Slow miles passed as Krysty continued rolling on through the brightening desert. As they jounced through a shallow crack in the riverbed, the land gently rose into a swell and Krysty realized she was no longer in the wash. Maybe the predark river had turned at some point, or went underground, there was no way of telling. But now the wag was rolling across the desert floor, the heavy tires crunching steadily on the crusty salt ground. She debated trying to backtrack and find the wash once more, but decided to stay on course. J.B. had placed his compass on the dashboard, and the needle was still pointing due west.
“Damn, there’s nothing in sight for miles,” Dean said, leaning out the window. “Mebbe we should stop and take a rest. Let J.B. find out where we are, and such.”
“I was thinking the same thing myself,” Krysty replied, grinding gears. “Also, the engine has been starting to run hot. Might be something wrong.”
“Might be low on water,” he suggested, glancing at the gauge.
“Could be,” she agreed, easing the speed of the rattling wag to the merest crawl. “But it’s best to make sure.”
Slowing to an easy halt, Krysty turned off the engine and waited while the machine rattled to a complete stop before setting the parking brake. Warily, the two companions checked the area around them before leaving the cab. Walking across the ground, their combat boots steadily crunched on the crust of dried salt.
“Well, one good thing about this stuff,” Dean muttered, shifting his grip on the scattergun. “At least nobody can sneak in close without being heard.”
“That’s for damn sure,” Krysty agreed, a hand on her own blaster. “Unless it was flying, but I don’t see anything around for a screamwing, or skeeter, to eat.”
The boy nodded in agreement, but kept a closer watch on the open sky for any signs of movement. Aside from the departing toxic clouds, the air was a clear azure blue and thoroughly empty.
Reaching the rear, Dean stood guard with the shotgun while Krysty untied the lacings holding the canvas flaps shut and threw one aside admitting the morning sunlight into the back of the wag. Amid the water barrels, fuel cans and piles of backpacks, there was a lumpy mound of mixed blankets with a few boots sticking out from underneath.
“Good morning!” Krysty called, shaking the nearest boot. “Rise and shine.”
The mound of blankets stopped snoring and started to break apart under her urgings.
“Already awake. Been for a while,” Ryan said from the shadows in the corner, and the man stepped closer into the light. Mildred had been afraid that his head wound might be serious to make him slip into a coma if he went to sleep too soon, so the one-eyed man reluctantly decided to back her call and stayed up the whole night. Much as he wanted some sack time, Ryan was bastard sure he didn’t want it to last forever. Head wounds chilled in a way no other wound did.
“You look like hell, lover,” the redhead said to the disheveled man.
He grunted at that and stiffly climbed down from the rear of the wag onto the hard ground. Loose white sand was blowing across the land, and Ryan again tasted salt in the air. This was no desert, but an ocean. Some of the nukes during skydark missed their coastal targets and hit the sea bottoms, throwing up boiling tidal waves of salt water dozens of miles across the mainland, sometimes hundreds of miles. Over the years the salt mud dried into a thick crust over the once living soil, forming hard flat deserts.
“Makes the Washington Hole seem almost like Eden,” J.B. said, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses as the creeping dawn began to fill the rear of the wag, warming it noticeably.
Soft thunder peeled in the shifting clouds, sounding like distant artillery as J.B. slapped his fedora into shape and tucked it on the back of his head. At least they wouldn’t have to worry about acid rain for a while. That was something good, at least.
“Broke down?” Jak asked, appearing from under a pile of blankets. The rosy tint of dawn was already fading to become the clear hard light of daytime.