James Axler – Road Wars

“What did he do?”

“What I told him not to. We could see straight off that some of those grens were double edgy. Greasy and sweating. Cases split and rusting here and there. Me and Marsh agreed we’d take a look around, stepping like we was on eggshells. Not risk touching anything. Only take anything that we both thought was safe.”

“Wyoming Johnny?”

“I used to think the acid hit his head and made him sort of simple.”

“And?”

Trader winced and gave a small gasp of pain as he shifted position. “Sickness hasn’t gone away. Just sleeping and waiting its moment. Where was I?”

“In the redoubt with Marsh, Wyoming Johnny and a few others.”

“We was in a passage that opened up out back into some old trenches and stuff. Decided that this was too dangerous. Only risk worth taking is the one you have to take. We’d agreed to leave it and move on. We realized that Johnny wasn’t with us no more and heard this scream.”

“Knew a man once got his jaw torn off by a pre-dark can of tuna and beans,” Abe said. “He shook it, and it was just ready and waiting to blow. Kind of hundred-year-old time bomb.”

“This was thousands of seventy-year-old grens,” Trader said, virtually ignoring the interruption.

“You heard a scream.”

“Cry from the soul. ‘Fuse came off in my hand. Started ticking.’ That was all Wyoming Johnny shouted.”

“Well, I’ll be hung, quartered and dried for the crows!” Abe said, unconsciously using one of the Trader’s own favorite sayings.

“This is the point of the story, don’t you see? Where things got seriously weird.”

“Go on.”

Thoughts of going hunting for rabbits had disappeared for Abe, along with the pangs of hunger.

“What was odd was that time slowed. Oh, I know that everyone always says in time of stress and bloody danger that often seems to happen. But I swear to you that it really did come to pass. We all started running, and I could hear a clock ticking away the time in my brain. Most of those grens would have run off a ten-second timer. Agreed?”

“Sure. Some of those old predark grens can go off anything between zero seconds and never.”

Trader smiled and nodded. “I was running out of the room where we stood, toward the passage that led to the open and the maze of trenches I mentioned to you. I did mention them, didn’t I? Yes, I did.”

“You did.”

“But” he leaned forward to add emphasis to his words, “I swear it was in slow motion. The clock was ticking at quarter speed. A single second lasted for four seconds. It was the same with everyone. I heard Wyoming Johnny again. ‘Run for your lives,’ he said.”

“What happened?”

“I will swear to my dying day that the timing fuse ran for some forty seconds. By that time the rest of us were diving into these deep trenches, all trying not to panic and to avoid the gigantic shock wave we knew would follow.”

“Eyes shut, mouth open, hands over ears.”

“Good, Abe, good.” He coughed, hawking as though he were about to spit. But didn’t. “I actually glimpsed Wyoming Johnny, framed in the doorway, like a statue, just for that single forever moment. His arms were frozen in the action of pumping him on toward safety, his legs sprinting. Head thrown back, hair streaming behind him, eyes wide, mouth wide as a bear trap. I will never forget that picture of time stopped.”

“And?”

Trader sighed. “The place just blew up. We were all safe enough. Shocked and deaf, bleeding from every orifice in the body. But safe.”

“Wyoming Johnny?”

“We found a combat boot we thought might have been his. The foot inside looked like his, with a toe missing. But that was all. Nothing else remained.”

“Jesus.” Abe shook his head. “Never known that time slowing myself.”

“Happens.” Trader stood and moved to the mouth of the cave, walking with a slight limp. “Snow’s stopped. I can taste some sun on the way, Abe.”

“Light us the way to a meeting with Ryan.” Hunger reasserted itself. “Or a rabbit or some venison.”