"Any hurt?" Ryan called, watching as the members of his group got to their feet and brushed off sand and dirt.
The sound of the gas plant blowing had almost deafened Ryan, and only Jak's pointing finger reminded the one-eyed man that four of the bikers had dodged the initial blaze.
Harlekin had fallen off his machine and was stumbling toward them, trying to cock his scattergun as he ran. Ryan took careful aim with the G-12 and put a round through the Hero's forehead, punching him onto the ground.
Freewheeler had fought for control of his Indian Chief, wrestling it in a sliding spin and aiming for Lori. The tall blond teenager stood rock steady, her pearl-handled PPK clutched in both hands.
The popping of the .22 was ridiculously flat and insignificant, but her aim was true. The rider threw his arms wide, a bloody hole flowering in the center of his bearded face. He crashed out of the saddle, the bike rearing up like a frightened stallion and smashing on top of him.
Only Rat and Riddler remained alive.
The smaller of the two men spied Rick Ginsberg, standing stricken and helpless, empty-handed, to one side of the group. Rat angled his hog in the freezie's direction, flourishing his shotgun in his right fist. Rick whimpered and raised his hands to his face to hide his eyes.
"Mine," Krysty called, leveling her blaster and shooting Rat four times through the chest. The shotgun flew into the air and dropped almost at Ginsberg's feet. The bike swerved out of control, and Rat toppled from the saddle, his body bouncing twice. His head cracked against a boulder, rolled away then lay still.
His face twitching with shock, Rick picked up the scattergun and tucked it under his arm, as a stockbroker would do with his rolled umbrella.
Riddler had throttled down and stopped twenty yards from Ryan, amid the knee-high scrub. He still held his shotgun, cradled across his ample lap, but the hammers weren't cocked. He looked at the seven friends, his gaze returning to Ryan.
"Never seen a firefight better fucking named, Ryan," he said, grinning,
"Yeah. Time for us to move on," Ryan said, keeping the G-12 steady on the last of the Last Heroes.
"Time for me to move on, too." Riddler laughed. "Chance for you an' me to settle those fucking debts we spoke 'bout, Ryan?"
Ryan gestured with the barrel of the automatic rifle at his friends. "Lots of creditors here, Riddler," he said.
"I was thinking of moving... that way." The Last Hero pointed to the ribbon of blacktop that stretched out across the desert, behind the ruins of the gas plant. The remnants of the Sierra Sunrise Park had also caught fire, wood cracking and popping in the heat. Ryan considered for a moment. Trader had said that a dead enemy wouldn't ever come back to chill you. It would be simple to shoot the fat man, waste him with a single round. His finger tightened momentarily on the trigger, then relaxed.
"Get going."
"So long, brother." Riddler waved a fist to the others. "Brothers and sisters. Live righteous days. So long now."
Like Carla Petersen before him, Riddler revved up the powerful engine and roared away, beyond the pall of smoke.
Doc looked toward the ville. "The buildings are catching fire. I suggest that we might consider leaving."
"Best suggestion I heard all day." Ryan slung the blaster over his shoulder.
Chapter Thirty-Five
"Ville's done for," Jak observed, leading the way along the side of the scorched highway. Bodies lay everywhere, like blackened logs, one or two of them still moving. The smell of baked meat filled everyone's nostrils, and the smoke was whisked away by the changeable wind.
Snakefish was well ablaze. As the friends drew nearer they could see women and children scurrying frantically from the burning buildings, trying to save whatever possessions they could. Very few of the men had made it back, most of them having chosen to run into the brush on the wrong side of the blacktop, so that the rushing wave of flames pursued them to their doom.
"Look who's here." J.B. pointed with the toe of his boot to where one of the chunks of human charcoal was writhing in a slow-motion agony. The remnants of an M-16 near the clawed hand told them that this was what remained of John Dern, dealer in guns and failed assassin.
His eyes had been seared in their sockets, and his hair blasted from his wrinkled skull. Only the oddly gentle movements told them that life remained within the basted carcass.
"Chill him," Lori whispered. "I don't mind what he done. Nobody should..."
"Leave him be," Ryan ordered. "Man gets what he deserves."
They headed for the ville, the glowing heat of the burning buildings scorching their skin as they drew closer. Fire leaped from shingled roof to tarred porch. The whole of Snakefish, end to end, was blazing. Hardly anyone took any notice of the seven outlanders as they picked their way carefully around the streets of the ville.
At one point Ruby Rainer hobbled past them, eyes wide and crazed. Her blouse was smoldering across one shoulder and the hem of her shirt had been burned clear away. She held an empty bird cage in her right hand and a wooden spoon in the other.
"That's the Motes' wag," Krysty said, pointing down an alley near the temple.
Down the road a little way the whole storefront of Handmaid exploded out in a great blossoming of multicolored fire.
"Wind's veering," Krysty told her companions. "If it goes right around, it'll carry the flames into the brush where the rattlers are. Block us off from reaching the redoubt if we don't watch it."
Ryan coughed as the billowing smoke enveloped them. "Got me a triple-wish to see those three down and sky-staring."
J.B. shook his head. "Better we move on out fast, Ryan. Revenge won't buy you a good burying."
"We move through Deathlands. If we don't leave things a touch better after we're gone, then what's the point? I say we clear them out."
The Armorer hesitated a moment. "Guess you're right, Ryan. They must be along that dirt road, saving some jack from the temple."
"The doors at the back of the wag are open," Doc said, walking toward the parked vehicle with Lori at his side.
Joshua Mote suddenly appeared around the side of the armored truck, arms filled with a pile of papers. As soon as he saw Doc he dropped them, reaching for a blaster at his hip.
"Dead old fucker!" he snarled.
But Doc's Le Mat was already drawn and cocked and he fired first. The single .63-caliber shotgun shell hit the curly-headed young man low in the belly, doubling him over.
"Wrong again, Master Mote," Doc stated quietly. "The dead fucker is yourself."
Mote rolled on his back, clutching at his stomach, trying to staunch the massive blood flow from the gaping wound. Lori stepped forward quickly and lifted her foot in the air, stamping down hard on Joshua's open mouth. The heel of her boot smashed in his front teeth, the silver spur snagging the flesh of his lips. She leaned with all her weight, grinding her boot as hard as she could, withdrawing it with a smile of contentment.
"Bastard," she said, watching him die.
"You killed my boy, you whore-slut gaudy bitch!" Norman Mote screamed, standing at the corner of the burning building, clutching an effigy of one of the mutie rattlers that looked as if it were made from pure silver. He staggered drunkenly, and his gray hair was tilted lopsidedly across his sweating temples.
Ryan didn't hesitate.
The 9 mm round that burst from the SIG-Sauer drilled a neat hole through the angry furrow between Mote's eyes. Like an empty suit of clothes, Norman Mote, Guardian of the Shrine, slumped dead, his body rolling against his dead son's legs.