In agreement, Clem worked the bolt on his Enfield, chambering a cartridge. J.B. had offered his Uzi for the journey on the opinion that firepower was the best replacement for numbers. But the hunter felt confident that if he couldn’t chill something with this deadly beauty, then it just plain couldn’t be chilled.
Soon, the ground on either side of the crude roadway took on a more cultivated appearance, with fields covered with a thick growth of a blue-green plant with fat leaves.
“Soybeans,” Mildred marveled. “Ground cover to protect the soil from the acid rain?”
Stephen stared at the woman as if she had just solved the mystery of the universe. “That’s correct,” he said slowly. “It was the new baron’s idea. Seems to work pretty good.”
“Beans,” Clem scoffed, and he spit brown juice out the window. “Ain’t fit food for man or dog.”
“The farmers don’t eat the soybeans, just plow them under in the spring to feed the real crops, taters and corn and such.” Stephen made a face. “Boy, you ever eat a soybean? Tastes like a used sock.”
“They need to be treated first,” Mildred stated. “After that, they can taste like anything.”
“Really now,” Stephen said, warming to the topic. “Could be a lot of profit in that. Treat them how?”
“Slow,” Clem warned, easing the blue barrel of the Enfield closer to the window.
The afternoon sun was burning off the mists, and clearly ahead of them was a fork in the road, one branch going to the north, the other continuing east. However, a military outpost was at the fork, tripods of logs lashed together with barbed wire to form an imposing array along the sides to retard escape attempts. Exiting the road wouldn’t be possible until they were past this section.
A log cabin surrounded by a low sandbag wall stood prominently at the junction, and an armed sec man rose from a rocking chair at their approach. He called to somebody inside the cabin, the words lost over the rumble of the old engine.
“Stop when he tells you to,” Stephen said. “This is just a checkpoint for Front Royal.”
Mildred scowled, noticing the barrels of several long-blasters sticking out of narrow notches cut into the walls of the fortified log cabin. They seemed to be mostly muskets, except for the telltale muzzle of an AK-47 assault rifle amid the others. That was the sec boss, without a doubt. “Checkpoint? You mean tollhouse. Pay or die.”
Clem glanced around. There was an empty gallows alongside the road, and a set of darkly stained crosses, with old rope dangling loose from the killing bars. “No customers.”
“They don’t kill here unless you disobey or try to smuggle in contraband. It’s merely pay or go back,” the fat man corrected. “Baron Cawdor rules a tight ville, but he’s no bastard. Well, no more than any of the others.”
“How much do they want?” Mildred asked, slowing gently. Then panic hit the woman, and she drew her blaster. “If it’s me they’re after”
“Nothing of the sort,” Stephen denied. “Because I don’t pay tolls. This is a private shipment for the baron himself.”
Clem motioned with his head. “What’s up that side road, a shantytown?”
“A hamlet, yes. Shersville. Farmers and hunters. Nothing there to buy, and they don’t have enough to buy. I was there once, and that was enough.”
Cleanly dressed in a bright blue shirt as if he were a police officer from bygone days, the ville sec man walked boldly into the middle of the roadway and waved at the wag to halt. Working the clutch, Mildred applied the brakes and squealed to a halt only a few yards away from the man.
“Welcome to the border of Front Royal,” the sec man said, sounding slightly bored. “No jolt or muties allowed. If you got any, leave it or dump it in the ravine. We find any, you get chilled on the spot. No trial, no blindfold.”
“Clean and fast,” Clem said. “Sounds good.”
The sec man studied the man. “Mountain man?”
“Tennessee valley lowlands,” the hunter corrected, as if that were an important distinction.
Stephen leaned across Mildred, coming uncomfortably close to the woman in her opinion. “Hey, Brian. It’s me. We’re finally here with the baron’s goods.”