chunks of long-burning hardwood carried especially for the purpose in one of the
trucks. Fires, as such, did not particularly deter marauders or strange animals
that sometimes came shuffling around, sniffing for easy kills—dogs as big as
steers with tusks a foot long, roaming in packs, bred in secret, truly
carnivorous; or hideous, unknown beasts of great bulk that left wide trails of
yellow slime behind them—but flames would give light when you didn’t want to
waste the generators, and psychologically, they were good for the men. What did
deter was the immense amount of firepower concentrated in that circle of
travel-worn and travel-stained vehicles.
There was enough blast power there to shred anything that might dare to take on
the land wag train.
On the road itself, maybe forty meters from the bottom of the hillock on which
he and the Trader stood, was the lead war wag, two big container rigs and an
armored truck on Ryan’s buggy. Men were milling around there; Ryan could see
J.B. giving terse orders, checking things out. He yawned, turned, took in the
dreary terrain.
This was basically flatland, desert scrub. Behind lay the purple forest, a dark
mass only just glimpsed beyond the rises of the semi-ruined blacktop. To Ryan’s
right, more forest. To his left, low hills, dun colored, sparsely vegetated with
brush and trees picked as clean as ancient animal bones. In front of him, far
distant, the foothills leading up to the towering tors and peaks that marched
across the dying sun. And between them and Ryan was the road, more woodland and,
beyond, out of sight, the mess that was Mocsin.
He glanced northwest. There the hills were significantly darker, blacker. Hence
“the Darks.” Once, he believed, they had been known by some other name, but what
it was he could not say. The Darks suited them: black, brooding mountains,
slashed by hideously deep ravines, with a climate and an ugly mythology all
their own.
There… lay Paradise?
The Trader said, “How’s the girl?”
“Great minds think alike.”
The Trader glanced at his tall war captain. “Getting yourself in there, huh?” He
chuckled. “You young dogs. Make me feel like a real cripple, real old fart.”
“I was thinking about what she said. The Darks.”
“Most unpleasant locale. Never penetrated it. Nothing for us there, boy. At
least nothing marked on old Marsh’s plans.”
“Doesn’t mean to say they’re empty.”
The Trader laughed.
Had they not once made the long haul through the mountain chain maybe four
hundred klicks south of there, and stood looking out over the seething Pacific
Ocean, watching it roil and bubble and steam?
Had they not actually managed to sail around the lagoons that lay over what on
the old maps once been called “the Black Rock Desert”?
Had they not found a vast inland sea where once had been a lake? Had they not
penetrated the peripheries of that dread land of fire and howling wind that lay
far to the south of them now, where terrifying gale-force gusts tore across the
parched landscape, transforming the world into a hell of dust and whirling grit
that shredded bare skin to the bone?
All in search of Stockpiles. All in search of…
Suddenly he stopped laughing, whipped his head around, stared at the tree line
toward Mocsin.
“I think I caught a flash.” He had turned to the west, one arm flung over his
eyes.
“A flash? In this light? What kind of flash?”
“Light on metal. I could be wrong.” The Trader shrugged. “Wouldn’t surprise me
if that fat bastard had guys on lookout for us. But so what? They won’t try
anything, you bet your life. They’d be outta their skulls. They’d need a few
major field pieces to blow our snot away, and Teague’s got none.”
“That we know of.”
Again the Trader’s shoulders moved, and he turned full on to Ryan. “Where is the
girl, anyhow?”
“Asleep. War Wag Two. She wanted to come with us but I got Kathy to feed her
some caps. She’s out. She’ll stay out for hours.”
“And then? Can’t keep her on the train if she don’t wanna stay, Ryan.”
“Kathy’ll talk to her, try and persuade her to stay clear of Mocsin and out of