he had even penetrated the mountains overlooking the bleak western coastal
strip, had viewed like a conqueror of old the steaming lagoons, the long jagged
fjords thrust deep between craggy peaks, and had sailed the simmering seas below
which vast cities lay crumbling and rotting as they slept an eternal sleep.
All this was said; much of it was true. And the proof was the hardware, the
strange and incomprehensible artifacts, the sealed crates of exotic foodstuffs
he brought back time and again after each trawl through the Deathlands.
The man called Scale handed the glasses back to his companion. He gazed up at
the dark sky broodingly, calculating that there was an hour to dawn. No hint of
a smile crossed his face, but his dead eyes had come alive.
He said, “Trader.”
Not “a trader,” noted the man with the very long arms.
“We take him?”
“Sure.”
“We take the Trader?” The long-armed man was dubious.
“Sure.”
The man thought about this, staring at the line of lights wobbling far away. It
seemed to him that Scale was about to bite off more than he could chew. It
seemed to him that Scale was in danger of choking himself to death.
“He’s heavy.”
“So are we.”
“Not like him.”
Scale shrugged.
“We hit him in the dark. Three war wags. Front, middle, rear. Can’t turn in the
pass—too narrow. So go for them and hit ’em hard. We got the muscle. We disable
the middle so it blocks the road. Rear trucks can’t go forward, front can’t go
back. We hit both ends, simultaneous. Ain’t got a prayer.”
The man with the long arms pondered this. In principle it sounded good, the
perfect ambush. But—the Trader? He bit his lower lip with three sharp,
filed-down teeth, the only ones in his mouth.
“He got muscle. Plenty muscle.”
“Sure. So have we.”
“Not like him.”
“We do it.”
The long-armed man turned to stare down into the darkness cloaking the patiently
waiting band of men below.
“Hellblast, Scale, we already got us a catch. Two land wags, truckin’ out to the
Darks.”
The man with the faintly scaled skin shook his head irritably.
“Ain’t enough. Any case, it’s the ammo. Trader, he’s got plenty ammo, plenty
guns. Big mothers.”
“Plenty men, too,” the long-armed man pointed out.
“Nah. He travels light, from what I hear. Lot of big wind about his manpower.
These days, he travel light.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“Fat Harry. Last time there. Said the Trader was gettin’ to be an old man,
thinkin’ of quittin’.” He chuckled suddenly, a dry, sour sound. “We’ll hurry it
along. Quit the fucker ourselves.”
“I dunno, Scale. The Trader.” The man shook his head glumly.
“Don’t forget,” said Scale, “what we got.”
“We ain’t got nothuf.”
This time the man with the faintly scaled skin laughed aloud, his eyes wide and
crazy.
“We got the stickies, idiot! We got the stickies.”
IN THE LEAD WAR WAGON, in a small toilet cubicle to the rear, the Trader was
being sick. He knelt on the swaying floor, gripping the sides of the aluminum
bowl, and heaved four or five times, finally slumping back on his heels against
the wall of the cubicle. He was sweating. He wiped his brow with a rag, then
wiped his lips, carefully, almost delicately. The noise of the war wag’s
powerful engine thundered in his ears and he was glad of it. It meant no one
could hear him or what he was doing. He clambered to his feet, a powerfully
built man with stiff, grizzled hair, and stared down at the contents of the bowl
dispassionately. He knew exactly what to expect.
Blood. But this time more of it than ever. Almost looked as if he was hawking
his whole nukeshitting guts up.
Hanging over the can was a mirror that bounced gently, clacking with every bump
and lurch of the vehicle’s wheels and tracks over the rutted road. The Trader
stared at himself thoughtfully, a face he saw every day of every week of every
month of every year. But older, definitely older. Much older than yesterday, a
hell of a sight older than last week. White, too. Unhealthy looking. Once his