“What?” Long Tom asked. Reclining in a bucket seat, the man was paring his fingernails with a bowie knife. “Are they done already? Can we have her now?”
“I want her bike,” Renny rumbled. More than seven feet tall, the giant sat on the back seat of a car, as no regular single seat could accommodate him. A screwdriver was nearly lost in his hands as he delicately worked on a carburetor.
The fat redhead almost sputtered in his hurry. “They more than done. A couple of walkers just aced Bob and his boys!”
All work stopped.
“Balls.” Long Tom smirked, rising from his seat. Fumbling with a new cig, Monk moved aside.
“See for yourself.”
Ignoring the stool, Long Tom bent to the peephole, then spit a virulent curse. “Damnation, it’s true! Walkers got the quim and Bob’s eating dirt.”
“Must be kin come to the rescue,” Monk stated, cracking his knuckles nervously.
At the gun rack, Long Tom grabbed a Browning and worked the bolt. He tossed it to Monk and took the M-1 carbine for himself.
Renny stood, his shaved skull brushing against the high ceiling. “Don’t know, don’t care” he said. “It’s killin’ time.”
“Yeah, bastards deserve to die for what they did to Bob,” Monk said, checking his weapon. Exhaling a stream of white smoke, he then added, “Hell, everybody deserves to die.”
“Amen,” Renny intoned, shouldering his weapon. “Let’s go tell the boss.”
WITH THE STEYR up and ready Ryan walked around the white building with Dean and the blonde close behind. The boy had his Mossberg clenched in one hand, and an arm around the waist of the partially clad woman. Her legs trembled from the exertion of walking and she stumbled constantly.
“Wait,” the woman whispered, slowing. “The gas, my weapons… must… have them….”
“We’re not going back,” Ryan replied, listening for the sounds of motorcycles. “You want to, fine. But you go alone.”
“Then stop… at my bike.”
“Where is it?” he asked brusquely, his good eye squinting against the setting sun.
She pointed. “Near the pumps.. .front of building.”
“We pass it on our way,” Dean told his father.
But Ryan was already moving in that direction. There was nobody in sight Quiet ruled, except for the cicadas. “Clear,” he announced.
Pushing herself free from Dean, the woman fell more than walked to her BMW motorcycle. Quickly, she made sure the motorcycle was in functioning shape, then pulled a MAC 10 from her saddlebag, worked the bolt and slung it over a shoulder. She took tallow from a med kit and put it on her eye and lips, then used her torn shirt to wipe away the blood and semen between her legs. Only then did she retrieve clothes from the other bag and clumsily dress in a khaki shirt and denim pants. Apparently, she had no spare underwear, or boots.
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Gingerly, the woman climbed aboard the motorcycle. Sliding aside.a trick panel in the heavily cushioned seat, she pulled out a key and started the engine. Only a nearly invisible vibration in the motor and wisps of exhaust from the camou-colored tailpipes showed the bike was running. She sat there for a moment, as if absorbing strength from the machine.
A stick cracked amid the foremost line of deteriorating cars, Dean and Ryan pivoted in combat stances, but the cicadas never stopped their chirping.
“You have clothes. blaster and bike,” Ryan said. “That’s enough. Time to go, miss.”
“Lady,” she said, a faint lisp caused by a missing tooth marring her words. She rubbed her mouth with a hand, and it came away streaked with blood. “1 am Amanda Coultier, Lady Ward of Novaville, heiress to the Citadel.
“After my brother, naturally,” she added almost as an afterthought.
The Cawdors didn’t reply.
“And you are?” Amanda prompted impatiently.
“Ryan.”
“Why the rush?” Amanda asked innocently, playing for information. How much did they know of what was going on in the valley? “Those men are dead.”
“Wrong,” Ryan said. “They were part of a gang, and more could be coming.”
She glanced sideways. “So, you have heard about the Sons of the Knife?”
The lie came easy because it was partially true.