As a consequence, the region had been blanketed by the enemy, mainly using offensive missiles designed to take out individual targets with a high ground-zero effect. Most of the fissionable material had a relatively low half-life, meaning there weren’t all that many hot spots around the region. The idea had been to keep it safe for the invasion that never came.
The population centers were very scattered and made difficult targets, so neutron bombs were used, with a high-intensity seeding effect that took out ninety-nine-point-nine-nine human factors while leaving buildings largely undamaged.
A city like Phoenix, covering hundreds of square miles, had been hit like a patchwork quilt. Parts had been totally flattened while other parts remained untouched with their inhabitants slaughtered.
Trader had been there a number of times, dealing with some of the subvilles that had sprung up, each with its own baron, each in a state of grudging neutrality with the others. A neutrality that was frequently broken.
“Head for the part called Scottsdale,” he suggested. “Was once triple rich. But there’s no water there now or grazing land. So it’s a ghost town. Reckon that it should be a good place to hole up for a night.”
It lay to the east of Phoenix, on the flank of the city where they wanted to be, along the side of what had once been the Salt River Indian Reservation.
J.B. WAS DRIVING the land wag, cruising slowly up and down a checkerboard of little streets that wound around and twisted in on each other like a prairie-dog town. Most of the buildings had only a single story, built of weathered concrete overlaid with crumbling adobe.
Tumbleweed was piled high against some of the angled walls, and they saw a huge gray-green lizard making its unhurried way across one of the intersections.
Everyone was on full red alert, guns cocked and ready, but they had seen no sign of life since passing a large smoky camp a dozen miles to the north.
“There,” Abe said, pointing to the left with his Colt Python at one of the crossings.
The Armorer pushed down on the brake, bringing the six-wheeler to a shuddering halt. “What?”
“Big wide bridge up there. Broken down. But it’s a good clear space to camp. Lots of options if we need to get out of this part of the ville in a hurry.”
Ryan nodded. “Good thinking, Abe. Still about an hour or more to dusk. Get set up. Wouldn’t mind taking a look around this place. Anyone join me?”
Trader vaulted easily over the side of the wag, with a catlike agility that a lot of men a third of his age would have envied. “Sure. Could do with stretching my legs after all this sitting around on my ass. Got the most jolted set of hems this side of the great divide.”
“We’ll start a fire and cook a haunch of that goat you chilled this morning, Ryan,” Abe said.
“Don’t go too far,” J.B. warned. “Time to worry about an enemy is when you don’t see him.'” He deliberately quoted one of Trader’s aphorisms, though the older man didn’t seem to recognize the saying.
“YOU RECKON THESE WERE all real expensive stores?” Ryan asked disbelievingly.
“So they said.” Trader was carrying the Armalite at the trail as they walked together through the long-deserted streets, the steel heels and tips on their combat boots the only sound in the evening quiet.
Ryan had left the Steyr rifle back in the land wag, contenting himself with the SIG-Sauer P-226, which rested in its unbuttoned holster.
“I can’t believe it.”
Many of the units were in good condition, though the glass had gone from almost all of the front windows, and doors stood gaping open. Protected from rain and wind, a lot of the signs still remained. Ryan read several to Trader. “Dina and Mo’s Crystal and Tarot Emporium. Wicked Watches of the West. Tanks for the MemoryMilitary Memorabilia. Native American Art and Artifacts.”
Ryan shook his head. “This is total shit. Total useless shit! Fireblast! I never seen nothing like this, Trader.”
“Me neither. I can’t see a single place that would’ve sold a thing you and me would’ve ever wanted to buy.”