James Axler – Demons of Eden

Ryan glanced over his shoulder. Strung out across the darkening horizon were four white shapes, the full sails of the Red Cadre’s prairie schooners. The wind carried the snarl of their engines. They were gaining fast

“We need to get rid of some weight,” J.B. announced.

Felicity’s eyes flashed in sudden fear. Ryan knew that she realized the most obvious weight to jettison was the body of her husband.

“Cut the horses loose,” he said to Jak. “They’re ready to drop anyway.”

Felicity said nothing, but she directed a look of silent thanks toward him.

Producing one of his leaf-bladed throwing knives, Jak moved aft and sliced through the rawhide lead attaching the animals to the wag. They instantly stopped galloping, cantering in tandem into the gathering gloom.

Doc came to Ryan’s side, eyeing the hills ahead. “If the wind does not drop or change direction, we may make it, even at this speed.”

The light of a quarter moon peeped over the rim of the world, staining the dark sky with a silver halo. The thudding growl of the diesels seemed to rise in volume. Inexorably the pursuing prairie schooners drew closer.

Ryan called Krysty over and had her replace him at the controls. He made his way aft and peered through the binoculars again, hoping to pick out more details of their pursuers, since the lead craft was only a hundred or so yards behind them.

Tightening the focus on the center wag, he saw a black-bearded man shouldering a short, blunt-barreled object Though it had a rifle stock, it was far too bulky and spike nosed to be a rifle. When the deep, hollow bore aligned itself with the rear of their craft, recognition rushed through Ryan like a flow of icy water.

The pirate was aiming an old M-79 grenade launcher. The maximum range of the 40 mm high-explosive round was three hundred and fifty yards, and they were well within its field of effect. Though the M-79 and its ammunition were probably a hundred and twenty years old, they couldn’t rely on a misfire.

“Krysty!” he bellowed. “Hard to port!”

Before the final word had passed his lips, the dark bore of the grenade launcher spouted a puff of white smoke, followed immediately by a mushy pop.

Responding to Ryan’s order, Krysty wrenched the steering handles. The wag drifted sideways, the maneuver seeming to be maddeningly slow and clumsy.

A few yards ahead and to the right of the bow, the night lit up with a hot orange flash, a fireball ballooning up and outward. Shrapnel and chunks of sod rattled against the hull.

“Son of a bitch!” J.B. snarled, unlimbering his Uzi. He checked the selector switch and flicked it to full-auto, firing a long stuttering burst in a left-to-right pattern. Spent cartridges spewed from the ejector port and clattered across the deck.

Then the wind died.

The sail drooped, flapping slack and flaccid.

Carried on by its momentum, the wag kept rolling, wheels and chassis creaking, but by degrees it slowed to a crawl, then to a complete stop. From behind echoed a strident cry of malicious triumph.

No one needed to be told what to do. They all snatched up their possessions, jumped overboard and began to run, feet churning up the dry soil. The blanket dropped from Felicity’s shoulders, and she ran naked toward the hills with a steady lightness and sureness of stride that came of long practice.

Ryan hazarded one quick backward glance. Unsurprisingly the wags of the Red Cadre were still on course, bearing down on them. He estimated he and his friends would reach the base of the hills with only a handful of seconds to spare. The skin between his shoulder blades itched in anticipation of a musket bullet drilling into his flesh.

Felicity, in the lead, altered direction, heading for the tumble of rocks at the foot of the nearest hill. They followed her, running across stone-strewed ground. Ryan heard Doc gasping, wheezing and cursing as he tried to keep his footing.

They dodged among larger rocks, banging knees and scraping elbows. The pain of a stitch stabbed along Ryan’s left side, the muscles of his legs felt as if they were caught in a tightening vise and his vision was shot through with gray specks. Nevertheless, he kept running, stumbling and lurching from boulder to boulder.