The whole situation was strange. Strange that the Fathers would allow foreign tech into the mix. Strange that they’d speak to the Constabulary — if that’s who this was. He squeezed the roll bar with a white knuckled gripped. A wariness was growing within him…
No, those thoughts were disgusting. Any other time he’d be leading the pack, hot on the scent of the blood. Following the scent of exhaust is what drove these thoughts. It wouldn’t matter, either way. Whoever the taillights belonged to, they were coming up to a sharp curve, and from the looks of things they were taking it too fast.
He chanced a couple wild shots with his pistol, and saw one of the taillights go out.
His bullet or one from the band. It didn’t matter.
“What the hell was that?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“The turn’s coming up.”
“Glad to hear it, this mag’s almost done…”
The vehicle’s brake lights lit up at the last second. Like a chain reaction, the column followed suit, sending up dust clouds as they slowed, grabbing the edge of the embankment to speed their turn. The motorcycles passed on the inside, retreating back to the middle of the column.
He fired off a couple more shots during the brief moment the truck was in sight, before it disappeared again behind the hills. One by one they were making the turn, when something ticked at him — there was a line of discolouration on the road ahead.
Raxx swerved through the turn, underestimating it — he clutched, counter-steered, and for a brief moment rode the far bank. He could feel clods of earth being churned up. It wasn’t enough, the gentle slide would ground them into the ditch — Damnit! — he eased the RPMs up, and released the clutch, leaning his body to the side as if it would do anything to counter-balance. The wheels spun, then gripped, then spun again, but it was enough. With a nudge on the steering the truck nosed back onto the road, and flattened out. His shoulders twitched; only a bit further to go.
The manoeuvre had thrown Wentworth on his side, but he ignored it. He pulled out the magazine with the tracer rounds in it. As the truck realigned he fell back into his point of aim. The first of the raiders had appeared around the bend behind them. Give it a few more seconds… anywhere on the road’s surface would do.
He held down the trigger and a swarm of red phosphorous shot through air. Blue devils appeared forth wherever they struck, then flattened out and splashed in a heavy woof, turning the road into an orgy of flame.
The last tendrils pursued the back of the pickup truck, licking it, as he and Raxx sped off into the night.
The fire moved too fast to compensate for. Half the column was already engulfed, while the other half slammed on their breaks and skidding across the hardpack. In front of them a station wagon was fishtailing violently. The Catamite was letting out an angry growl. He refused to lose traction, and as a consequence they were nosing up on the station wagon. Five meters had closed to two meters, they were almost riding its bumper now, and there was still no safe way around. The Catamite screamed out a wordless curse, Slayer just gritted his teeth. Their world had shrunk to the narrow space between bumpers.
And then the wagon righted itself. They were still rolling towards the conflagration, but there was no imminent crash coming. Slayer began to loosen his grip on the roll bar, when the wagon made a sudden swerve to the left. He could hear the screaming of the occupants as the car went into a spin, and in sudden flash he saw what had prompted the manoeuvre — a fallen motorcyclist and his bike blocked the lane ahead.
The Catamite screamed angrier and louder than before. The left side of the road was blocked by the spinning station wagon, and on the right was a rocky ditch. He made a jerk for the latter, but there wasn’t enough time.
The spinning station wagon’s lights swung across them as their left wheel raced towards the motorcyclist, his arm raised in defence. He and his bike disappeared under them with the scream of tearing metal. The shock launched the buggy up off the road.
Slayer was flying now, thrown from his standing position. The road was a blue and yellow line, spinning sickly.
He couldn’t see the ground until it struck him. With a bang his lungs were hollowed out, his stomach seized, and his eyes sparkled white. Nausea spread filthy tendrils through his system. He couldn’t vomit, and the world kept spinning. His head had come down on a rock, his vision was blurred, and he couldn’t move.
Up on a hill. Watching the enemy truck disappear around the next corner, out of sight and free of the fire. The path of flames. Sickly black smoke. Along the bend of the second corner a cluster of stars appeared and then, off to its side, another. Sparkling light. Weapon signatures. The flaming road was a shooting range, then. One group taking it straight on, the other covering it at an angle.
The first of his vehicles, a van, began to slow, its driver killed or injured. The next, a sedan, tried to pass it, racing through the flames and bullets, when the first struck a pothole. It jerked across the road rolled over, ending up on its passenger side. The sedan couldn’t slow down in time and slammed into it, crushing the roof.
One by one the other vehicles piled into the crash, or into the ditch. The spinning station wagon stopped short of the flames, but the second group of ambushers had it covered. The glitter of ricochets marked the outline of its body. Figures fell out of the wreckage, screaming into the night as the flames raced up their clothes. Some tried to run, but fell to the bullets. Others tried to return fire, but they fell two. The last vehicles tried to turn back around, but with melted tires it moved awkwardly. Two of the motorcycles exploded, and then one of the pickups. A petroleum fireball lifted it up, and slammed it into the last moving vehicle, sliding them both into the ditch.
The rifle fire ceased.
He heard a distant cheer start in the hills.
Finally — as if the shock were over, instead of just setting in — Slayer’s chest heaved and he pulled in a breath. He’d lost his gun. He didn’t need a gun now. It was too late.
Reaching up to scratch his hair, he looked at his hand and wondered why it was black. It was blood, blood in the moonlight. He had a head wound.
He climbed down the embankment. He’d been thrown high, above a rocky berm on the side of the road, while the buggy lay below in the ditch, flipped on its roof. He was dizzy. He used three limbs to maintain balance. The buggy had been in defilade, none of the bullets would have reached it. He got to the bottom without falling, and lay down in the semi-dry mud to look inside.
The roll cage had held. But there was no movement.
He crawled toward the driver compartment. The Catamite, his other, was dead. The steering wheel had crushed his chest into a concave shell. His arms hung down, resting on the ground, and blood came out of his mouth and nose, pulled by gravity over his forehead and into his hair. For some reason it looked as if he was smiling.
It hurts so much…
Hardly conscious of what he was doing, Slayer picked up a shotgun lying randomly on the ground. Then he reached up and slid the Catamite’s razor from its place on the dead man’s belt. Grabbing his necklace, he tried to undo it, but couldn’t figure out the locking mechanism. Making a fist, he tore it off, breaking the chain, and jerking Catamite’s head. The dead man’s blood splattered into Slayer’s mouth.