James Axler – Stoneface

“Like what?”

“Like Indians,” Hellstrom replied. “For some reason, they hate us.”

Thinking about the skull signposts, Ryan said wryly, “I can’t imagine why.”

Hellstrom grinned, his face lighting up with an almost boyish glee. “This could be fun, a real outing! I’ll have a picnic lunch prepared for us. Tell your people, Cawdor. Meet me back here in an hour.”

Ryan stood and stitched a friendly smile onto his face. “Understood.”

He moved toward the stairs, glancing back once. Fleur was staring at him reflectively, as if he were a bit of steak and she was wondering whether to devour him raw or rare.

Chapter Ten

For over three hours the AMAC had rumbled across the rocky plain, pushing deep into the Black Hills. Though the ride was much smoother than it had any right to be, Ryan was growing impatient.

When he’d first boarded the long, box-shaped Armored Mobile Anti-Riot Control unit, he had been so impressed that the rather slow speed and cumbersome maneuverability of the vehicle hadn’t bothered him.

J.B. had been in just as much awe, especially when the prideful Hellstrom pointed out the blaster racks, the sixteen frag and CS gas grenade launchers and eighteen weapons ports.

Hellstrom explained that the AMACs were virtual wheeled fortresses and had been used in the late twentieth century to deter rioters. The vehicle was in perfect operating order, as though it had been built a year before, not a hundred. The big engine throbbed smoothly, the suspension didn’t creak or squeak and the air-conditioning system kept the interior cool and comfortable.

“Where did you find this wag?” J.B. had wondered aloud, his voice full of envy. “It makes Trader’s war wags look like baby buggies.”

Hellstrom had only smiled a mysterious smile and touched a forefinger to his lips.

Ryan, Krysty, J.B., Doc, Jak and Mildred shared the passenger compartment with Hellstrom, Fleur and eight shaven-headed X-scarred sec men, who were identically armed with spidery-looking, lightweight SA-80 automatic rifles.

A pair of bipod-mounted, gas-operated M-249 machine guns were positioned at gun ports on either side of the vehicle.

Two men were in the control cockpit, one driving and the other constantly checking their backtrack with a periscope-type device that rose from the roof of the AMAC.

During the ride Hellstrom was acting as the perfect host. He had been carried into the AMAC, fan-backed chair and all, and he passed sandwiches and beverages around to everyone but the sec men.

He maintained a steady stream of inane chatter about crops, the weather and some of the odd people who had passed through Helskel. His manners were impeccable, and his vocabulary was large and almost as flowery as Doc’s, without the use of anachronisms. He was a Deathlands anomalyan educated man.

Still, his brittle conversation scratched at Ryan’s nerves. He kept busy repairing the torn seam of his holster, but midway through the third hour of eating, drinking and listening, Ryan was irritated enough to ask bluntly, “How long has Helskel been in existence?”

Hellstrom broke off the anecdote about the four-breasted stickie he had once seen to say, “Feels like forever.”

“Mebbe that’s what it feels like,” J.B. said, as anxious as Ryan to talk about something more substantial, “but me and Ryan have been in this general region several times, especially with Trader. Montana, Colorado, the edges of Wyoming. Never heard so much as a whisper about your ville.”

“Not surprising,” Hellstrom replied. “I wanted to keep Helskel an unknown quantity until we were strong enough to fend off incursions from rapacious insurgents like your friend Trader.”

“If Trader had wanted us to take your ville,” J.B. stated, “we would have.”

Hellstrom shrugged. “It’d be interesting to see him try it now.”

Ryan started to say something in defense of his missing mentor, but he shut his mouth. There was no point in engaging in a saber-rattling contest, extolling the warrior virtues of a man who might be dead. Besides, Hellstrom was right. Trader certainly had his rapacious impulses, and Ryan couldn’t deny that Helskel looked to be too big a mouthful even for him to comfortably chew.

“We can’t help but be curious, you know,” Mildred said.