“I don’t have any,” she said worriedly.
“You and everyone else in here,” he said. “Keep going!” he urged Shakes.
A bullet shattered the rear window, the truck struck a wall of ice, and everyone was thrown forward.
“Gimme those!” Wes commanded, and Nat threw his goggles back to him as he barked orders at his team. “Farouk! See if you can track their signal and jam it. Slaine boys—take out their snipers! I’ll take care of the behemoth.” He reached for his gun even as he hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Guns were antiquated weapons for a dying empire. Wes carried one because he had to, but he’d never killed anyone with it; he’d threatened many, of course, he’d waved it around, and shot drones and trucks and who knew what else, but his hands were clean, and so were his boys’. There was enough killing in the world. He turned to Nat. “Cover me—you know how to use one of these things?” he asked, motioning for her to pick up a rifle.
She shook her head, and he stared at her for a moment. Every child in the RSA was trained to shoot; “every citizen an armed citizen” was the country’s unofficial motto . . . but there was no time to question. He called to Farouk and the boy shouldered the rifle, peered through the scope and set off a few rounds through the window. “Okay, go!” he yelled, backing down as Wes popped through the roof, rifle in hand.
Wes scanned the area, the goggles having turned the world green and black. He could see the tank coming after them a few blocks away. They were past the Strip now, close to the edge of the city, not far from the border. If he could stall it, they would be home free. There had only been one rocket.
He fired and missed the first two shots. Steady, he ordered himself. Steady . . .
Two more bullets sailed through the cabin. One nicked Farouk’s arm. “Snap out of it, boss!” the kid shrieked from the back. “Next one will be through our heads!”
“It’s the sniper—take him out already!” Wes yelled back.
“He can’t hide from me,” Daran promised, peering through his scope for the elusive shooter.
“Over there!” Zedric yelled, pointing to the top of the nearest building. “I see him!” They let off a few rounds, but the bullets continued to whiz by their heads.
A shell exploded just aft of the LTV, rattling the vehicle and sending them spinning.
“This is some escape,” Nat said, rolling her eyes. “You’re going to get me to the water? You can’t even get me out of the Strip.”
“Hey now, a little confidence would be nice,” Wes snapped. “Trying to keep us alive over here.”
“Get that tank down!” Daran yelled, while Shakes fought to keep the truck upright.
“That’s what I’m trying to do,” Wes huffed. “Patience, everyone, patience.” He wasn’t planning on dying in a firefight.
Wes popped back up through the hatch and saw that he had his first clear shot. He targeted the engine, so he could disable the vehicle without hurting any of the soldiers. He’d been in their shoes not so long ago.
But just as he was about to fire, the whole world went dark. He was blind. His finger jerked as he pulled the trigger. He missed again. He let out a string of expletives. Frostblight. He’d been ignoring it for some time now, the blurred vision, headaches, but lately it was getting harder to deny.
A bullet whizzed past his ear. A second shot blew off their truck’s left-hand mirror.
“Hurry, man,” Shakes said from the driver’s seat, his voice calm but with an edge. His hands were gripping the wheel so hard it was vibrating.
“Let me,” Farouk said, reloading his weapon.
“I got it, I got it, everyone relax,” Wes said, with a slightly injured air. He lifted his gun again. The tank’s sleek white hull glistened like a child’s toy in the snowy air. He focused. The behemoth was an easy target; they were made that way so that their four-foot-tall wheels could grind up the snow. But there were half a dozen holes in the armor already. Typical. The white elephants looked intimidating, but they were vulnerable. Nobody knew how to fix anything anymore. The country was living off the past—all the technology dated back to the wars before the Flood. It was as if the toxic waters had washed away not only New York and California but all the knowledge of the world as well.
His hand steady and his vision clear, Wes pulled the trigger, and this time the bullet hit the target, piercing the armor and blasting the engine with a single round.
One more and the tank was dust, but the temporary blindness had dulled his reflexes, and before he could move, a fiery round hit him square in the chest. Where did that come from—?
“Sorry!” Daran yelled.
“Got him!” Zedric whooped, as his bullet shot the rifle out of the sniper’s hand.
Wes’s body shield held, but the pain was unbearable. The Kevlar jacket caught on fire, and he ripped it off, tossing it into the snow. A hole the size of a baseball was burnt through the fabric of his down vest. Black smoke drifted from the burn, bringing tears to his eyes.
“You’ll be all right,” Nat said, helping him down into his seat. “Surface wound.”
He grunted.
Up front, Shakes swerved to avoid a second round of rocket fire. The convoy had arrived, more tanks, and soldiers on snowFAVs. But the fence was only a few blocks away and once they crossed, they were free. The army wouldn’t risk a nighttime mission into the Trash Pile; at most they would send a seeker party in the morning, but by then Wes hoped to be well into the wastelands and impossible to track.
“Gimme a hand,” Wes said, slinging an arm around Nat’s shoulder. His right arm was numb and he had to switch hands to shoot.
“But you don’t have your armor,” she warned.
“Doesn’t matter, I need to get this done,” he insisted.
Nat nodded, helped him back up, and steadied him.
They were so close that he could smell her hair, even as his head hurt and he knew he would pass out soon. He lifted the gun and peered through the sight, then jumped back, startled.
The tank’s big gun was trained right at his head. He didn’t have time to think, didn’t have time to move; he fired, the gun an extension of his mind. The second shot destroyed enough of the engine to stop the tank. The big white heap of metal spun violently, its gunfire spraying a nearby building, rattling windows. There was a sharp cry from inside the beast, then silence.
Three more white elephants slammed into the faltering tank and the whole convoy came to a stop, just as Daran and Zedric took care of the snow bikes, sending them crashing into the ice walls.
The top of the tank opened suddenly, and its captain appeared, a boy his age, who’d wanted to get a look to see who had grounded their pursuit. He gave Wes the finger.
Wes saluted him with a smile as the LTV sped out of the city toward the fence, an invisible electric barrier that Farouk had just disabled with his handheld.
“Hit it, Shakes,” Wes said, rapping on the roof of the truck. “Time to root through the trash.”
Part the Second
LILACS OUT OF THE DEAD LAND
Human society sustains itself by transforming nature into garbage.
—MASON COOLEY
11
NAT HAD NO IDEA HOW WES HAD SURVIVED that hit. She was burning with adrenaline, fear, and excitement. His heroics were no joke, not like the show he’d conjured up at the casino. For the first time, she allowed herself to feel optimistic—maybe there was more to this cocky runner after all.