Holstering his blaster, Ryan held on to the rib while he used a butane lighter to ignite the rag fuse. “Now,” he cried, throwing the bottle forward.
Not daring to use the brakes, Krysty took her foot off the gas and downshifted to try to control the deceleration.
Immediately, the wag sped forward and the Molotov hit the hard desert salt to explode into a pool of fire.
Seconds later the slowing wag drove through the middle of the flames, letting them play across the bottom of the chassis. Childlike wails of pain rewarded the tactic, and a rain of burning bugs fell to the ground in their wake.
As Ryan threw the next bottle, Jak passed him another Molotov, and the companions did it again and again until there was only silence from below.
“Should be clear by now,” J.B. said, both legs splayed as he rocked to the motion of the lolling wag. At the lower speeds, the Armorer had no trouble staying on his feet.
“We’re not quite done,” Ryan growled, grabbing hold of the tubular steel frame supporting the sideview mirror, and swinging into the cab to land on the seat near Krysty.
With both hands tight on the wheel, the redhead leaned far back and he fired the SIG-Sauer, the soft chug lost in the explosion of shattered glass as the last millipede was blown away.
“Now it’s finished,” he said, brushing the ejected brass and glass pebbles off her clothing. “You okay?”
“Been better,” Krysty muttered, dropping the speed of the wag even more. The gauges were still reading hot, and she could only hope the engine hadn’t been damaged in the firefight.
Tick by tick, the seconds slowly passed until the companions were a mile away from the battle zone, and they started to relax when a strong stink filled the wag.
“It’s coming from under the hood,” Ryan said with a frown, sniffing the rank cab air. Even with the windows open, it smelled like a roasting boot in here.
“Could be an aced bug frying on the manifold,” Krysty replied, furrowing her brow in concern. “Should we stop and check?”
“No,” Ryan decided. “Keep going. The farther we get from those bugs, the better.”
Steering around a small crater in the salt, Krysty started to agree when the engine went completely silent and every gauge in the dashboard swung their needles high into the red danger zone.
Chapter Nine
Throwing the gearshift into neutral, Krysty quickly killed the ignition and let the wag coast along until braking to a full stop in the lee of a small dune.
“Get sharp, people!” Ryan commanded. “Those things could be hot on our ass.” Climbing down from the cab, he checked the clip in his blaster. Four rounds remained, and he had two more loaded clips.
Wearily, the rest of companions climbed off the big vehicle and spread out behind it with their blasters at the ready. However, they knew there were no more Molotovs, and only three implo grens remained. A couple had been lost in the tumultuous fight through the salt flats, and their ammo reserves were low.
If the bugs returned, the implo grens were the first line of defense, then blasters, and after that, they would be reduced to knives and running.
After checking under the chassis for any unwanted passengers, Ryan, Krysty and J.B. went to the front of the wag, and Ryan flipped up the hood with the others covering him in case a bug was waiting inside. But the engine was clean of insects, only some scattered bits of fibrous black material and thick streamers of oily smoke.
“Burned through a fan belt,” J.B. said, lifting a piece for inspection, then dropping it and blowing on his singed fingers. “Two of them, in fact. Look down there.”
Leaning on the nuke battery, Ryan could see the damage, and agreed it wasn’t from the Molotovs. Just old belts that shredded under the strain. “It was running hot before the bugs appeared,” he added. “This wag is dead.”
“Can we fix it?” Krysty asked, looking between the two men. “Cobble something together with our belts, or rope, or something?”
“Mebbe,” Ryan replied sullenly, the lack of sleep wearing on his nerves. He felt constantly angry, and the throbbing of the gash on his forehead was affecting his judgment. “Hell, I don’t know. All our boots laces tied together wouldn’t take the strain. We could buckle some belts together, but they wouldn’t fit. Too wide.”