“Probably need some ether to prime the carbs on these Twin-Cam 88s,” Ryan continued, checking over the shiny chrome-plated engines. The big V-shaped motors were tough brutes. “Dean could check the electronics department for cleaners for computer equipment.”
“I’ll grab some oil from automotive, too,” Dean said, and, taking the second lamp, he grabbed a wicker basket and disappeared into the darkness.
“I’ll lend a hand,” J.B. stated, adjusting his glasses and walking outside the circle of light of the last lantern.
“Anything else needed?” Krysty asked, squatting alongside the man.
“Not really. Everything else we can cobble together here,” Ryan told her, starting to disassemble the machine.
“But check around for a repair kit. That’ll have a hand pump to inflate the tires. If not, there’ll probably be something we can use in the automotive section.”
“On it.” While Krysty got busy searching, Mildred stayed on guard. The redhead found the pump under the hinged seat and filled the first of the studded tires, when Doc and Jak returned with baskets full of vodka.
Soon, the second floor was filled with the sounds of mechanical repairs, mild cursing and then the sputtering cough of an engine struggling to life before settling to a smooth purr.
Chapter Thirteen
A few hours later, Dean cocked open the exit doors on the ground floor and the companions rode their bikes out onto the street one at a time.
Arching about, Ryan throttled down the 1450cc Twin-V engine and waited until Dean climbed on behind him, his shoulder bag clattering from the dozen Molotov cocktails. Most of the motorcycles were equipped with riding pegs for the drivers to rest their boots on for comfort, but a couple of the Harleys had floorboards to accommodate passengers. Those were the bikes that the companions doubled on. Ryan and Dean, Jak and Doc. Everybody else was solo, and loaded down with supplies and bedrolls.
The sky was turning gray, the shadows of downtown stretching inky fingers across the preserved city. A swarm of squeaking bats poured from a parking garage, and rats scurried from the sewer gratings as the nocturnal creatures left their nests to hunt for food in the starry night.
“Getting too dark to recce,” Ryan said, gunning the engine. “We better find someplace to hole for the night. Hit the scraper in the morning.”
“Not want fight spider at night,” Jak agreed.
“We could camp in the store,” Dean suggested, tapping his father on the shoulder. “Lots of big beds.”
“And no security,” Mildred stated, twisting the throttle, careful not to redline it. They were still breaking in the motorcycles and knew better than to push them too hard too fast, or they’d blow a ring. Machines were a lot like horsesa person had to stay in absolute control, but also give them lots of attention.
“If those hunting gorillas attacked,” she went on, “there’d only be some window glass between us and them.”
“Agreed,” Krysty added, flicking on the headlight and checking the few gauges that worked. “Should we head for a jail or a bank?”
“Bank,” Ryan decided. “Muties are strong, but they can’t bust through six inches of Plexiglas.”
“An excellent suggestion,” Doc rumbled.
“Damn,” Krysty said, staring at the rearview mirror. “Nobody turn around, but check behind us.”
Trying to act casual, Ryan shifted his head to look into the mirror mounted on a chrome rod attached to the handlebars. At first he saw nothing unusual, but then a subtle movement on the third floor of the department store riveted his attention.
Some sort of a machine was slowly easing out of an open window. The device resembled a mechanical spider, even though it only had four impossibly thin metal legs. The jointed limbs attached to a tiny oval no bigger than a human head, with a video camera lens sticking out of the front, and some kind of a weapon swiveling about on a belly mount.
“Droid,” Dean said softly, sliding the Weatherby from the gun sleeve strapped to the frame.
Surreptitiously as possible, the others started doing the same, but as small as the motions were the sec droid leaped off the side of the building. In a blur, Ryan drew and fired three times, the 9 mm slugs tracking the descent of the machine until it crashed in a riot of crunching metal and shattering glass on top of an ancient car at the curb.