“For some reason, that reminds me of a war story I once heard,” the physician said. “Way back before skydark, some nation, I forget which, sent a battalion of their best tanks into northern Africa to establish a supply base for their troops. They expected little resistance from the locals as the farmers had almost no technology. They carried stone knives and went hunting with blowguns. It was supposed to be a slaughter, and it was. But for the other side.”
Both hands steady on the steering levers, Ryan barked one of his rare laughs. “So the tanks got destroyed, eh? Good for the Africans.”
“How?” Dean asked curiously, resting both elbows on his knees and leaning forward. Mildred and Doc came from before skydark and knew all sorts of things. Some of the information was useful for staying alive, but some was just fun to hear about—wild stories about things like airplanes and supermarkets.
Wrapping the remaining piece of jerky in a clean handkerchief, Mildred tucked the dried meat into a pocket for later. For once, they had plenty of supplies. Front Royal had given them all the food, fuel and ammo they could carry for this trip. Their mission was too important to chance failure over a can of beans or a handful of bullets. But as her Baptist minister father drilled into her as child, waste not, want not. Life in the radioactive hell of Deathlands was bitterly harsh, and every morsel of food saved could mean another day of life.
“How did they stop the invasion of armored tanks? Simple, really,” she answered. “The locals would run away from the tanks, carefully luring them near the edge of a high cliff. Then when the tank was in the right position, hunters hidden in the bushes would use blowguns to shoot a poisoned dart into the tiny slots in the armor that the drivers used to see through. Blind and paralyzed, the soldiers couldn’t change course, and the massive machines would roll off the cliff and smash to pieces when they hit the bottom.”
“A veritable David-versus-Goliath story,” Doc rumbled in wry amusement. “Good for the hunters.”
Dean stole a glance at his father. “So the fancier the tech, the easier it is to smash,” the boy concluded.
“Usually,” Ryan answered, busy driving. “But not always, son.”
“Everything has a weak point, but sometimes Goliath still wins,” J.B. added, pulling a fat cigar from the breast pocket of his jacket and placing it in the corner of his mouth. “Sad but true.”
“Ahem,” Mildred said, leaning forward in her seat until almost touching noses with the man. “It smells quite bad enough in here with seven sweaty people packed like sardines. We don’t need you adding to the pollution by smoking a hundred-year-old cigar.”
“This is a brand-new one,” J.B. retorted, pulling the stogie free and gesturing. “Hand rolled on the thighs of expert virgins exclusively for the baron of Front Royal himself!”
Everybody in the APC burst into laughter.
“My dear John Barrymore,” Doc chuckled. “Expert virgins?”
“Nice work if you can get it,” Krysty said, smiling.
As the military transport easily rolled over a low hill, Ryan merely snorted as he shifted gears.
“Didn’t mean it that way,” J.B. said with a frown.
“Horseshit,” Jak scoffed.
Quizzically, J.B. took a sniff. “Seems to be mostly tobacco,” he said slowly. “But yeah, I think there’s a little horse in here, too.”
“Also makes your breath taste awful,” Mildred added softly.
J.B. winked at the physician and tucked the cigar away. “Don’t want that, do we?”
Blushing slightly, Mildred started to add something, but was cut off when the wag jounced over some rough ground and the companions were nearly thrown from their seats. Desperately, the friends grabbed for anything welded solidly to the frame of the APC. The interior of the LAV-25 had been badly damaged by fire when its prior owners died, and the seat belts were only ashen smudges on the bare metal skeletons of the wall seats. Layers of blankets cushioned the seat struts enough for them to sit on for long periods, but every serious pothole threatened to throw them to the floor.