A stove made out of cinder blocks and filled with glowing coals radiated waves of heat that the gusting wind nullified. Stamping his boots, he unsuccessfully fought back a yawn. An old brittle piece of plastic with holes cut for head and arms served him as a poncho against the night mists. It didn’t work very well, and he longed for the day when he would reach the vaunted rank of corporal and get one of those fine bearskin coats. Now that would protect a man just fine.
The belt buckled outside his poncho was looped with leather strands to hold cartridges for the rifle, and his hip bulged from a single gren. On a shelf was a plastic toolbox, the lid sealed shut with candle wax. That was for emergencies only, and it hadn’t been used for months, the last time being for those fragging bikers bastards. They had almost made it halfway up the main road before dying. Damn dumb asses. Between the unclimbable mountains, the cliffs and the cannibal scavengers, Novaville was impregnable. But then, his job wasn’t to fight off invaders, but merely live long enough to sound the alarm. Grim work, but better than patrolling the mine, or gutting slaves on the execution dock.
A low rumble, like far-off thunder, sounded, and he went to the window for a look. But the sky seemed clear, stars bright, with no sign of the low yellowish clouds that marked another acid rainstorm. Then something caught his attention on the horizon. Far down the road, past die first set of traps, near the bargaining gate was a dark shape moving his way. Cursing his lack of binocs, the sentry squinted to see. The object seemed too tall for a pack of bikers, but could be a truck. Didn’t see many of them these days, and good luck for the driver. The heirs would confiscate the vehicle and give the sec man a reward of any women on board, and a percentage of any booze or tobacco. This could be his lucky night!
In a silent explosion of wood, the vehicle plowed through the gate and bounced onto the road proper. Immediately, a dozen concealed crossbows released a flurry of barbed arrows streaking across the asphalt at knee level, more than enough to blow even the toughest predark military tires. The black shape didn’t even pause under the assault.
Watching in horror, the sentry stared as the shape rolled onto the bridge stretching across a ravine. This trap had never failed. There were two bridges, actually, a slim one just barely large enough for a motorcycle to roll across, then a nice big spacious one built of canvas and hollow pipes. Even the weight of a single man would make the bridge collapse, sending the invaders tumbling into a pit full of iron spikes. It had taken the slaves hours to lay enough planks over the ravine so the lady ward could roll that huge outland machine across the trap.
Just then, the dark shaped dropped from sight.
The sentry laughed in victory, then stared as the angular craft rose again, rolling back onto the road and proceeding toward the outer wall of the ville in undiminished speed.
Snatching the coal oil lantern hanging from a nail in the wall, the sentry blew out the flame and ducked low. From the floor, he reached up and snatched the plastic toolbox on the shelf, hugging it to his chest in an irrational moment of panic.
Then grim necessity seized him. Fingernails scratching the wax from the joints, the sentry pried loose the lid on the plastic box and ripped it off.
Nestled inside was a Veri pistol and three flares.
Stuffing the first fat cartridge into the hollow tube, he shielded his face with an arm, pointed the box into the sky and fired. The pistol thumped loudly, and the flare was blown high into the starry sky. One flare meant strangers, possibly danger.
It detonated into a brilliant white glare, slowly parachuting downward, riding the wind like a kite. While it was airborne, he had the second flare loaded and launched. Two meant an armed attack, send troops pronto.
The dark shape rumbled past the kiosk, shaking the walls and making the thatched roof collapse in sections, sending stalks of tar-coated hay everywhere. He stayed in the corner, praying for his life, and the thing moved onward.