“Said that the engine’s starting to run hot. I topped up the oil last night, and it took more than I figured it would. Could mean trouble.”
Having originally taken the LAV-25 as part of the spoils of a firefight, Ryan knew how lucky they were to have it at their disposal for their odyssey to Seattle. It was a damnably long journey, and to try to complete it on foot would have come close to being impossible. If the wag broke down on them now, in such an isolated region, it would be difficult even to try to steal some alternative form of transport.
And it would likely mean the spilling of blood.
The highway passed across the plateau, then snaked away into the woods. It commenced to climb within the mile, going along the eastern flank of a narrow valley with a white river foaming at its bottom. There was a row of roofless, windowless vacation cabins on the far side of the water, reached by a rusting bridge.
Ryan considered suggesting an early halt there for the night, but the derelict buildings offered little cover.
“Good grade ahead,” J.B. shouted.
Ryan had taken off the earphones again, sitting right out on top, one arm hanging onto the muzzle of the cannon. He’d hoped that they’d have reached the large ville of Durango by that evening, but the blacktop had been in poor condition earlier in the day and it had slowed them. If Wetherill Springs really existed, it might be the best they could hope for.
The road became steep, and Ryan could feel the shuddering of the big engine as it labored upward. Twice the gears slipped, and he heard J.B.’s fluent cursing.
He crawled cautiously forward and lay flat, calling through the driver’s ob slit. “Think we should give it a break for a while? Sounds to me like it might burn out, way we’re going.”
“How far to the top?”
“Good three miles or more. Difficult to be certain with the way it twists and turns like a gaffed salmon.”
“All right. Looks like a pull-off ahead.”
RYAN COULD SEE the waves of heat shimmering above the engine as J.B. opened it up. And he could also detect the faint smell of overheated oil, so familiar from the years of riding with war wags One and Two.
“What’s it look like?” he asked.
J.B. straightened and pushed back his fedora. “It looks to me like we might be walking the rest of the way to Seattle.”
“Bad as that?”
He took off the spectacles and peered up at the sky through them. “Covered in dead flies,” he said. “Bad as that, did you say?”
“Yeah.”
“No. But something’s burning out down there. I reckon we have enough oil on board to keep going another three or four days. Mebbe more.”
“Mebbe less.”
The Armorer nodded. “Right.”
“Let her cool off.”
“Sure. Better keep a real careful eye on the gauge tomorrow and the other tomorrows.”
Ryan nodded. “Yeah. Longer we go without walking, happier I’ll be. Just going for a leak.”
“Right. Have one for me, will you?”
Ryan grinned. He walked across the blacktop and up a narrow dirt road that cut away into the trees. He’d just unzipped when he heard a noise behind him and turned around to see a full-grown African lion crouched less than twenty paces away.
Chapter Eleven
Ryan had seen pictures of carnivorous hunting animals like the lion, in several mags and predark vids. But he’d never thought that he’d encounter one while taking a piss in a Colorado forest.
It looked to be about eight or ten feet in length, from the huge maned head to the tip of the twitching tail. The eyes were a unique mixture of emerald and gold, flecked with a darker green. The mouth was just open, with a rope of saliva dribbling onto the carpet of dry pine needles below it. There was the faintest sound emanating from the predator’s throat, like a powerful wag engine ticking over.
“Fireblast.” The word was barely breathed.
The SIG-Sauer was snug on his hip, but he wasn’t sure what kind of stopping power it would have on an animal of that size. But it looked like he was about to find out.