James Axler – Gaia’s Demise

The big wag was a lot closer now, its speed unchanging. Spector could see it was a lot bigger than he’d first thought, and the body was made of different colors, not painted camouflage like hunters did to hide in the bush. No, sir, the metal itself was a clean green in one area, and blackened with fire damage in another, as if the machine were pieced together from a dozen damaged wags. Surprisingly, it made excellent camouflage. Once in thick bushes, the machine would be damn difficult to spot. Big cans and bags were strapped to the sides under layers of fishing nets.

“Loot,” Tant said greedily, releasing the safety lock on his crossbow. “Look at it! They got so much they can’t keep it all inside!”

Spector stepped between the man and the approaching wag so that the needle tip of the quarrel touched his chest. “We ain’t be thieves or coldhearts,” the older man stated. “This be our road, and we take tolls. That be all. No raping the women or taking more than usual. Understand?”

Tant felt a rush of heat to his face, partly from shame but the rest from anger. His hands tightened on the stock and trigger of the crossbow, the muscles in his arms hardening as he fought conflicting emotions. Spector stayed motionless, letting the younger man decide the matter for himself. A good leader didn’t always command, but sometimes listened. The engine noise of the war wag was discernible when the younger man finally relaxed his aggressive stance.

“Sorry,” he apologized, and fired.

At point-blank range, the shaft went completely through the old man’s chest. Staggering backward onto the road, Spector fell to his knees and Tant swung the stock of the crossbow like a club. Spector’s head broke apart, one eye flying off into the wood, bones and brains spilling onto the pale concrete.

Retrieving the blaster from the dead man’s clothing, Tant turned to face the rest of the collectors. The butt of the weapons were still warm from the dead man, and somehow that gave the killer a rush of courage.

“Now I am in charge!” Tant shouted, thrusting a blaster into the air. “And I say we take everything from everybody who tries to pass! Why should we starve when food comes to us by itself?”

Eagerly, the rest of the family took up the cry and several stepped closer to spit on the sprawled form of Spector. Only a few of the older women and younger children didn’t join the rally against their fallen leader and quickly moved away from the others. Their brethren seemed like outlanders to them, strangers drunk on the freshly spilled blood.

“Rules, reg’lations,” one man slurred, brandishing a glass tipped spear. “What mean they? The strong live, the weak die. That be the rules here!”

“So speaks Ben, my new lieutenant,” Tant shouted. “For I am the leader now.”

The collectors roared their approval, and Tant threw his crossbow at the man. The weapon landed at his feet, which were swaddled in plastic and rags in place of boots. Passing his spear to a man with a club, Ben knelt before his new leader and lifted the gore-smeared weapon with a grim reverence.

“Death to the outlanders,” Ben said, bowing his head.

“Death to all!” Tant shouted, staring hatefully at the wag coming straight toward them. The vehicle hadn’t attempted to swerve into the trees or stop and turn. More fools they, for this was where they would die, and that machine become his to command.

“Positions!” Tant ordered, cocking both hammers on his warm blasters.

The collectors scrambled to their pits and dropped out of sight as Ben raced into the bushes to kick at a block of wood half-hidden amid the greenery. With the block gone, a weight dropped out of sight into the ground and from the trees a barrier swung into the sky on squealing hinges and slammed down hard across the roadway. The heavy beam was a chiseled tree trunk, bristling with rusty nails and bearing the eight-sided metal disk of the tribe painted the magic colors of red and white. All travelers stopped at the sight of the sign of power.