“No, it won’t,” Ryan decided, twisting the wheel sharply. The tires squealed, as Leviathan banked sharply on a new course. “We’re cutting a tangent. By the time it reaches the river, we’ll be long gone.
The redhead nodded. “Hopefully.”
“It’s all we have.”
The rippled glass under the wheels gave way to streaks of fused glass, shiny fingers reaching into the sterilized dirt. Acid rain gullies cut miniature ravines across the arid plain. Eventually, the pale dirt darkened in color to a proper brown, with some mutated plants and milkweeds appearing in tiny clumps, fighting for subsistence. Then flecks of true grass were seen, the faint green as incongruous as flowers on the moon amid the rad-blasted vegetation. Then more green grass, thickening to patches, followed by small irregular fields with stumpy bushes and corpses of withered bushes that became copses of mutant trees. The trunks were gnarled and malformed, the branches knotted as if in pain and the fruits hairy pulsating sacks. But even these malformations were a welcome sight after the blighted zone of the rad pit.
“Almost out,” Mildred stated, motioning with a hand. “See there! Fields of green grass. Been a while since we saw that.”
“East wasn’t as bad hit as the west,” J.B. said, stubbornly chewing bites off a bar of stale cheese as he manned the starboard Remington. “I don’t think the big radstorms ever made it this far.”
“Doesn’t seem as if the acid rains hit here much, either.”
“It’s not paradise,” Ryan said, feeling the desolation, “but I’ve seen worse.”
A rabbit bolted by them, its six legs hurtling it across the clearing into the safety of the greenery. “Muties don’t seem too extreme, either,” Krysty observed.
“I noticed.”
Sipping a cup of MRE coffee from a battered tin cup, Krysty perked up in her seat as Leviathan crested a low ground swell. “What’s that noise?” she demanded.
Ryan slowed their speed. “I’ve been noticing it for hours. Getting worse.”
“Controls say the engines are fine,” Mildred announced. She tapped the console with a finger. “If the gauges are working correctly, that is.”
“Seems to be coming from underneath us,” J.B told them, cupping an ear to listen. “Mebbe there’s a branch caught in a wheelwell.”
“Could be the tire the hellhounds ate,” Dean said, loading his weapon from the cache of rounds in his vest. “You know, the empty rim spinning loose.”
Easing out the clutch, Ryan braked the vehicle to stop and pulled the handle to set the tandem brakes, fore and aft. “More reasonable than a branch.” He released the seat harness and stood stiffly. Checking his 9 mm pistol, Ryan accepted the flashlight from Mildred, clicking it on once to make sure it was working properly. “Come on, J.B., let’s go see what’s the prob.”
“Right,” the Armorer said, grabbing a toolbox and his Uzi.
The two men climbed outside while the rest kept a careful watch. After ascertaining there were no surprises waiting for them below the vehicle, they lay on the grass and slid out of sight.
Walking to the middle of the tank, Krysty undid the bolts and clamps on the belly hatch and lifted it out of the way. “See anything?” she called down.
“Shit, yeah! We got a hole in our transmission!” J.B. shouted. “We’ve lost all of our gear oil!”
“We catch some shrapnel from the Hummer?” Dean asked through the hole.
His father answered. “No. Apparently, the coldhearts didn’t tighten the draining bolt good enough.
“J.B., check the fill plug to make sure it’s okay.”
“Doing it,” the Armorer answered.
Ryan’s face came into view. “Dean, Jak, search for that bastard bolt in our wake;” he said. “Mebbe it only came off recently. Should be just behind a big puddle of smelly reddish oil.”
“Be right back, Dad,” Dean said. The two youths took their weapons and headed off on foot. In the harsh sunlight, Jak blinked harshly and removed an old pair of taped-together sunglasses from a pocket of his camous. Sliding them onto his pale face, the albino blinked red eyes for a moment, then followed after Dean, easily catching up to the hurrying boy.
“How bad is our situation?” Doc asked, who had been sharpening his blade with a whetstone. The sword whispered a sigh as he slid it into its ebony sheath, then locked it into place with a click and a twist. There was no way for an outsider to know it was anything but a walking cane.