Zero City

Patiently, Ryan gave her the moment, then asked, “Ready?”

“Go ahead,” she said, covering her ears with her palms.

Placing a hand against the roof as a brace, Ryan aimed the 9 mm SIG-Sauer at the back door of the vehicle, when the truck jounced through a deep pothole. The blaster coughed softly, blowing out the aft window in a loud crash of glass.

“What the fuck was that?” demanded a voice from the other side of the front wall.

The element of surprise gone, Ryan spun fast, estimating three feet off the floor and two feet from the left, then fired again twice more. The corpses and interior of the truck strobed from the flash of the shots. In response, a startled gasp, then wet burbling noises came from the front of the wag. Without a pause, Ryan put another round through the passenger side of the vehicle. The truck started to zigzag wildly, began to slow and abruptly stopped, throwing the companions and the corpses forward into a bloody pile.

Forcibly extracting himself, Ryan kicked open the back door and jumped to the ground. Krysty joined him in a heartbeat.

“Can’t chance hiding,” he decided. “We’re in a tunnel with zero cover and nowhere to run.”

The redhead pulled a knife into view. “Then we chill the bastards.”

Ryan grunted agreement. Racing around to the driver’s-side door, he yanked it open and hauled out the dead man behind the wheel. Climbing into the cab, he fumbled in the darkness for the keys, but they weren’t in the ignition anymore. When he got shot, the driver had to have yanked them loose.

Ahead of them down the tunnel, the taillights of the flatbed truck flared brightly red as the brakes were applied.

“He’s seen us,” Krysty warned, sliding into the passenger seat.

“Working on it,” Ryan muttered, scrounging madly about on the floor. Something metallic came under his fingers and pain cut into his thumb. He cursed and brushed it aside. Bastard pulltop from a can! Then a jingling noise sounded as he touched something metallic, loose and on a ring.

“Got them,” Ryan said, sitting upright.

Fumbling a bit, he tried a key in the ignition, but it didn’t fit. Carefully, sliding that down the ring, he cupped it in his palm to keep it out of the way and tried the next. That key was close, but not quite the correct size. It went in, but not all the way. Probably the key for the back door. The next key was huge and would never fit in the ignition switch.

In the darkness ahead of them, a soft beeping sounded as the brake lights on the truck winked out and the vehicle began backing their way.

“They’re coming,” Krysty said, patting her pockets for matches or a lighter to help him see. She found a matchbox, but it proved to be empty.

Closing his eye to concentrate, Ryan tried another— too small. The next he passed on, as the stubby key was round and the slot for the switch was long and thin. What the hell did this bastard have so many keys for?

Blaster in hand, the woman opened her door and put one leg out. “Thirty yards,” she announced, holding the blaster in both hands and resting the barrel on the window frame, assuming a firing stance.

Lots of keys remained on the ring, but they were out of time. “Last one,” he said. “Then we run for it.”

Jabbing the worn key toward the slot, he was shocked when it smoothly slid into place. Stomping on the accelerator, Ryan turned the ignition and the warm engine roared into life. Snapping on the headlights, he angled the wag away from the wall and started to creep forward. Krysty closed her door, but kept the S&W .38 out the window in case of trouble.

The truck ahead of them didn’t slow, so Ryan beeped the horn. The toot produced was pitifully weak, most likely that way even before the centuries robbed it of power, so Ryan pounded on the horn a few more times. Feeble as it was, the other driver had to have heard the musical squeaks because he stopped the backward progress of the flatbed, and as they came dangerously close, the other truck began to roll forward.