“Smoke,” Krysty whispered to Ryan. “Not from our fire. Meat cooking.”
They hadn’t got much farther before Ryan could also catch the scent of roasting meat, making him lick his lips in anticipation.
“There,” Jak said, pointing through the thinning trees, to where the amber glow of flames could be seen.
“How many you say?” Ryan asked.
“Saw five. Old man. Old woman. Younger man, girl and little boy, round eight or nine. The wag’s just behind fire.”
“Anyone on watch?” J.B. asked.
“Couldn’t tell. Didn’t want to wake ’em by going close. Saw blasters. Old scattergun and coupla hand pistols. Wag’s armored.”
That was nothing new. It was difficult to find any kind of truck in the whole of Deathlands that hadn’t been turned into a sec wag. When even the brightness of day brought winking death, it was madness not to take some care.
118
As Ryan moved a few cautious steps closer, trying to make out if the camp was being patrolled, his boots crushed some small plants and the air was filled with the smell of wild garlic.
“I’ll go around with Krysty?” J.B. suggested. “Set chrons and go on a time count?”
Ryan nodded. Far as he could make out, the strangers hadn’t set a watch. That meant they must feel reasonably secure where they were. Which meant, in turn, that they should be easy meat for Ryan and the others to sneak up on and take.
“Go to the wag. Check it out. Could be someone in there. Doc, Lori ‘n me’ll take out the five by the fire. No chances. Like Trader used to say. Blast first and weep later. Better we chill them than they chill us.”
The G-12 was still set on triple burst. Jak had his satin finish Magnum cocked and ready. Lori carried her little .22 PPK. The blaster wasn’t any kind of a man-stopper, but the girl was good with it and it would slow folks down. Doc hefted the cavernous Le Mat. He’d got the hammer slotted for the single .63-caliber shotgun barrel.
Ryan glanced around at them, checking his luminous chron. “J.B. goes in three minutes twenty from now. All ready?” He got nods from everyone. “Move in closer. Careful.”
The sweep second hand crept slowly around the white dial. Ryan watched it, also trying to make out what sort of a wag they were going after. It was difficult to judge, as the vehicle was behind the fire, and partly obscured by some bushes, but it looked good. Could be an old Mer-cedes camper, or maybe even a Volvo body. It was clear that a lot of work had been done on it. Blaster ports had been cut on all sides, and there was evidence that some crude armoring had been welded on.
119
To Ryan’s experienced eye, the wag looked good. The tires seemed solid, and he couldn’t see much sign of rust-ing around the wheel hubs, which was always a giveaway of a wag in poor condition.
“Ten seconds… five…let’s go for it. Now!”
Ryan burst through the undergrowth, gun at hip, fol-lowed closely by Doc Tanner whooping in a high, cracked voice, and Lori screaming loud and shrill. J.B. came whooping out of the far side of the clearing, followed by Jak Lauren, long white hair streaming behind him, look-ing like an avenging angel of death and destruction.
Krysty was last, covering the boy as he sprinted to the wag, ripped open the driver’s door and disappeared in-side.
There was no firefight. The five were jerked from sleep by the attackers and held at gunpoint before they were properly awake.
Jak’s recon had been accurate. Nobody was lurking inside the wag. There were just the five of them. The old man had a long straggling beard that reached to his belt. His gray-haired woman mumbled constantly and ap-peared to be slow-witted. The little boy was very frail, with a congenital birth defect-his hands sprouted like little paddles from the points of his narrow shoulders. His face was bright and alert, but they realized quickly the boy was also deaf.
Two other people-the lad’s parents-stood trembling together, eyes staring in shock at the strangers who’d come shrieking at them from the darkness. Meadsville stream had always been a safe site, away from any ma-rauding muties or slaughtering stickies.