Once past the mutie hordes, the convoy rolled on into the Virginia hills, making good time. A few hours later, they halted at a crossroads, and Stephen consulted a smudged scrap of map that he guarded as if it were pure gold, then pointed to the left fork.
Around noon, the highway abruptly stopped near a glassy bomb crater, and from then on they traveled along dirt roads and dry riverbeds. More than once, Ryan was forced to use their winch to haul one of the vans out of the red clay. A rock slide made them detour into a weedy marsh, the stagnant waters reaching dangerously over the tires before the wags could return to the dry highway.
“Prime spot for an attack,” Ryan said, watching the marsh recede into the distance. “Good thing those green muties weren’t waiting for us.”
Stretching his legs in the cab, Stephen twisted his head from side to side to pop his neck joints. “Naw, we were completely safe. There was no smell of salt.”
Both hands tight on the steering wheel, Ryan stole a sideways glance at the sleepy man. “Explain that.”
“Sure. Those saber-toothed muties stink of the sea for some damn reason. We couldn’t smell it before ’cause we were going too fast. But if you’re ever near fresh water, and you suddenly smell saltwater” the fat man worked the bolt on his longblaster “then get ready to fight, because it’s much too late to risk running.”
Driving over the furrowed ground of an abandoned cornfield, Ryan filed that useful data away. They had to be some sort of fresh mutie from Washington Hole. The one-eyed man had never heard of greenies when he lived in this area. There always seemed to be something new trying to kill you in Deathlands.
Later that afternoon, the convoy halted as it reached a predark bridge spanning a deep ravine. The structure looked sound, but the girders were badly rusted in spots and big pieces of the concrete columns were missing.
Taking no chances, Ryan crossed the bridge himself on foot, first walking across, then returning and jumping on the road surface to check for any secondary vibrations. When satisfied, he ordered the wags to roll across individually to minimize the risk.
On the other side of the ravine, smooth fields of green grass stretched into the distance. Uneventful miles passed in easy driving, and the sun was dipping toward the horizon, when Ryan spotted the ruins of a farmhouse a short way off the beaten path. Angling the big truck to the crumbling structure, he parked near the artesian well in the front yard.
The other wags stopped in an orderly line behind the first truck, engines idling as they waited for directions.
“We’ll rest here for the night,” Ryan announced, turning off the engine. The hot pistons chugged by themselves for a while, then sputtered wildly and finally died.
“Why? There’s still plenty of daylight,” Stephen protested, not budging from his comfortable seat.
“And we’ll need it to make camp,” Ryan stated, taking his Steyr from the dashboard. “Have to scout the area and check the water.”
“This isn’t one of my regular stops.”
“Exactly why I chose it.” Ryan opened the side door and climbed from the high cab. “We have visibility for miles, so nobody can sneak close.”
“This is a waste of time. I must reach Front Royal by the end of the week!”
Ryan slammed the door and walked around to the other side. “You want to reach Front Royal?” he asked in a no-nonsense voice. “Or only try to reach it? Taking chances gets folks chilled.”
Stephen took off his wool cap, twisted it in hands, then shoved it back on and glowered at the one-eyed man. “Okay, we’ll do as you suggest,” he said, stressing the last word. “But if we’re late”
“Won’t be,” Ryan stated, turning away from the caravan owner. Placing two fingers in his mouth, he whistled sharply, then drew a thumb across his throat. The other drivers cut their engines, and an eerie silence extended over the landscape. Cicadas chirped in the tall weeds, and a sting-wing buzzed overhead searching for its evening meal. The orange sky was cloudy, the air chilly, but no breeze stirred over the land, threatening to bring a storm.