James Axler – Road Wars

“Right.” The Armorer nodded his agreement. “That makes good sense. And in he came.”

Al sighed. “Like a lean wolf, whose enemies thought him toothless. This Trader is a remarkable man.”

“No argument there. So, when was all this chilling? Any news of him since? Know where he might be now, Al?”

The old man smiled at J.B.’s eagerness. “So many questions. Let me see. To take them in order. Some weeks ago. Not really, just the occasional sighting of a pair of ridge runners, seen at twilight against the skyline. And I have no idea where they might be now. The latest word I had was that they had gone away northwest, up toward the dreadful ruins of old Seattle.”

“I’m sorry to hear that death still sits at Trader’s shoulder, Al.” Ryan stood. “But I’d be surprised if most of the corpses didn’t deserve their ending.”

“I would not argue with that. But the key word is ‘most,’ is it not? The woman had two little children. Lackbrains, I believe. She fell over a cliff, they say. But your Trader or your Abe shot her first.”

“Could’ve been a reason,” J.B. said, his voice betraying his doubt.

“Perhaps.” Burgoise’s voice betrayed his doubt, as well.

“Chilling sometimes comes around a blind corner and there’s no time to think about a reason.” J.B. also stood. “We thank you for your hospitality, but we must get to our beds. If the weather eases at all we need to be on the road.”

“I understand, Mr. Dix. You have promises that you must try to keep, and you have many miles to go.”

“Right.”

“Then sleep well, outlanders. I will tidy up here and retire myself. Until the morning”

THE NEWS OF THE TRADER and his trail of butchery had laid a steel blade between the hermit and his guests. The ease had gone from the previous evening, and their breakfast was hurried and uncomfortable. Conversation was spasmodic, with long silences between the careful words.

The wind had dropped, and there were only a few flakes of snow whispering down from the overcast sky. Al set them right for their destination, standing in the doorway of his cabin as they started off, muffled against the cold. His blind eyes followed the sound of their boots crunching through the white carpet.

“I hope you find what you seek,” he shouted.

They didn’t reply, eager to get on their way, eager to journey the last miles.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Trader rubbed at his stomach. “Still feel that pain in my guts,” he said. “Not so bad as it was once, but still like swallowing a king crab.”

“Could be hunger pains,” Abe replied miserably. “My belly keeps rubbing on my backbone. If this snow doesn’t ease off, we’ll starve.”

“No. I saw a rabbit from the mouth of this cave only an hour ago. Hadn’t got my Armalite or I’d have taken it.”

“So, why don’t we get out hunting?”

Trader grinned at the smaller, younger man. “Cold gets in my joints. No hurry, Abe.”

“All right, then I’ll go and get us something for the pot. And I’ll get some more wood for the fire as well.”

“Good, good. Have I asked you how long it is to go before our planned rendezvous with Ryan?”

“Only about fifty times a day, Trader.” Gradually, over the last months, Abe had lost some of his fear for his old leader, though he still respected him, maybe even more than when he’d ridden the war wags with him. And he could never, ever forget the debt he owed Trader for saving his life from the posse.

“And the answer?”

“We’re just five days away from the original deadline. And counting. We need to be a whole lot nearer to the edge of the old ville, Trader.”

“We’ll move this afternoon and hunt at the same time. Satisfied?”

“Sure.”

The weather had been patchy, with some cold clear days followed by several periods of wet snow from a leaden sky. Trails were still difficult, but not impassable. On a bright morning, two days earlier, Abe had climbed to the top of a nearby hill, staring toward the tumbled ruins of Seattle, wondering whether the message had even reached Ryan, J.B. and the others in the far-off baked deserts of the Southwest, and whether he would ever live to see his friends again.