“Is that why we come out of a redoubt and often find villes and ruins and such directly ahead of us?” Dean asked, his voice already sounding more normal. “Hot pipe, and I thought it was just luck or something.”
As the wag bumped through a low depression, his father paused before answering, “No such thing as luck,” Ryan replied grimly, the wind from the window raffling his long hair. “Only brains and guts. Folks earn what comes their way.”
Nodding in agreement, J.B. fed more power to the wag and the companions rolled into the Stygian night of the salt desert.
AS THE WAG disappeared into the darkness, the ground before the redoubt churned and a swarm of millipedes rose to the surface, snapping their pinchers and running about in circles. The bugs seemed confused that their prey had gotten away, chittering in rage.
Then one millipede paused, its featureless face twitching as it tested the air, searching, tasting. With a high pitched cry, it surged to the west in hungry pursuit of the metal and heat. The rest of the millipedes soon followed, flowing across the salt like a black cloud in the stormy sky above, instincts telling them that where there was a mag field, there was always living food to be found.
Chapter Seven
The ocean breeze blew steadily over the solitary guard on the stone tower as the cannie watched the bobbing headlights of the motorcycle pack crawl along the cliff road toward the oceanfront ville, the moonlight gleaming off the polished skulls on their handlebars.
Far below the base of the cliff, whitecaps were breaking on the smooth stones of the beach with the sound of distant thunder. There was no access to Hellsgate ville from that direction, which was why the elders had chosen to build here. The cliff was sheer, with no path or trail to facilitate passage. And the Mex Gulf was a death trap, the water filled for miles with bits and pieces of predark wreckage, mostly the rusted remains of warships, but also some scattered chunks of buildings and roads. No ship could land without being smashed to pieces. Not to mention the sea muties that pulled down ships and sometimes wandered onto the shore looking for food. Bad things, as big as houses with tentacles and glowing eyes.
Shifting the longblaster slung over his shoulder, the man fumbled in a pocket of his loose clothing and found a flat box. Pressing the release, the box snapped open on squeaky hinges and he looked through the predark opera glasses to sweep the landscape and find the oncoming bikes. Under the magnification, he easily recognized the big Harley of the Blue Devils and smiled. Excellent! The bikers always had plenty of slaves to trade for slick, and afterward there would be a feast for those in good favor with the elders. The guard smacked his lips at the thought, displaying sharpened teeth. It had been too long since he had last eaten fresh meat. The hated Trader had chilled several convoys carrying food to the ville, and the cannies had been reduced to eating fish caught in nets for their daily meals. Disgusting. Only muties and slaves consumed animals. The warriors of Hellsgate ate man flesh to make them strong! Anything else was offal to feed to pigs.
The elders had a long standing feud with the Trader. They wanted him chilled, but couldn’t find the bastard. He wanted them aced, but didn’t care to attack, not with the blasters of Hellsgate commanding the landscape. Nothing on wheels could challenge the ville’s monster blasters.
Placing the opera glasses back into their box, the guard walked past a crackling torch and over to a rope. He tugged hard, and down on the ground a bell rang slow and steady, announcing that outlanders were coming, but that there was no danger.
Releasing the rope, the cannie went to the edge of the tower to see a group of guards holding lanterns gathered in the yard looking up at him expectantly.
“The Devils are coming!” he shouted through cupped hands. “Along the cliff road! Ten bikes! Five miles away!”
A big man dressed in a patchwork cloak waved in response and turned to the others standing nearby.