James Axler – Judas Strike

After a few hours, Jak took Krysty’s place behind the wheel, and later on in the day, Ryan replaced him. Each shift was kept short, as steering through the thick mud was exhausting work. Half-blind from the dirty windshield, each driver had to stay alert for buried logs and rocks, holding on to the steering wheel with both hands to keep from losing control.

“How are we doing?” Mildred asked, grabbing the luggage rack bolted to the ceiling and walking to the front of the school bus. An experienced car driver before being frozen, she was worried about the old engine. It had probably been quite a while since the wag had been driven anywhere, and a trip like this would be hard on a well-maintained vehicle.

“Engine is running hot, and the oil pressure is low, but we already knew there was a leak somewhere. You can see blue in the exhaust,” Ryan said, darting a glance at the dashboard. “Aside from that, the wag is okay. But we better start looking for a place to stop and refuel. The tank is almost dry.”

“Need bushes, too,” Dean admitted in a husky voice, his legs tightly crossed. “Some things can’t be done out the window of a moving wag.”

“Yes, they can,” J.B. said, from under his hat. “It just ain’t very comfortable.”

Suddenly, the bus dipped slightly and the sound of the engine rose in pitch as it revved higher, struggling to compensate. Grinding gears, Ryan pumped the gas pedal and fought to keep the engine operating. But their speed dropped to a mere crawl, and the engine temperature gauge rose alarmingly.

“What’s wrong, damage from that stickie we hit?” J.B. asked, coming fully awake in an instant.

“Fucking mud again,” he cursed, revving the engine and shifting to a higher gear. The bus sluggishly waddled along, then backfired from the rush of fuel. “It’s different, thicker or something. Can’t seem to get any speed.”

Appearing from a clump of bushes, a stickie holding the bedraggled body of a rat watched the long wag roll by and started after it hooting in delight.

“Sinking?” Jak demanded, grabbing his backpack and jacket.

“Not mud this time,” Mildred said. “It’s quicksand.”

Ryan muttered a curse. A tree branch wasn’t going to work on that crap. If they halted to refuel, the wag would get jammed like a misfire in the ejector port. They couldn’t stop for any reason.

“Get that scope up here,” he barked. “We need to find dry land, and I mean now.”

Quickly, Mildred got out of the way, and the Armorer went to the front of the wag, the Navy longeyes already in his grip. Fully extending the antique, J.B. scanned the landscape ahead of the struggling wag.

“Don’t go to the left. I think that’s a lake,” he reported. “More mud straight ahead on your twelve, but I see trees to the right. Not sure the bus can drive between the trunks they’re so close, but that has to be solid ground.”

“Where?” Ryan asked, adjusting the clutch as the wag backfired again, even louder than before.

“Mile, mebbe two. On your three.”

“See them.”

“Incoming,” Dean said calmly, jacking the slide on his Browning. “We got a stickie on our tail.”

“Don’t shoot it,” Ryan ordered. “It may be able to reach us because we’re moving so slow, but it can’t get in. Too well armored.”

The boy nodded and put his blaster to a blasterport and tracked the approach of the humanoid creature. It caught the mired bus easily and began to hit the outside armor plating with its suckered hands, desperately trying to find a way in.

“Heading for the rear door,” Dean announced, the barrel of his Browning semiautomatic pistol never wavering. Just then, the handle jiggled and an inhuman face appeared in the grille-covered panel of the exit.

“Shitfire. I need that window clear to see behind us,” Ryan growled, fighting to alter the course of the vehicle toward the trees. “Ace it.”

The Browning barked once, and a hot brass casing kicked from the side of the blaster and hit the floor to roll away under the rows of seats.