in the stew because they were stupid. Smart and slow was how you kept your head, as the Trader always used to say. True words.

As the companions worked on rebuilding the wag, a millipede scurried past the open doorway of the stairwell.

“Little bastards must be hidden somewhere we haven’t looked,” Dean growled, starting to reach for his blaster. But the insect was already gone, chased away from the nukelamps. He couldn’t imagine why J.B. had never tried making one of those before. They worked great.

“Fuck ’em,” Ryan decided, wiping off his hands before taking another bite of the venison jerky. He chewed for a while before continuing. “They can have the base. We’ll be leaving soon enough.”

In short order, a jack was found and the big wag was given the best of the assortment of tires from the other wrecks. Hoses were exchanged, wires replaced, wiper blades, everything they could replace with the simple tools available. Plus, a box full of spare parts, fuses and such. Just in case.

Slowly the hours ticked by and the air in the redoubt was becoming noticeably ripe from the dead bugs and sweating humans. More than once Ryan thought about opening the blast door to the outside, but decided against taking the chance. There was a small breeze of hot air coming from under the closet door. That would have to suffice until they were ready to roll. Might only get one chance at this, so be it better be good.

“Well, the nuke battery is in place,” Krysty said, stepping away from the engine of the wag and wiping off her hands. “We have plenty of power, and the tires are good. Just no juice left in the gas tank.”

“That we have to spare,” Ryan said, tightening the last of the fourteen lug nuts on the rear tire. “Fill the tank, and let’s take twenty additional cans, fifteen for us, five for bartering.”

“Why not take all of the cans we can fit?” Dean asked, then paused. “Because we have to leave room for us and supplies. Right. Never mind.”

“Trade juice?” Jak asked, starting to lug over the heavy fuel containers. “Ammo best. Few folks got wags, but all barons got blasters.”

“Fuel is better,” Mildred countered, removing the cap to the fuel tank. There was a sigh of escaping fumes as dry as a Baltimore martini. God, how she missed those. “Also, fuel is less deadly if it comes our way again.”

“Never heard of a Molotov?” J.B. asked, lashing the exhaust pipe tighter into place with a twisted length of stiff wire.

Then crawling from underneath the chassis, the man said, “Damn but that’s a good idea. Make some Molotovs in case of more millipedes. We got the juice to spare, and there was a bar full of empty liquor bottles in the officers’ mess. And Krysty found those foam cups before.”

“There was some liquid soap in the laundry, too,” Dean added, lugging over a can of fuel.

“Soap is good, but foam is better,” Ryan said, using his panga to scrape some corrosion off a set of electrical contacts. “But we’re also going to need additional water. The hot air that was coming from the cracked vent could mean we’re in a desert.”

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